HOPE
HATHAWAY

HOPE
HATHAWAY
A Story of
Western Ranch Life

BY
FRANCES PARKER

BOSTON, MASS.
C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. (Inc.)
1904

Entered at Stationers Hall, London
Rights of Translation, Public Reading and
Dramatization Reserved

[CHAPTER I]
[CHAPTER II]
[CHAPTER III]
[CHAPTER IV]
[CHAPTER V]
[CHAPTER VI]
[CHAPTER VII]
[CHAPTER VIII]
[CHAPTER IX]
[CHAPTER X]
[CHAPTER XI]
[CHAPTER XII]
[CHAPTER XIII]
[CHAPTER XIV]
[CHAPTER XV]
[CHAPTER XVI]
[CHAPTER XVII]
[CHAPTER XVIII]
[CHAPTER XIX]
[CHAPTER XX]
[CHAPTER XXI]
[CHAPTER XXII]
[CHAPTER XXIII]
[CHAPTER XXIV]
[CHAPTER XXV]
[CHAPTER XXVI]
[CHAPTER XXVII]
[CHAPTER XXVIII]
[CHAPTER XXIX]
[CHAPTER XXX]

HOPE HATHAWAY

CHAPTER I

Hathaway's home-ranch spread itself miles over an open valley on the upper Missouri. As far as the eye reached not a fence could be seen, yet four barbed-wires, stretched upon good cotton-wood posts, separated the ranch from the open country about.

Jim Hathaway was an old-time cattle-man. He still continued each summer to turn out upon the range great droves of Texas steers driven north by his cowboys, though at this time it was more profitable to ship in Western grown stock. He must have known that this was so, for every year his profits became less, yet it was the nature of the man to keep in the old ruts, to cling to old habits.

The old-time cowboy was fast disappearing, customs of the once wild West were giving way before an advancing civilization. He had seen its slow, steady approach year after year, dreading—abhorring it. Civilization was coming surely. What though his lands extended beyond his good eyesight, were not these interlopers squatting on every mile of creek in the surrounding country? The open range would some time be a thing of the past. That green ridge of mountains to the west,—his mountains, his and the Indians, where he had enjoyed unmolested reign for many years,—were they not filling them as bees fill a hive, so filling them with their offensive bands of sheep and small cow-ranches that his cattle had all they could do to obtain a footing?

On one of his daily rides he had come home tired and out of humor. The discovery of a new fence near his boundary line had opened up an unpleasant train of thought, and not even the whisky, placed beside him by a placid-faced Chinese servant, could bring him into his usual jovial spirits. After glancing through a week-old newspaper and finding in it no solace for his ugly mood, he threw himself down upon his office lounge, spreading the paper carefully over him. The Chinaman, by rare intuition, divined his state of mind and stole cautiously into the room to remove the empty glasses, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed upon the large man under the newspaper.

Hathaway generally took a nap in the forenoon after returning from his ride, for he was an early riser, and late hours at night made this habit imperative. This day his mood brought him into a condition where he felt no desire to sleep, so he concluded, but he must have fallen into a doze, for the sharp tones of a girl's voice directly outside his window brought him to his feet with a start.

"If that's what you're driving at you may as well roll up your bedding and move on!" It was spoken vehemently, with all the distinctness of a clear-toned voice. A man replied, but in more guarded tone, so that Hathaway went to the window to catch his words.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he was saying. "This is my home as well as yours, and I'd have small chance to carry out my word if I went away, so I intend to stay right here. Do you know, Hope, when you get mad like that you're so devilish pretty that I almost hate you! Look at those eyes! You'd kill me if you could, wouldn't you? But you'll love me yet, and marry me, too, don't forget that!"

"How can you talk to me so," demanded the girl, stepping back from him, "after all my father has done,—made you his son,—given you everything he would have given a son? Oh!" she cried passionately, "I can't bear you in this new rôle! It is terrible, and I've looked upon you as a brother! Now what are you? You've got no right to talk to me so—to insist!"

"But your mother——" he interrupted.

"My mother!" weariedly. "Yes, of course! It would be all right there. You have money—enough. A good enough match, no doubt; and she would be freer to go,—would feel better to know that she had no more responsibility here. You know your ground well enough there." Then with growing anger: "Don't you ring in my mother on me! I tell you I wouldn't marry you if I never got married! I'm strong enough to fight my own battles, and I will, and you'd better forget what you've said to me and change the subject forever!" She walked away, her strong, lithe body erect.

"But you're handsome, you brown devil!" he cried, taking one step and clasping her roughly to him. She tore herself loose, her eyes blazing with sudden fire, as Hathaway, white with anger, came suddenly around the corner of his office and grasped the offender by the coat collar. Then the slim young man was lifted, kicked, and tossed alternately from off the earth, while the girl stood calmly to one side and watched the performance, which did not cease until the infuriated man became exhausted. Then the boy picked himself up and walked unsteadily toward the building, against which he leaned to regain his breath while Hathaway stood panting.

"Here, hold on a minute," roared the angry father as the young man moved away. "I ain't done with you yet! Get your horse and get off this ranch or I'll break every bone in your damn body! You will treat my girl like that, will you? You young puppy!" The young fellow was whipped undoubtedly, but gracefully, for he turned toward Hathaway and said between swollen lips:

"You don't want to blame me too much, Uncle Jim. Just look at the girl! Any man would find it worth risking his neck for her!" Then he moved slowly away, while the girl's eyes changed from stern to merry. Her father choked with rage.

"You—you—you——Get away from here, and don't talk back to me!" he roared at the retreating figure.

The girl moved forward a few steps, calling: "That's right, Sydney, keep your nerve! When you're ready to call it off we'll try to be friends again." Without waiting for her cousin's reply she ran into the house, while he lost no time in leaving the ranch, riding at a rapid gait toward the nearest town. Hathaway watched him out of sight, then with a nervous, bewildered shake of the head joined his wife and daughter at luncheon.

"At last your father has come," sighed Mrs. Hathaway, as he appeared. "Hope, ring for the chocolate; I'm almost famished. It seems to me, James," turning to her husband with some impatience, "that you might try to be a little more prompt in getting to your meals—here we've been waiting ages! You know I can't bear to wait for anyone!" She sighed properly and unfolded her napkin.

"My dear," said Hathaway blandly, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I've been somewhat occupied—somewhat."

"But you should always consider that your meals come first, even if your wife and family do not," continued the lady. "Where is Sydney? The dear boy is generally so very prompt."

The effect of her words was not apparent. Her husband appeared absent-minded and the meal began.

The daughter, Hope, with quiet dignity befitting a matron, occupied the head of the table, as she had done ever since her mother shifted the responsibilities of the household to her young shoulders. When this question was asked she gave her father a quick glance. Would he acknowledge the truth? Evidently not, for he began immediately to talk about the new fence near his boundary line. It was a shame, he said, that these people were settling in around him.

"The land's no good," he declared. "Nearly all the water around here that's any account is on my place. All on earth these hobos are taking it up for is in expectation that I'll buy them out. Well, maybe I will, and again maybe I won't. I'd do most anything to get rid of them, but I can't buy the earth." At this Hope smiled, showing a flash of strong, white teeth.

"And if you could buy the earth, what would you do with these people?" she asked, her face settling into its natural quiet. Her mother gave her the usual look of amazement.

"Hope, I must ask you not to say impertinent things to your father. You no doubt meant to be witty, but you were none the less rude. Why do you allow her to say such things to you, James? You have succeeded in spoiling her completely. Now if I had been allowed to send her away to school she would have grown up with better manners."

Hathaway passed his cup to be refilled, making no answer to his wife's outburst. Perhaps he had learned in his years of experience that the less said the better. At any rate he made no effort to defend his daughter—his only child, and dear to him, too. If she had expected that he would defend her it was only for a passing instant, then she returned to her natural gravity. Her face had few expressions. Its chief charm lay in its unchanging immobility, its utter quiet, behind which gleamed something of the girl's soul. When her rare smile came, lighting it up wonderfully, she was irresistible—in her anger, magnificent.

