That Girl Montana

by Marah Ellis Ryan

  CHAPTER XII.

  PARTNERS.

  "Well, I've been a 'hoodoo' all my, life; and if I only lead some one intoluck now--good luck--oh, wouldn't I learn a sun-dance, and dance it!"

  The world was two weeks older, and it was 'Tana who spoke; not thetroubled 'Tana who had crouched beside the paralytic and cowered under herfear of Overton's distrust, but a girl grown lighter-hearted by the helpof work to be done--work in which she was for once to stand side by sidewith Overton himself, for his decision about the prospecting had been inher favor. He had "spoken up," as she had asked him to do, and a curiousthree-cornered partnership had been arranged the next day; a verymysterious partnership, of which no word was told to any one. Only 'Tanasuddenly decided that the schooling must wait a little longer. Lysterwould have to make the trip to Helena without her; she was not feelinglike it just then, and so forth.

  Therefore, despite the very earnest arguments of Mr. Lyster, he did haveto go alone. During all the journey, he was conscious of a quiteunreasonable disappointment, an impatience with even Overton, for notenforcing his authority as guardian, and insisting that she at oncecommence the many studies in which she was sadly deficient.

  But Overton had stood back and said nothing. Lyster did not understand it,and could not succeed in making either of them communicative.

  "You'll be back here in less than a month," said Overton. "We will sendher then, if she feels equal to it. In the meantime, we'll take the bestcare we can of her here at the Ferry. I find I will have time to lookafter her a little until then. I have only one short trip to make up theriver; so don't get uneasy about her. She'll be ready to go next run youmake, sure."

  So Lyster wondered, dissatisfied, and went away. He was even a little moredissatisfied with his last memory of the girl--a vision of her bendingover that unknown, helpless miner. His sympathies were with the man. Hewas most willing to assist, in a financial way, toward taking care of oneso unfortunate. But the thing he was not willing to do was to see 'Tanadevote herself without restraint to the welfare of a stranger--a man theyknew nothing of--a fellow who, of course, could have no appreciation ofthe great luck he was in to have her constantly beside him. It was a cleanwaste of exceptionable sympathy; and a squaw, or some miner out of work,would do as well in this case.

  He even offered to pay for a squaw, or for any masculine nurse; but thegirl had very promptly suggested that he busy himself with his own duties,if he had any. She stated further that he had no control whatever over heractions, and she could not understand--

  "I know I have none," he retorted, with some impatience, and yet a gooddeal of fondness in his handsome eyes. "That is why I'm complaining. Iwish I had. And if I had, wouldn't I whisk you away from this uncouthlife! I wonder if you will ever let me do so, Tana?"

  "I think you'd better be packing your plunder," she remarked, coolly. "Ifyou don't, you'll keep the whole outfit waiting."

  And that was how they let even Lyster go away. Not a hint was he given ofthe all-engrossing plan that bound both 'Tana and Overton to the interestsof the passive stranger, who looked at them with intelligence, but whocould not speak.

  Their partnership was a curious affair, and the arrangement for interestsin it was conducted on the one side by nods or shakes of the head, whilethe other two offered suggestions, and asked questions, until a very clearunderstanding was arrived at.

  Only one knotty discussion had arisen. Overton offered to give one monthof time to the search, on condition that one half of the find, if therewas any made, should belong to 'Tana, while the original finder shouldhave the other half. He himself would give that much time to helping themout in a friendly way; but more than that he could not give, because ofother duties.

  To this the man Harris shook his head with all possible vigor, while 'Tanawas quite as emphatic in an audible way. Harris desired that all shares beequal, and Overton count himself in for a third. 'Tana approved the plan,insisting that she would not accept an ounce of the dust if he did not. SoDan finally agreed and ended the discussion concerning the division of thegold they might never find.

  "And don't be so dead sure that the dirt will pan out well, even if we dofind the place," he said, warningly, to 'Tana. "Why, my girl, if theaverage of dust had been as high as my average of hope over strikes I'vemade myself, I would have been a billionaire long ago."

  "I never heard you talk of prospecting," remarked 'Tana. "All the rest dohere, and not you--how is that?"

  "Oh, prospecting strikes one like a fever; sometimes a man recovers fromit, or seems to for a while. I had the fever bad about two years ago--outin Nevada. Well, I left there. I sunk my stock of capital in a very bighole, and lost my enthusiasm for a while. Maybe I will find it again,drifting along the Kootenai; but as yet it has not struck me hard. Fromwhat I can gather, this fellow must simply have dropped on a nugget orlittle pocket, and something must have made him distrust his partner tosuch an extent that he kept the secret find to himself. So there evidentlyhas been no testing of the soil, no move toward development. We may neverfind an ounce of metal, for such disappointments have been even where verylarge nuggets have been found. You must not expect too much of thissearch. Golden hope lets you down hard when you do fall with it."

