Hope Hathaway Part 2

A group composed princ.i.p.ally 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 cla.s.s 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 a.s.sorted 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 att.i.tude, 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, un.o.bstructed 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 b.u.t.ter 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 a.s.sent, 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 sc.r.a.pe; 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 cla.s.s and in her surroundings. She readily learned to dispense with all the comforts and luxuries to which she had been born, subst.i.tuting 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 d.a.m.n 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion, 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.