Ordinarily she would not have been noticed at first glance, except, perhaps, for the exceptionally fine poise of her strong, slim body. She was a true daughter of the West, tanned almost as brown as an Indian maid, and easily might have passed for a half-breed, with her blue-black eyes and hair of the darkest brown. But if she had Indian blood she did not know it. Her mother, during the season, a flitting butterfly of New York society, a Daughter of the Revolution by half a dozen lines of descent, would have been horrified at the mere thought.

The girl herself would not have cared had she been born and raised in an Indian camp. She had what Mrs. Hathaway termed queer ideas, due, as she always took occasion to explain to her friends who visited the ranch, to the uncivilized life that she had insisted upon living.

Hope had been obstinate in refusing to leave the ranch. Threats and punishments were unavailing. When a young child she had resolved never to go away to school, and had set her small foot down so firmly that her mother was obliged to yield. Hathaway was secretly glad of this, for the ranch was home to him, and he would not leave it for any length of time.

The little girl was great company to him, for his wife was away months at a time, preferring the gayety of her New York home to the quiet, isolated ranch on the prairie. Some people were unkind enough to say that it was a relief to Hathaway to have the place to himself, and certain it is that he never made any objections to the arrangement. Their only child, Hope, was educated on the ranch by the best instructors procurable, and readily acquired all the education that was necessary to her happiness.

At Mrs. Hathaway's outburst the girl made no effort to defend herself, and was well aware from former experiences that her father would not come to her aid. That he was afraid of her mother she would not admit. It seemed so weak and foolish. She had exalted ideas of what a man should be. That her father fell below her standard she would not acknowledge. She loved him so, was proud of his good points, and in many ways he was a remarkable man, his greatest weakness, if it could be called that, being his apparent fear of his wife. Her dominion over him, during her occasional visits at the ranch, was absolute. Hope shut her eyes to this, telling herself that it was caused by his desire to make her happy during these rare opportunities.

Hathaway did not respond to his wife's somewhat uncalled-for remarks, but after a moment of silence adroitly changed the subject by inquiring of Hope who it was that had ridden up to the ranch just as he left that morning.

"It must have been Joe Harris, from the mountains," she replied, "for he was here shortly after you rode away. I thought he was out hunting those cattle of his that I saw over on Ten Mile the other day, but he informed me that it was not cattle he was hunting this time, but a school-teacher. They have some sort of a country school up there in his neighborhood, and I think, from what he said, and what some of the boys told me, that he must be the whole school board—clerk, trustees, and everything. He was on his way over to the Cross Bar ranch to see if he could secure that young fellow who came out from the East last fall. One of the boys told him that this young man had given up his calling indefinitely and was going on the round-up instead, but Harris rode on to try what persuasion would do."

"That dreadful man," sighed Mrs. Hathaway. "He is that squaw-man with those terrible children! Hope, I wish you wouldn't talk so intimately with such people; it's below your dignity. If Sydney were here he would agree with me. Where is Sydney? Do you know where he went? He will miss his luncheon entirely, the poor boy!"

Hope looked searchingly at her father, but he ignored her glance. Surely he would say something now! The question trembled upon the air, but she waited involuntarily for him to speak.

"I've asked you a question, Hope. Why don't you answer; are you dumb?" said her mother, with a show of impatience. "Where is Sydney?"

"I don't know just where he is," replied the girl at length, "but I think it would be safe to say that he is riding toward town; at least he was heading that way the last I saw of him."

"Toward town!" gasped her mother. "Why, he was going to drive in for the Cresmonds to-morrow! You must be mistaken. Please do not include me in your jokes!" Then, turning to Hathaway, continued: "James, where did he go?"

Hathaway moved uneasily under the direct gaze of his daughter. "I haven't the least idea," he finally answered. "I can't keep track of everyone on the ranch." The girl's face turned pale under her tan. She rose from the table and stood tall and straight behind her chair, her clear eyes direct upon her father.

"Why don't you tell her," she cried with passion. Then the usual calm settled over her face. She turned to her mother. "I may as well tell you that we had a little scene this morning, Sydney and I. He proposed to me." She hesitated an instant, turned and caught her father's nervous, anxious look direct. He was watching her uneasily. She continued deliberately: "I refused him—and sent him away from the ranch. You may as well know all about it."

"You sent him away from the ranch," gasped Mrs. Hathaway.

"Yes," answered the girl quietly. It was her first lie.

"You dared send him away—away from his own home!" almost screamed Mrs. Hathaway, her rage increasing with every word. "You dared! You, my own daughter—ungrateful, inconsiderate——You know how I love that boy, my poor Jennie's son! What business had you sending him away, or even refusing him, I'd like to know! What if he is your cousin—your second cousin? Oh, you have no consideration for me, none—you never had! How can I ever endure it here on this ranch three whole months without Sydney! It was bad enough before!" She wrung her hands and rose sobbing from the table. "James, do go after that poor boy. Say that I am willing he should marry Hope if he is so foolish as to want her. Tell him not to mind anything she says, but that he must come home. You will go at once, won't you?"

She placed both hands imploringly on his arm.

"Yes, I'll go after him to-morrow, so stop your worrying," he answered soothingly. "Hope, fetch your mother a glass of wine, don't you see she's all upset?"

The girl brought the wine and handed it to her father, but his eyes shifted uneasily from her clear, steady ones. He led his unhappy wife from the room, leaving Hope alone with the empty wine glass in her hand. She stood so for a moment, then walked to the table and set the tiny glass down, but, oddly, raised it up again and looked at it closely.

"As empty as my life is now," she thought. "As empty as this home is for me. I have no one—father, mother—no one." A queer look crossed her face; determination settled over her, as with a sudden, vehement motion she shattered the frail glass upon the floor. A single thought, and a new life had opened before her.

CHAPTER II

Upon the slope of a great grass-covered hill, among other hills, larger and grass-covered also, stood a small log school-house. A hundred yards away, between this isolated building and the dingy road stretched through the mountain valley, grew a scrubby clump of choke-cherry brush. Some boys crouched low upon the ground behind these bushes, screened from sight of possible passers-by, and three pairs of eyes looked through the budding branches, intently scanning the road at the crest of hill to the left. Finally a dark speck appeared upon its gray surface. The youngest boy shivered, a tightening of expression came over the leader's face. He drew his shotgun closer to him, resting it upon his knees. Suddenly he laughed unpleasantly and kicked the child who had shivered.

"You ninny, quit your shakin'! Can't you tell a steer from a man? You'll make a nice feller when you grow up, 'fraid of your own shadow! You'd better git into the school-house an' hide under a bench, if you're goin' to be scared out of your skin. Baby! Umph, a steer, too! That blame black one that won't stay with the bunch!" The big boy brought his awkward length down upon the ground, continuing in a lower tone: "I'd a darn sight ruther be on my horse drivin' him back on the range than waitin' here for any fool school-teacher! But we've got this job on hand. No schoolin' for me—I'm too old. It'll do for babies that shiver at a steer, but I've got other business, an' so's Dan. I'm thinkin' if the old man wants school up here he'll have to teach it himself! What does he think we'd go to the trouble of running away from the Mission for if we wanted to go to school? Umph, he must think we're plumb locoed!"

"If father catches us in this he'll lick us to death," interposed the youngest boy.

"Not much, he won't. He'll have to ride a faster horse than mine or Dan's if he catches us! We'll ride over to the Indian camp, an' you can stay here an' take the lickin'! He'll be glad enough to see us come back in a month or two, I'll bet! And he's goin' to find out right now that it ain't no use to bring any doggoned teacher up here to teach this outfit. Ain't that so, Dan? We know enough of learnin'. I bet this new fellow won't stay long enough to catch his breath!"