  But, despite his warnings, he made arrangements for their river journeywith all speed possible. The three of them were to go; and, as chaperon,Mrs. Huzzard was persuaded to join their queer "picnic" party, for thatwas the idea given abroad concerning their little trip to the north. Itwas to be a venture in the interests of Harris--supposedly the physicalinterests; though Captain Leek did remark, with decided emphasis, that itwas the first time he ever knew of a man being sent out to live in thewoods as a cure for paralysis.

  But the preparations were made; even the fact that Mrs. Huzzard was seizedwith an unreasonable attack of rheumatism on the eve of departure did notdeter them at all.

  "Unless you need me to stay here and look after you, we'll go just thesame," decided 'Tana. "A squaw won't be much of a substitute for you; butshe'll be better than no one, and we'll go."

  So the squaw was secured, through the agency of her husband, whom Overtonknew, and who was to take their camp outfit up the river for them. Thiswas one reason why Mrs. Huzzard, as she watched them depart, was a littlethankful for the visitation of rheumatism.

  Their camp was only a day old when 'Tana announced her willingness todance if only good fortune would come to her.

  It seemed a thing probable, for as Overton poured water slowly from a tinpan into the shallow little stream, there were left in the bottom of thepan, as the last sifting bit of soil was washed out, some tiny bits ofyellow the size of a pin-head, and one as large as a grain of wheat.

  'Tana gave a little ecstatic cry as she bent over it and touched theparticles with her finger.

  "Oh, Dan--it is the gold!--the real gold! and we aremillionaires!--millionaires, and you would not believe it!"

  He raised his finger warningly, and shook his head.

  "Wait until we are millionaires before you commence to shout," he advised."It is a good show here--yes; but, after all, it may be only a chancewashing from hills far enough away. Show them to Harris, though; he maybe interested, though he appears to me very indifferent about thematter."

  "He don't seem to care," she agreed. "He just looks at us as though wewere a couple of children he had found a new plaything for. But don't youthink he looks brighter?"

  "Well, yes; the river trip has done him good, instead of the harm theFerry folks prophesied. But you run along and show him the 'yellow,' anddon't draw the squaw's attention to it."

  The squaw was wrapped neck and heels in a blanket, although the day wasone of the warmest of summer; and stretched asleep in the sun, she gave noheed to the quick, light step of the girl.

  Neither did Harris, at whose tent door she lay. He must have thought itwas the stoical, indifferent Indian, for he gave her a quick, startledglance as he heard her surprised "Oh!" at the door. Then she walkeddirectly to
him, lifted his right hand, and let go again. It fell on hisknee in the old, helpless way.

  "But you did raise it," she said, accusingly. "I saw you as I came to thedoor. You stretched out your hand."

  He looked at her and nodded very slightly, then looked at his hand andappeared trying to lift it; but gave up, and shook his head sadly.

  "You mean you moved it a little once, but can't do it again?" she asked,and he nodded assent.

  "Oh, well, that's all right," she continued, cheerfully. "You are sure toget along all right, now that you have commenced to manage your hands ifever so little. But just at first, when I saw you, I had a mighty queernotion come into my head. I thought you were getting over that strokefaster than you let us know. But I'm too suspicious, ain't I? Maybe it's abad thing for folks to trust strangers too much in this world; but it isjust as bad for a girl to grow up where she can't trust any one. Don't youthink so?"

  The man nodded. They had many conversations like that, and she had grownnot to notice his lack of speech nearly so much as at first. He was sogood a listener, and she had become so used to his face gradually gainingagain expressive power, that she divined his wishes more readily than theothers.

  "But trusting don't cut any figure in what I came to speak to you about,"she continued. "No 'trust and hope on, brethren,' about this, I guess,"and she held the grains of yellow metal before his eyes. "There it is--thegold! Dan found it in the little hollow where the spring is. Is that whereyou found it?"

  He shook his head, but looked pleased at the show they had found.

  "Was it bigger bundles of it than this you struck?"

  He nodded assent.

  "Bigger than this! Well, it must have been rich. These lumps are enough insize if they only turn out enough in number. Oh, how I wish you had putthe very spot on that plan of the ground and the rivers! Still, I supposeyou were right to be cautious. And if I hadn't been on a lone trailthrough this country last spring, and got lost, and happened to notice thetwo little streams running into the river so close to each other, we mighthave had a year's journey along the Kootenai before we could have foundthe particular little stream and followed the right one to its source. Ithink we are close on the trail now, Joe."

  He shook his head energetically when she called him Joe.

  "Well, I forget," she said. "You see, I've been thinking for months aboutfinding Joe Hammond; and now that I've found you, I can't get used tothinking you are Jim Harris. What's the use of your changing your name,anyway? You did it so you could trail him, your partner, better. But whatwas the use, with him well and strong, and with devils back of him, andyou alone and barely able to crawl? Your head was wrong, Joe--Jim, I mean.If you hadn't been looney, you'd just have settled down and worked yourclaim, got rich, and then looked for your man."