A boy, who in looks and size was the exact counterpart of the speaker, asked in a sweet, soft-toned voice: "What if the old man takes a notion to come along to the school-house with him—what'll we do then, Dave?"

"Do! why, what do you suppose we'll do?" answered his twin, settling down closer to the ground. "Why, we'll hide these here guns an' walk up to the school-house like little sheep, and then lay low and watch our chance when the old man ain't around. I ain't figurin' on any lickin' to-day, you can bet your boots on that, but I'll take a darn good one before any more schoolin'! We've got the medicine to fix school-teachers for him this year, I reckon!" And patting his gun, the breed boy gave a satisfied grunt and settled down nearer to the ground.

"You bet we have," softly assented his twin. "But what if the fellow don't scare at them blank cartridges?"

"Then we'll try duck-shot on him," answered the first readily. "What'd you think—we're a lot of babies? I reckon we've got fight in us! You've got to stick to us, Ned, even if you ain't as old as Dan and me. Ain't that so, Dan?"

"Yes, unless he wants to get whaled half to death," sweetly answered the soft-voiced twin.

"I'm no coward," exclaimed the sturdy little fellow. "If you boys dare lick me I'll shoot the two of you!" His small black eyes flashed ominously. For an instant he glared at the older boys, all the savagery in his young soul expressed in his countenance. The soft-voiced twin gave a short laugh. Something like admiration shone in his eyes for the young lad, but he retorted sweetly: "You shivered! Don't you go an' do it again!" At that instant his sharp eyes sighted an object just appearing at the top of the hill. He punched the leader vigorously: "Now down on your knees, he's comin' sure this time!"

"And he's alone," said the bold leader joyfully. "We won't have no trouble with him. He rides like a tenderfoot, all right. Wait till he gets down by that rock there, then let him have it, one after the other—first me, then Dan, then you, Ned. I'll bet my horse an' saddle that he'll go back quicker'n he's comin'!"

"What if that ain't the feller we want?" gently asked Dan.

"We'll wait till he turns in here, an' then we'll know. They ain't nobody else goin' to come along this way just now. Lord, don't he ride slow, though! Now I'll shoot first, don't forget."

"His saddle blanket's flying on this side, and he's got a red shirt on," said the other twin. "He's lookin' over this way. Yes, he's comin' here all right. Let him have it, Dave, before he gits any closer!"

As he spoke, the approaching rider left the main road and turned up the dimly marked trail toward the school-house. The forward twin waited an instant, then, aiming his shotgun carelessly toward the stranger, fired. At the signal a volley rang out from behind the bushes. As quickly the horse took fright, stopped stock still, then wheeled, and bolted with utmost speed directly toward the patch of brush, passing so near that the boys drew in their legs and crawled snake-like under the protection of the branches.

"Good Lord," gasped the leader, as the horse raced past, on up the grassy slope of a hill, "it's a girl!"

Two minutes later the bushes were quickly parted over three very uncomfortable boys, and a red shirt-waisted girl looked sternly in at them.

"You boys come out of there this minute! Who did you take me for that you were trying to frighten me to death? Or is that the way you treat ladies up here in the mountains? Come out immediately and explain yourselves!"

The soft-voiced twin crept out first, and before scrambling to his feet began apologizing: "We didn't know it was you. We thought it was a man. Don't hurt us! We wouldn't a done it for nothin' if we'd thought it was you. We were layin' for a school-teacher that father got to teach this school, an' we took you for him." Then more hopefully as he regained his feet: "But our guns wasn't loaded with nothing but blank cartridges. We was just goin' to frighten him away so that we wouldn't have no school this summer. It's too fine weather to be in school, anyway." He looked up into the girl's uncompromising face. "But now I reckon our hides are cooked, for you'll tell your father." This last questioningly.

"And you wouldn't like my father to know about this—or your father either, I suppose?"

"We'd do most anything if you wouldn't tell on us, Miss Hathaway!"

"Do I look like a girl that would tell things?" she flashed back. "I usually fight my own battles; if necessary, I can use this." A quick movement and she placed before their faces a reliable looking six-shooter.

"We know all about that! You ain't a-goin' to hurt us, are you?" exclaimed Dave.

"You know all about that, do you? Well, that's good. Now tell me your names."

"We're the Harris kids," answered Dave quickly.

"I know you're the Harris kids, but I want your first names. Yours," she commanded, looking at the soft-voiced twin and absently fingering the weapon.

"Mine's Dan. He's Dave, an' that one's Ned," answered the boy in one soft, quick breath; then added: "We know all about how you can shoot. You're a dead one!" His face took on a certain shrewd look and he continued divertingly: "I'll throw up my cap an' you shoot at it. I'd like to have the hole in it."

Miss Hathaway seemed suddenly amused.

"You are a very bright boy! And your name is Dan—Daniel. You want a souvenir? Well, all right, but not just now. I've got other business. I came to teach your school." She hesitated, looking keenly at their astonished faces. "Yes, your father has engaged me—hired me, so I think we'd better go inside and begin work, don't you? We'll overlook this shooting affair. I don't know as I blame you very much for not wanting a man teacher, but of course the shooting was very wrong, and you shouldn't have tried to frighten anyone; but we'll forget all about it. But you are not going to have a man teacher, and I am different. I am going to live at your house, too, so of course we'll be good friends—ride together, hunt, and have great times, after school. During school we work, remember that! Now one of you boys please stake out my horse for me and then we will go inside and start school. You boys must help me get things to working."

Before she had finished speaking the soft-voiced twin caught her horse, which was grazing near. Dave, more clumsily built, followed him, while the girl took the small boy by the hand and started toward the school-house. At the door she turned in time to see the twins struggling at her horse's head. They were about ready to come to blows.

"I'll take care of that horse myself," said Dave gruffly, attempting to force the other boy's hand from the bridle.

"Don't fight, boys, or I will take care of the horse," called the new school-teacher severely; thereupon the soft-voiced twin released his hold and walked demurely up to the school-house.

"Anyway," he explained as he went inside, "Dave's the youngest, and so I let him have the horse."

"I never was so frightened in my life," thought the girl, as she arranged the small school for the day. "But the only way to manage these little devils is to bluff them."

CHAPTER III

A group composed principally of cowboys, squaw-men, and breeds squatted and lounged outside of Joe Harris' house. Numerous tousley-headed boys, with worn overalls and bare feet, played noisily on the outskirts, dogs and pigs scurried about everywhere, while in the doorway of the dingy, dirt-covered kitchen in the rear hovered a couple of Indian women and several small dark-skinned children. Somewhere out of sight, probably over the cook-stove, were two or three nearly grown girls. Such, at supper time, was the usual aspect of Joe Harris' cabins, varied occasionally by more or less Indians, whose tepees stood at one side, or more or less dogs, but always the same extraordinary amount of squealing pigs and children.

The huge figure of Joe Harris, squaw-man, cattle-man, and general progressive-man, was prominent in the center of the group. He was by all odds the greatest and most feared man in that portion of the country. His judgment as well as his friendship was sought after by all the small ranchers about, and also, it was rumored, by a certain class of cattle owners commonly called rustlers. To be Joe Harris' friend meant safety, if nothing more; to be his enemy meant, sooner or later, a search for a new country, or utter ruination. He brought with him, years before from the north, a weird record, no tangible tale of which got about, but the mysterious rumor, combined with the man's striking personality, his huge form, bearded face, piercing blue eyes, and great voice, all combined to make people afraid of him. He was considered a dangerous man. At this date he possessed one thousand head of good cattle, a squaw, and fifteen strong, husky children, and, being a drinking man, possessed also an erratic disposition. He was very deferential to his Indian wife, a good woman, but he ruled his offspring with a rod of iron. His children feared him. Some of them possessed his nature to such a marked degree that they hated him more than they feared him, which is saying considerable. Even as they played about the group of men they watched him closely, as they had learned by instinct at their mother's breast.

In the midst of loud talk from the assorted group, a tiny girl, the great man's favorite child, was sent out from the kitchen to tell them that supper was ready. The little thing pulled timidly at the large man's coat. He stooped and picked her up in his arms, leading the hungry throng into the house, where a rude supper was eaten in almost absolute silence. Occasionally a pig would venture into the room, to be immediately kicked out by the man who sat nearest the door. Then the children that played about the house would chase the offending animal with sticks and shrill cries.

In a room adjoining this one a girl sat alone in dejected attitude, her face buried between two very brown hands. As the men tramped into the house she rose from the trunk upon which she had been sitting and crossed to the farther side of the room. There, with difficulty, she forced up a small dingy window looking out upon the mountains at the back of the ranch—a clear view, unobstructed by scurrying dogs, pigs, or children. She leaned far out, drawing in deep, sweet breaths, and wondering if she would follow the impulse to climb out and run to the top of the nearest hill. She thought not, then fell again to wondering how she should ever accustom herself to this place, these new surroundings. She heard the men tramp out of the house, followed soon by a timid rap upon her door, then moved quickly across the room, an odd contrast to her rude surroundings.

"You can have supper now," said a tall girl in a timid voice. "The men are through. We ain't got much, Miss Hathaway."

"A little is enough for me," said the girl, smiling. "Don't call me Miss, please. It doesn't seem just right—here. Call me Hope. It will make me feel more at home, you know. You're Mary, aren't you? You haven't been to supper, have you?"

"Mother said you were to eat alone," answered the breed girl.

"Oh, no, surely I may eat with you girls! I'd much prefer it. You know it would be lonely all by myself, don't you think so?"

"We ain't going to eat just yet, not till after the boys get theirs," said the Harris girl a trifle less timidly.

"Then I will wait, too," Hope decided. "Come in, Mary, and stay till I unpack some of these things. Just a few waists and extra riding skirts. I suppose I am to hang them up here on these nails, am I not?" When she had finished unpacking she turned to the breed girl, who had become quite friendly and was watching her interestedly, and explained: "Just a few things that I thought would be suitable to wear up here, for teaching; but, do you know, I'd feel lots better if I had a dress like yours—a calico one. But I have this—this old buck-skin one. See, it has bead-work on it. Isn't it pretty?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl, as Hope held it up for inspection. "Isn't it lovely!"

"Very old and dingy-looking, but I'll put it on and wear it," she decided.

A few minutes later, when they had arranged the small, barren room somewhat more comfortably, Hope Hathaway, attired in her dress of Indian make, joined the Harris girls at their frugal meal. Her dark hair was parted in the center and hung in two long braids down her back. That, combined with the beaded dress, fringed properly, her black eyes, and quiet expressionless face, made a very picturesque representation of an Indian girl. Truly she was one of them. The breed girls must have thought something of the same, for they became at their ease, talking very much as girls talk the world over. There were three of them between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, and Hope soon found herself well entertained and almost contented. The loneliness soon wore away, and before realizing it she began to feel at home—almost one of them, true to her spirit of adaptability. But yet for her supper she ate only two hard boiled eggs.

After the meal the breed girls walked with her down to the spring-house where the milk and butter was kept. From underneath the small log building a large spring crept lazily out, spreading itself as it went into a miniature lake which lay between the house buildings and the stables. It was the only thing on the ranch worthy of notice, and, in a country barren of water excepting in the form of narrow winding creeks, it was pleasing to the eye.

The men and boys had disappeared, the younger children were with their mother, and even the pigs had drowsily gone to their sleeping quarters. The place seemed strangely quiet after its recent noise and commotion.

Finally the girls returned to the house to help with the small children, while in the deepening twilight Hope remained alone beside the lake. The water into which she looked and dreamed was shallow, but the deepening shadows concealed that fact. To her fancy it might have been bottomless. Someone rode up on horseback, but she paid no attention until a pleasant voice close beside her startled her from her reverie.

"Can I trouble you for a drink of that water, please? I have often wished for one as I rode past; it looks so clear and cold." She bowed her head in assent, and, bringing a cup from the spring-house, stooped and filled it for him. He thanked her and drank the water eagerly.

"It is good, just as I thought, and cold as ice," he said; then, noticing the girl more closely, continued: "I have been talking with your father over there at the corral, and am returning home."

"With my father," emphasized the girl. The young man noted with wonderment the richness of her voice, the soft, alluring grace of every movement. Someone had jokingly told him before he left his old-country home that he would bring back an Indian wife, as one of historical fame had done centuries before. He laughed heartily at the time—he smiled now, but thought of it. He thought of it again many times that evening and cursed himself for such folly. Perhaps there was Indian medicine in the cup she gave him, or perhaps he looked an instant too long into those dark, unfathomable eyes. He found himself explaining:

"Yes; your father has agreed to sell me that team I have been wanting. I am coming back for the horses to-morrow."

"My father," she began again. "Oh, yes, of course. I thought——Would you like another drink of the water?"

"Yes, if you please." It seemed good to stand there in the growing darkness, and another drink would give him fully a minute. He watched her supple figure as she stooped to refill the tin cup. What perfect physiques some of these Indian girls possessed! He did not wonder so much now that some men forgot their families and names for these dark-skinned women.

"I am coming to-morrow for the horses—in the morning," he repeated foolishly, returning the cup. She did not speak again, so bidding her a courteous good-night he mounted his horse and rode slowly into the gathering dusk.

Hope stood there for a moment, returning to her study of the water; then two of the breed girls came toward her. One of them was giggling audibly.

"We heard him," said Mary. "He thought you was one of us. It'll be fun to fool him. He's new out here, and don't know much, anyhow. He's Edward Livingston, an Englishman, an' has got a sheep ranch about three miles over there."

"A sheep-man!" exclaimed Hope, "Isn't that too bad!"

"You hate sheep-men, too?" asked the older girl.

"No, I don't know that I hate them, but there's a feeling—a sort of something one can't get over, something that grows in the air if you're raised among cattle. I despise sheep, detest them. They spoil our cattle range." Then after a short pause: "It's too bad he isn't a cattle-man!"

"That's what I think," said Mary, "because the men are all gettin' down on him. He runs his sheep all over their range, an' they're makin' a big talk."

"You shouldn't tell things, Mary, they're only talkin', anyway," reproved the older girl.

"Talkin'! Well, I should say so, an' you bet they mean business! But Miss Hathaway—Hope—don't care, an' I don't care neither, if he gets into a scrape; only he's got such a nice, pleasant face, an' he ain't on to the ways out here yet, neither—an' I don't care what the men say! Tain't as if he meant anything through real meanness."

"That's so," replied the older girl, "but maybe she don't want to hear such talk. It's bedtime, anyway; let's go in."

"Yes, I'm tired," said Hope wearily, adding as she bade Mary good-night at her door: "I do hope he won't get into any trouble."

CHAPTER IV

The three months' school had begun in earnest. Each day Hope found new interest in her small class and in her surroundings. She readily learned to dispense with all the comforts and luxuries to which she had been born, substituting instead a rare sense of independence, an expansion of her naturally wild spirit. She dispensed also with conventionalities, except such as were ingrained with her nature, yet she was far from happy in the squaw-man's family. She could have ridden home in a few hours, but remembered too keenly her mother's anger and her father's parting words. He said to her:

"You have hurt your mother and spoiled her summer by the stand you have taken. You are leaving here against my wishes and against your own judgment. The only thing I've got to say is this: don't come back here till you've finished your contract up there, till you've kept your word to the letter. No one of my blood is going back on their word. A few rough knocks will do you good."