  He shook his head impatiently, and looked at her with as much of a frownas his locked muscles would allow, and a very queer, hard smile about hiseyes and mouth.

  "Ah!" and 'Tana shivered a little; "don't look like that, Joe. Youwouldn't get any Sunday-school prizes for a meek and lowly spirit if themanager saw you fix your face in that fashion. I guess I know how youfelt. If you had just so much strength, and couldn't hope for more, youwouldn't waste it looking for gold while he was above ground. Now, ain't Iabout right?"

  He gave no assent, but smiled in a more kindly way at the shrewdness ofher guess.

  "You won't own up, but I know I am right," she said; "and the way I knowit is because I think I'd feel just like that myself if some one hurt mebad. I wonder if girls often feel that way. I guess not. I know OraHarrison, the doctor's girl, don't. She says her prayers every night, andasks God to let her enemies have good luck. U'm! I can't do that."

  The man watched her as she sat silent for a little, looking out into thestill, warm sunshine. The squaw slumbered on, and the girl stared acrossher, and her face grew sad and moody with some hard thought.

  "It's awful to hate," she said, at last. "Don't you think it is?--to hateso that you can't breathe right when the person you hate comes near whereyou are--to be able to _feel_ if he comes near, even when you don't see orhear him, to feel a devil that rises up in your breast and makes you wantto get a knife and cut--cut deep, until the blood you hate runs away fromthe face you hate, and leaves it white and cold. Ah! it's bad, I reckon,to have some one hate you; but it's a thousand times worse to hate back.It makes the prettiest day black when the devil tells you of the hate youmust remember, and you can't pray it away, and you can't forget it, andyou can't help it! Oh, dear!"

  She put her hands over her eyes and leaned her head against his hand. Hefelt her tears, but could not comfort her.

  "You see, I know--how you felt," she said, trying to speak steadily."Girls shouldn't know; girls should have love and good thoughts taught tothem. I--I've dreamed dreams of what a girl's life ought to be like;something like Ora's home, where her mother kisses her and loves her, andher father kisses and loves them both. I went to their home once, and Inever could go again. I was starving for the kind of home she has, and Iknew I never would get it. That is the hardest part of it--to know, nomatter how hard you try to be good, all your life, you can't get back thegood thoughts and the love that should have been yours when you werelittle--the good thoughts that would have kept hate from growing in yourheart, until it is stronger than you are. Oh, it's awful!"

  The squaw, who did not understand English, but did understand tears,rolled over and peered out from her blanket at the girl who knelt there asat the feet of a confessor. But the girl did not see her; she still kneltthere, almost whispering now.

  "And the worst of it is, Joe, after they are dead--the ones you hate--thenthe devil in you commences to torment you by making you think of some goodpoints among the bad ones; some little kind word that would have made thehate in your heart less if it had not been for your own terriblewickedness. And it gnaws and torments you just like a rat gnawing theheart out of a log for a nest. And hate is terrible! whether it is livehate, or dead, it is terrible. Maybe I won't feel so bad now that I'vesaid out loud to some one how I feel--how much harder my heart is than itought to be. I couldn't tell any one else. But you hate, too, you know.Maybe you know, too, that dead hate hurts worst--that it haunts like aghost."

  She looked up at him, and saw again that queer, wise smile about hislips.

  "You don't believe he's dead!" she said, and her face grew paler. "Youthink he's still alive, and that is why you don't want folks to use yourold name. You are laying for him yet, and you so helpless you can'tmove!"

  The man only looked at her grimly. He would not deny; he would notassent.

  "But you are wrong," she persisted. "He is dead. The Indians told meso--Akkomi told me so. Would they lie to me? Joe, can't you let the hatego by, now that he is dead--dead?"

  But no motion answered her, though his eyes rested on her kindly enough.Then the squaw arose and slouched away to pick up firewood in the forest,and the girl arose, too, and touched his hand.

  "Well, whether you can or not, I am glad I told you what I did. Maybe itwon't worry me so much now; for sometimes, just when I'm almost happy, theghost of that bad hate seems to whisper, whisper, and there ain't any moregood times for me. I'm glad I told you. I would not have, though, if youcould talk like other folks, but you can't."

  She got him a drink of water, slipped their first find of the gold intohis pocket, and then stood at the tent door, watching for Overton.

  But he did not come, and after a little she picked up the pan again andstarted for the small stream where she had left him.

  The man in the chair watched her go, and when she was out of sight, thatright hand was again slowly raised from the chair.

  "C--an't I?" he whispered, in a strange, indistinct way. "Poor lit--tlegirl! poor little--girl!"