He probably discovered in a very few hours how much he loved his girl, how she had grown into his life, for the next day after she had left he drove to the distant town and hunted up his wife's nephew, who had caused all this trouble.

"You deserve another thrashing," he said when he had found him, "but now you've got to turn to and do what you can to bring things back to where they were. Hope's left home and 's gone to teaching school up in the mountains at Harris'. Now, what in thunder am I going to do about it? She can't live there with those breeds. Lord, I slept there once and the fleas nearly ate me up!"

The boy's face turned a trifle pale. "I'm sorry, uncle, about this. I never thought she would do such a thing, on my account—not after I left. And she's gone to Joe Harris' place! I know all about that, a regular nest of low breeds and rustlers. She can't stay there!"

"But she will, just the same," announced the man, "because when she told me that she'd promised Harris, and that she was going, anyway, I told her to go and take her medicine till the school term was ended."

"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?"

"Oh, the new man by the name of Livingston. Do you boys know him?" asked the girl curiously.

"Nope! Don't want to, neither. Seen him lots of times, though," answered Dave.

"He's come in here without bein' asked, an' thinks he can run the whole country," explained the soft-voiced twin.

"Is he trying to run the whole country?" asked Hope.

"Well, he's runnin' his sheep over everybody's range, an' they ain't goin' to stand for it," replied the boy.

"But what can they do about it? Have they asked him to move his sheep?"

"No. What's the use after they've been over the range—spoiled it, anyhow. No, you bet they ain't goin' to ask him nothing!"

The girl thought for a moment, absently pulling the "witches' knots" from her horse's mane, while it climbed a hill at a swinging gait, then continued as though talking to herself:

"Once upon a time a young man took what money he had in the world, and going into a far-away, wild country started in business for himself. He had heard, probably, that there was more money in sheep than in cattle. A great many people do hear that, so he bought sheep, thinking, perhaps, to make a pile of money in a few years, and then go back to his home and marry some nice, good girl of his choice. It takes money to get married and make a home, and to do mostly anything, they say, and so this young man bought sheep, for no one goes into the sheep business or any other kind of business unless they want to make money. They don't generally do it for fun. And, of course, he thought, as they all do, to get rich immediately. He made a great mistake in the beginning, being extremely ignorant. He brought his sheep to a cattle country, where there were no other sheep near his own. All the men around him hated sheep, as men who own cattle always do, and hating the sheep, they thought they hated the sheep-man also, who really was a very harmless young man, and wouldn't have offended them for anything. But these men's dislike for the sheep grew daily, and so their fancied dislike for the young man grew in proportion.

"The men in the country would meet together in little groups, and every day some man would have some new grievance to tell the others. It finally got on their brains, until all they could think or talk about was this new man and his sheep. The more they thought and talked, the more angry they became, until finally they forgot that he was another man like themselves—in all likelihood a good, honest man, who would not have done them wrong knowingly. They forgot a great many things, and all they could think about night or day was how they could do something to injure his business or himself. They got so after awhile that they talked only in low whispers about him, taking great pains that their families, children, and even their big boys, should not know their plans. They made a great mistake in not taking their boys into their confidence, because boys are very often more reliable than men, and can always keep a secret a whole lot better. But perhaps the fathers knew that the boys had very good sense and would not go into anything like that without a better reason than they had, which was no reason at all.

"I never heard just what they planned to do to this newcomer to get rid of him and his sheep, but I know how it had to end." She looked up, searching each boy's intent, astonished face.

"Say, what're you drivin' at, anyway? You can't fool me—it's him!" exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the sheep-ranch. "You're makin' up a story about him!"

"How'd you know all that?" asked the quicker, soft-voiced twin.

"Know all that. Why, how did you boys know all that? I suppose that I have ears, too—and I've heard of such things before," she replied.

"But you don't know how the end'll be. That's one thing you don't know," declared the soft-voiced twin. "You can't know that."

"She might be a fortune-teller like grandmother White Blanket," laughed the other.

"Is that old squaw in the farthest tepee from the house your own grandmother?" asked the girl.

"Yep, an' she ain't no squaw, either! She's a French half-breed," he said, with an unconscious proud uplifting of the shoulders.

Hope laughed slightly. "What's the other half?" she asked. The boy gave her a look of deep commiseration.

"I thought you had more learnin' than that! Why, the other half's white, of course."

"I beg your pardon!" gasped the girl. "My education along those lines must have been somewhat neglected. I had an idea that those were Indians camped down at your place. But French half-breeds,—a mixture of white and French,—that's a different matter!" She stopped her horse and laughed with the immoderation of a boy. "That is rich," she cried. "If ever I go to New York again I shall spring that on the Prince. 'Mon Dieu!' he will exclaim. 'What then are we, Mademoiselle, we, the aristocracy—the great nation of the French?'" Her face sobered. "But this is not the question. I do know how this will end, and I am not a fortune-teller, either. I know that the ones who are in the wrong about this matter will get the worst of it. Sometimes it means states prison, sometimes death—at all events, something not expected. I tell you, boys, I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of this for anything! And do you know, I am real glad that your father doesn't need your help. We will take a little side of our own and watch things—what do you say? It will be lots of fun, and we'll know all the time that we are in the right, and maybe we can prevent them from doing any real wrong to themselves." She watched them closely to see how they accepted the suggestion. Her inspiration might be considered a reckless one, but their young minds lent themselves readily to her influence.

"The old man licked me this mornin'," growled Dave. "An' he can go straight to the hot place now, for all o' me! I'm goin' off on the round-up, anyway, next year."

"You boys know, don't you, that if your father ever found out that I knew anything about this thing, he would probably give me a licking, too—and send me out of the country?" This for effect.

"I'd like to see him lay hands on you," roared Dave. "I'd fill him so full of lead that—that——"

Words failed him.

"I'd kill him if he did, Miss Hathaway," exclaimed the small boy, Ned, with quiet assurance that brought a hint of laughter to the girl's face. The soft-voiced twin rode up very close to her.

"He ain't goin' to find it out, an' don't you worry; we'll all stand by you while there's one of us left!"

"All right, boys, we're comrades now. I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll form a band—brigade—all by ourselves. I am commanding officer and you are my faithful scouts. How's that?" Hope's fancy was leading her away. "Come on," she cried, "let's race this flat!"

The self-appointed commanding officer reached the smooth valley far in advance of her faithful scouts, who yelled in true Indian fashion as they rode up with her.

"I'll run you a mile an' beat you all hollow," declared Dave. "But on a two hundred yard stretch like this here place my horse don't have no chance to get started."

"I'll bet my quirt against yourn that you lose," said the soft-voiced twin.

"Keep your quirt! I don't want it, nohow. One's enough fur me. But I can beat her just the same!" Dave was stubbornly positive.

"You'll have to ride my horse if you do beat her," continued the soft-voiced twin. Dave grew furious.

"Now, see here, that raw-boned, loose-jointed, watch-eyed cayuse o' yourn couldn't run a good half mile without fallin' dead in his tracks! What'er you a-givin' me, anyhow?" At that instant his attention was fortunately taken. "Where'd all them cattle come from?" he exclaimed.

They had turned up a narrow gulch, the youngest boy and Hope taking the lead, and had traveled it for perhaps fifty yards when they found themselves at a stand-still before a drove of cattle that were making their way slowly down the narrow trail.

"We won't go back," called the girl. "Come on up here and wait till they pass." And followed by the boys she guided her horse up the steep, rocky side of a high bank, and waited while the cattle came slowly on. They counted them as they passed in twos and threes down the narrow valley. When nearly two hundred had gone by a rider came in sight around the bend of the hill. Hope's horse whinnied, and the man's answered back, then the girl gave a scream of delight, and, unmindful of the rocky bank, or of the appearance of two other riders, rushed down, nearly unseating the old cow-puncher in her demonstrations of welcome.

"Jim! Dear old Jim! Where did you come from? I am so glad to see you! Why, Jim, I'd rather see you than anyone in the world! How glad I am! Boys," she called, "come down here. This is Jim, my dear old father Jim!" Old Jim McCullen's eyes were dimmed with tears as he looked from the girl's happy, flushed face to the last of the cattle that were going out of sight around the bend of the gulch. "Where did you come from, Jim, and what brings you up here? Whose cattle? Why, they're ours, and rebranded! What are you doing with them?" Just then the two riders, whom in her excitement she had failed to notice, rode up. "Why, Syd, hello," she said. "And you're here, too! I thought Jim was alone."

She changed instantly from her glad excitement, speaking with the careless abruptness of a boy. Her cousin rode alongside. She gave one glance at his companion, then wheeled her horse about and stationed herself a short distance away beside the breed boys.

"This is a happy surprise, Hope," exclaimed her cousin. "What are you doing up here so far away from home?" She regarded him a trifle more friendly.

"Is it possible you don't know? Didn't you tell him, Jim, that I had gone away? Oh, I forgot, you weren't at the ranch when I left, so you couldn't tell him. Well, I am here, as you can see, Sydney—partly because I wanted a change, partly because they wanted a school-teacher up here. I am staying at Joe Harris'. What are you doing here with those cattle?"

"Oh, thought I'd go to work for a change. Just some cattle that I bought to hold for fall shipment." He turned to the man at his side, apologizing, then proceeded to introduce him to his cousin. The girl cut it short by a peculiar brief nod.

"Oh, I've met Mr. Livingston before!"

"Indeed?" said Carter in surprise, looking from one to the other.

"At Harris'" explained the sheep-man. "She gave me one of the sweetest, most refreshing drinks of water it has ever been my privilege to enjoy." He spoke easily, yet was much perturbed. Here was his shy Indian maid, a remarkably prepossessed, up-to-date young woman. It took a little time to get it straightened out in his mind.

"Of course I might have known that you two would have met. There are so few people here." Carter tried to speak indifferently.

"Well, good-by," said the girl, moving away.

"Don't be in a hurry! Where are you going, Hope?" called her cousin.

"Sorry, but can't wait any longer. We're off for a day's exploring. Good-by."

"I'll see you this evening. We're going to camp near Harris'," said Carter.

"No, not this evening," she called back to him as she rode on up the gulch. "I won't be back till late, and then I'll be too tired to see anyone. Good-by, Jim—I'll see you to-morrow." Old Jim watched her until she was lost to sight in the turn of the gulch. Livingston also watched her until she was out of sight. She rode astride, wearing a neat divided skirt, and sat her horse with all the ease and perfection of a young cowboy. Old Jim McCullen went on in trail of the cattle, while young Carter and Livingston followed leisurely.

"Rather a cool greeting from a girl one expects to marry," said Carter, under his breath.

"Is it possible—your fiancée!" Livingston's face became thoughtful. "You are to be congratulated," he said.

Carter laughed nervously. "I can scarcely say she is that, yet—but it is her mother's wish. We have grown up together. Miss Hathaway is my cousin, my second cousin. I can see no reason why we will not be married—some time."

"Miss Hathaway," mused his companion. "And you love her?" he asked quietly.

"Certainly," answered Carter, wondering at the other's abrupt way of speaking.

"And may I ask if she loves you?" The sheep-man's tone was quiet and friendly. Carter wished that it might have been insolent. As it was he could only laugh uneasily.

"It would seem not," he answered. "To-day she is like an icicle—to-morrow she will be a most devoted girl. That is Hope—as changeable as the wind. One never knows what to expect. One day loving—the next, cold and indifferent. But then, you see, I am used to her little ways."

"I wish you all the happiness you deserve, Mr. Carter," said Livingston a little later, as he rode off, taking a short cut to his ranch.

"Hope—Hope Hathaway; Carter's cousin. What an idiot I've been to think of her as an Indian girl! An odd name—Hope. Hope Hath a way," he mused as he rode homeward. "If only I had the right to hope!"

CHAPTER V

"I wish there was a shorter cut to get home," said the girl wearily. "I'm just about tired. Climbing mountains is a little out of my line. I wonder how long it will take to get used to it."

"There is a shorter way, Miss Hathaway," said one of the breed boys. "It's through that sheep-ranch there. We always used to go that way before they fenced it in, but there's gates to it if we can find 'em."

"Let's go through that way, then, if it's shorter. Of course it is shorter—I can see that, and we'll trust to luck to be able to see the gates. I suppose they're wire gates."

"Yes, just regular wire gates, an' it's gettin' dark pretty blame fast, but mebbe we can find 'em all right."

So they followed the fence, searching in the dim light for the almost invisible gate—the girl who had that day appointed herself commanding officer and her three brave scouts.

Alongside the wire fence they followed a narrow cow-trail for nearly a quarter of a mile, then the path disappeared inside the field, and the side-hills along which they were obliged to travel were rough and dangerous. It was late, and darkness settled down around them, cutting from their vision everything but a small line of fence and the nearby hills.

They made slow headway over the rocky banks. Hope, tired with the day's exploring and hungry after her long ride and the somewhat slender diet of the past week, was sorry they had not gone the road, which, though longer, would not have taken such a length of time to travel. The boys were good scouts, yet it became evident that they had never followed the new line of fence before. Their horses slipped upon the sides of steep inclines which became more rocky and dangerous as they proceeded. Darkness increased rapidly. One horse in the rear fell down, but the rider was upon his feet in an instant; then they dismounted and led their horses, traveling along very slowly in Indian file. Some time later they found the wire gate, much to the girl's relief. It was then quite dark. The moon had risen, but showed itself fitfully behind black, stormy looking clouds. Without difficulty they discovered a trail leading somewhere, and followed it until they rounded a point from which they could see the light in the sheep-man's house.

"Why, we're almost up to his house!" exclaimed Hope. "This isn't the way. We don't want to go there!"

"I reckon we'll have to get pretty close up to it to find the road that goes to the other gate," said the soft-voiced twin.

"How foolish we've been," sighed the girl.

"Yep, a pack o' idiots," agreed Dave.

"But it's too dark for anyone to see us—or notice us," she said with relief. "I think we might go right up to the house and look through the windows without anyone seeing us."

"Let's do it," suggested Dave.

"Well I should say not!" exclaimed the girl. "It's the last thing on earth I would do—peek into anyone's window! I am not so curious to see the interior of his house—or anyone's else."

"I'll bet they're just eatin' supper," said Ned hungrily.

"All the better," replied Hope; "there will be no one around to see us then. I wonder how much closer we'll have to go?"

"Not much further," answered the soft-voiced twin wisely. "See, there's the barns, an' the road ain't a great ways off." He led the way, while Hope and the boy, Dave, followed close, and the youngest boy trailed along somewhere in the rear. They passed between the stables and the house, then, aided by the fitful moon, found the road, along which they made better time.

Hope felt a great relief as they began to leave the house in the distance, though why, she could scarcely have explained. She said to herself that she was in a hurry to reach home, but as they neared the huge, flat-roofed sheep-sheds she slowed up her horse, which had gone on ahead of the others, and glanced back at her approaching scouts. The twins came up with her, then she stopped and looked behind.

"Where's Ned?" she asked sharply, a sudden suspicion entering her head. "What's keeping him?"

"He went up to the house to see what's goin' on," replied Dave. "I saw him start for that way."

"How dared he do it! He will be seen and then what will they think! We will wait for him here." Then angrily to the boy: "If you knew he was going to do that Indian trick why didn't you stop him?"

"I didn't know nothin' till I missed him," replied the boy.

"No, we didn't know he was goin', but when we saw he was gone for sure it wouldn't 'a' done no good to 'a' gone after him. Anyway, we wouldn't 'a' left you alone!" The soft-voiced twin was a genius at finding explanations. He was never at a loss.

The girl recovered her temper instantly. "You did quite right, my brave scout," she cried. "I see you have learned the first and greatest principle of your vocation. Never desert a lady, no matter what danger she may be in. But what a temptation it must have been to you to follow him and bring him back to me!" There is no doubt but that the sarcasm was wasted upon the breed boys, who waited stolidly with her near some sheltering brush for the truant Ned, whose mischievousness had led him off the trail.

At last he rode up with them, surprised out of breath to find them there waiting for him. The girl took him by the sleeve. "You're a bad boy. Next time ask me when you have an inclination to do anything like that. Now give an account of yourself. What did you see?"

"I just wanted to see what they had to eat, so I peeked in," apologized the youngster. "There was two men eatin' their supper. The boss wasn't there. I heard old Morris tell another fellow that he was out helpin' put in the sheep."

"But here are the sheds, and surely there are no sheep here," she exclaimed anxiously.

"They're keepin' 'em in the open corrals down the road a piece," explained the soft-voiced twin. "They don't keep no sheep here in the sheds now."

The commanding officer breathed easier. "That's good; come on then," she said, riding ahead. They had not proceeded fifty yards when the low tones of men's voices reached them. Simultaneously they stopped their horses and listened, but nothing save an indistinct murmur could be heard. One of the twins slipped from his horse and handed the bridle reins to the girl, then crept forward. In the darkness she could not tell which one it was, nor did she care. She was filled with excitement and the longing for adventure which the time and place aggravated. Had they not that day formed a band of secrecy—she and her three brave scouts? It occurred to her that it might be the sheep-man returning with a herder, but if so he had no right to stand at such a distance and talk in guarded tones. The very atmosphere of the place felt suspicious. They drew their horses to one side of the roadway, waiting in absolute silence for the return of the scout. The voices reached them occasionally from the opposite side of a clump of brush not a stone's throw away.

They waited several minutes, which seemed interminable, then a dark form appeared and a voice whispered softly: "Somethin's up! Let's get the horses over by the fence so's they can't hear us." The twin led the way, taking a wide circuit about the spot from where the sound of voices came. They reached the fence quickly without noise, securing their horses behind a screen of scrubby willows.

"Now, go on," said the girl. "What did you hear?"

"When I crawled up close I saw two men. One of 'em said, 'Shut up. You're makin' too much noise! Do you want 'em to hear you up to the house?' The other said he didn't give a damn, that they might just as well make a good job of it an' kill off Livingston while they were getting rid of his sheep. These two fellers have just come over to guard the road from the house to keep the men there from interferin', but the mob's down there at the corral waitin' to do the work. I found that much out an' then I sneaked back. I reckon they're goin' to drive the sheep over the cut-bank."

"The devils!" cried Hope, under her breath. "They're going to pile up the sheep and kill him if he interferes, are they? We'll show them!"

"We can't do anything," said the boy. "There's more'n a dozen men out there at the corrals, an' it's darker'n pitch."

"So we'll just have to stand here and see that crime committed!" she burst out. "No, not on your life! You boys have got to stand by me. Surely you're just as brave as a girl? We're going over there where we can see what's going on, and the first man that tries to drive a sheep out of that corral gets one of these!" She patted the barrel of her rifle as she pulled it from its saddle case. "Get your guns and come along." But they were not far behind her in getting their weapons. The older boys had revolvers, and little Ned was armed with a Winchester repeating shotgun.

The twins were never seen without their guns, and had the reputation of sleeping with them at night. For wildness those two boys were the terror of the country. Their hearts sang a heathenish song of joy at this new adventure. Surely they were as brave as a girl! Her taunt rankled some. They would show her that they were not cowards! She had begun to worry already!

"Oh, what if it should be too late! What if we should be too late! Oh, it can't be! Let's go faster!" she cried.

The breed boys crept along close to the ground, making altogether much less noise than the girl, who seemed to think that speed and action were all that was necessary.

"Sh! Keep quieter. You musn't let them know anyone's 'round. Those fellers by the road 're just over there, an' they'll hear us," whispered Dan.

Then slower, more stealthily, they crept around the two men who guarded the road, and with less caution approached the corrals, the girl meanwhile recovering her composure to a great degree, though her heart still beat wildly. The night seemed a trifle lighter now to her straining eyes. What if the moon should come out, revealing them to the men waiting beyond the corrals? She grasped her rifle firmly, and her heart beat quicker at the thought. The soft-voiced twin must have felt the same fear, for he came close and whispered in her ear: "The corrals ain't more'n a rod, right over there. We'd better make a run for that bush there on this side of it, for the moon's comin' out—see!" He pointed upward. A rift had come in the black cloud from which the moon shone dimly, growing momentarily brighter. Before them the corral loomed up like a great flat patch of darkness, and to one side of this dark patch something taller stood in dim relief—a small clump of brush, toward which the odd little scouting party ran in all haste. Safe within its shelter, a fierce joy, savage in its intensity, filled the girl.

"Come on, Moon, come on in all your glory!" she whispered; then, as if in answer to her command, it came in full splendor from behind its veil of black. It might have been a signal. Back in the hills a coyote called weirdly to its mate, but before the last wailing note had died away a sharp report sounded on the still air, followed by the groans of a man in mortal agony. Hope, upon her knees in the brush, clasped her hands to her throat to stifle a cry.

"Now drive his damn'd sheep into the gulch!" commanded a gruff voice.

Following the pain, a fierce light came into the girl's eyes. Over tightly closed teeth her lips parted dryly. Instinctively the breed boys crept behind her, leaving her upon one knee before the heap of brush. A man leaped into the corral among the stupid sheep, and as he leaped a bullet passed through his hand.

"God, I'm killed!" he cried, as he sank limply out of sight among the sheep. For a few moments not a sound came except the occasional bleating of a lamb, then the gate of the corral, which was ajar, opened as by some invisible hand, and the great body of animals crowded slowly toward the entrance.

"They think there's only one man here, and they're not going to be bluffed by one," whispered Hope. "See, they must be coaxing the leaders with hay, and there's something going on back there that will make them stampede in a moment, and then the cut-bank! But we'll bluff them; make them think there's a whole regiment here. There's four of us. Now get your guns ready. Good; now when I start, all of you shoot at once as fast as you can load. Aim high in that direction. Shoot in the air, not anywhere else. Now do as I tell you. Now, all together!" For two or three minutes those four guns made music. The hills gathered up the noise and flung it back, making the air ring with a deafening sound. "Shoot up! Shoot higher, or you'll be hitting someone," she admonished, as dark forms began to rise from the ground beyond the corral and run away.

"They're crawling away like whipped dogs," exclaimed a twin in glee. "I'd like to shoot one for luck!"

"Shame on you," cried the girl softly. "That would be downright murder while they're running."

"I reckon there's been murder already to-night," said the soft-voiced twin. Hope turned upon him fiercely: "That wasn't murder! I shot him through the hand. Murder? Do you call it murder to kill one of those beasts? You mean—you mean that they killed him! I forgot for a minute! Oh, it couldn't be that they killed him—Mr. Livingston! Are you sure he wasn't up at the house, Ned? I must find out." She started toward the corral. Dave pulled her back roughly.

"See there! Those fellers that was on guard down there 're comin' back. They must have left their horses down by that rock. They'll ketch us sure!" She drew back into the brush again, waiting until the two men, whose voices first brought suspicion to their minds, had passed by, skirting the corral in diplomatic manner.

Hope, who had been so eager to search the scene of bloodshed, crept from the brush and took the opposite direction, followed closely by the breed boys. When they reached their horses she spoke:

"Now you boys go home. Go in from the back coulee and sneak into bed. Don't let anyone see you, whatever you do, for if this was ever found out——" She waited for their imaginations to finish the sentence.

"We can sneak in all right," exclaimed Dave. "We know how to do that! They'll never find it out in ten years!"

"Then go at once. Ride fast by the Spring coulee and get there ahead of the men—if there should be any that belong there. I will come later. If they ask, say that I'm in bed, or taking a walk, or anything that comes into your head. But you won't be questioned. You mustn't be! Now hurry up!"

"But why won't you come along with us?" asked Dave.

"Because if we should be caught together they would know who did the shooting. If they see you alone they will not suspect you, and if they see me alone they will never think of such a thing. It is the wisest way, besides I have other reasons. Now don't stand there all night talking to me, but go, unless you want to make trouble." She watched them until they were lost to sight, then mounted her horse and rode back over the road that she had come, straight up to the sheep-man's house.

CHAPTER VI

It was fully half a mile to Livingston's house. The trail showed plainly in the moonlight, winding in ghostly fashion through thick underbrush, and crossed in several places by a small mountain stream through which the horse plunged, splashing the girl plentifully. She had an impression that she ought to go back to the corral and discover just what mischief had been done, but shivered at the thought of hunting for dead men in the darkness. A feeling of weird uneasiness crept over her. She wished that she had brought the breed boys with her, though realizing that the proper thing had been done in sending them home in order that their secret might be safe, and so prevent more evil. She knew that she would find men at the house who could take lanterns and go to the scene of the trouble. The past half hour seemed remote and unreal, yet the picture of it passed through her brain again and again before she reached the house. She could hear the first shot, so startling and unexpected, and the man's terrible groans rang in her ears until she cried out as if to drive them from her. Was he dead? she wondered. Perhaps he lay there wounded and helpless! Was it Livingston? If it should be! She thought that she should be there, groping over the bloody ground for him. She shook as with a chill. How helpless she was, after all—a veritable coward, for she must go on to the house for assistance!

She slipped from her horse at some distance, and walked toward the ray of light that came from a side window. Her knees were weak, she felt faint and wearied. At the house her courage failed, she sank limply beside the window, and looked into the lighted room beyond. He was not there! One man was reading a newspaper while another sat on an end of the table playing a mouth harp.

In her mind she could see the body of Livingston in the corral, trampled upon and mangled by a multitude of frightened sheep. She stifled a cry of horror. Why had she not gone there at once? For no reason except the hope in her heart that it might not have been him who had been shot—that she might find him at the house. But he was not there! Then it must have been he; his groans she had heard—that still sounded in her ears. He had brown hair that waved softly from a brow broad and white. His face was boyish and sad in repose. She could see it now as she had seen it by the spring, and his eyes were gray and tender. She had noticed them this day. What was she doing there by the window? Perhaps after all he was not dead, but suffering terribly while she lingered!

She rose quickly with new courage. As she turned a hand touched her on the shoulder, and she fell back weak against the house.

"I beg your pardon! I did not know—could scarcely believe that it was you—Miss—Hathaway! Won't you come into the house?"

"You!" she cried as in a dream. "Where have you been?"

His tone, quiet, polite, hid the surprise that her question caused.

"I've been back there in the hills hunting chickens. You see I have been fortunate enough to get some. I followed them a great distance, and night overtook me up there so suddenly that I've had some difficulty in finding my way back. Now may I ask to what I owe the honor of this—visit?"

All fear and weakness had gone. She stood erect before him, her head thrown back from her shoulders, her position, as it must appear to him, driving all else from her mind.

"In other words, you want to know why I was peeking into your window at this time of the day!"

"Just so, if you put it that way. At least I should be pleased to know the nature of your visit." He threw the prairie chickens down beside the house, watching meanwhile the girl's erect figure. The soft, quiet grace he had seen at the spring had given place to something different—greater.

"Not a very dignified position in which to be caught—and I do not like you any better for having caught me so!" she finally flashed back at him. "I have no apologies to offer you, and wouldn't offer one, anyway—under the circumstances. I'll tell you what brought me here, though. While passing by your corral, down the road, I heard a great commotion, and some shooting, so I came over here to tell you. Perhaps I was afraid to pass the corral after that." She smiled wickedly, but he, innocently believing, exclaimed:

"Why were you alone? Where were the boys that I saw with you this morning? It isn't right that you should be out alone after night like this."

"They went on—ahead of me. I rode slowly," she replied hesitatingly. He did not notice her nervous manner of speech.

"They ought to have stayed with you," he declared. "You should never ride alone, particularly after dark. Don't do it again."

"But the shooting," she interrupted. "I came to tell you about it. Someone may have been hurt."

"It was kind of you to come. There may be trouble of some sort. I heard shooting, too, but thought it must be down at Harris'. There is very often a commotion down there, and sometimes the air carries sound very clearly. You are sure it was at the corrals?"

She became impatient. "Positively! I not only heard the shots plainly, but saw men ride away. Please lose no more time, but get your men and a lantern, and come on. There's evidently been trouble down there, Mr. Livingston, and your herder may have been hurt. They are not all good people in these mountains, by any means."

"Is that so? I had not discovered it. Probably some of them thought they would like mutton for their Sunday dinner. It seemed to me there was considerable firing, though. You are perfectly sure it was at the corrals?"

"That was my impression, Mr. Livingston," she replied briefly.

His face suddenly became anxious. "They may have hurt Fritz. If anything has happened to that boy there will be something to pay! But unless something occurred to delay the sheep they should have been put in before dark. I will go at once. Will you come in the house and stay until my return? It might not be safe for a lady down there."

"No!" Then, less fiercely: "Have your men bring their guns and hurry up! I'm going along with you;" adding: "It's on my way back."

She waited outside while Livingston informed his men, who secured rifles, and started at once for the corrals; then leading her horse she walked on ahead with him, followed closely by the two men, who carried lanterns, which they decided not to light until they reached the sheep.

Hope never could define her feelings when she found Livingston safe and unhurt, though she made a careless attempt at doing so that night, and afterwards. She walked beside him in absolute silence. They were going to see if the herder had been injured in any way. She knew that he was not only hurt, but in all likelihood fatally so. His groans rang continually in her ears, yet it brought her not the least pain, only a horror, such as she had experienced when it happened. It was a relief to her that it had not been Livingston. She felt sorry, naturally, that a man had been shot, but what did it matter to her—one man more or less? She had never known him.

When they reached the sheep-corrals the moon still shone brightly, and Hope was filled with a new fear lest some of the ruffians had remained behind, and would pick off Livingston. After the lanterns were lighted she felt still more nervous for his safety, and could not restrain her foolish concern until she had mounted her horse, and made a complete circuit of the corrals, riding into every patch of brush about; then only did this fear, which was such a stranger to her, depart. She rode in haste back to the corrals, satisfied that the men had all left, probably badly frightened.

To one side of the paneled enclosure the men held their lanterns over an inert figure stretched upon the ground. Livingston was kneeling beside it. The girl got down from her horse, and came near them.

"Is he dead?" she asked.

"Dead—yes! The poor boy! May God have mercy on the brute who committed this crime! It is terrible—terrible! Poor faithful Fritz! Scarcely more than a boy, yet possessing a man's courage and a man's heart!" He looked up at the girl's face, and was amazed at her indifference. Then he spoke to the men: "Go back and get a wagon and my saddle horse. I will stay here until you return. Leave one of the lanterns."

They hurried away, while the man continued to kneel by the side of the dead herder. Hope watched him, wondering at his depth of feeling. Finally she asked: "Was he some relative of yours?"

"No, only one of my herders—Fritz, a bright, good German boy. Why did you ask, Miss Hathaway?"

"I thought because you cared so much,—seemed to feel so badly,—that he must be very near to you."

"He is near to me," he replied, "only as all children of earth should be near to one another. Are you not also pained at this sight—this boy, in the very beginning of his manhood, lying here dead?"

HOPEHATHAWAYA Story ofWestern Ranch Life