Hope Hathaway: A Story of Western Ranch Life

by Frances Parker

  CHAPTER VI

  It was fully half a mile to Livingston's house. The trail showed plainlyin the moonlight, winding in ghostly fashion through thick underbrush,and crossed in several places by a small mountain stream through whichthe horse plunged, splashing the girl plentifully. She had an impressionthat she ought to go back to the corral and discover just what mischiefhad been done, but shivered at the thought of hunting for dead men inthe darkness. A feeling of weird uneasiness crept over her. She wishedthat she had brought the breed boys with her, though realizing that theproper thing had been done in sending them home in order that theirsecret might be safe, and so prevent more evil. She knew that she wouldfind men at the house who could take lanterns and go to the scene ofthe trouble. The past half hour seemed remote and unreal, yet thepicture of it passed through her brain again and again before shereached the house. She could hear the first shot, so startling andunexpected, and the man's terrible groans rang in her ears until shecried out as if to drive them from her. Was he dead? she wondered.Perhaps he lay there wounded and helpless! Was it Livingston? If itshould be! She thought that she should be there, groping over the bloodyground for him. She shook as with a chill. How helpless she was, afterall--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 rayof light that came from a side window. Her knees were weak, she feltfaint and wearied. At the house her courage failed, she sank limplybeside the window, and looked into the lighted room beyond. He was notthere! One man was reading a newspaper while another sat on an end ofthe 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. Shestifled a cry of horror. Why had she not gone there at once? For noreason except the hope in her heart that it might not have been him whohad been shot--that she might find him at the house. But he was notthere! Then it must have been he; his groans she had heard--that stillsounded in her ears. He had brown hair that waved softly from a browbroad and white. His face was boyish and sad in repose. She could see itnow 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 shelingered!

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

  "I beg your pardon! I did not know--could scarcely believe that it wasyou--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 beenfortunate enough to get some. I followed them a great distance, andnight overtook me up there so suddenly that I've had some difficulty infinding my way back. Now may I ask to what I owe the honor ofthis--visit?"

  All fear and weakness had gone. She stood erect before him, her headthrown 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 atthis time of the day!"

  "Just so, if you put it that way. At least I should be pleased to knowthe nature of your visit." He threw the prairie chickens down beside thehouse, watching meanwhile the girl's erect figure. The soft, quietgrace he had seen at the spring had given place to somethingdifferent--greater.

  "Not a very dignified position in which to be caught--and I do not likeyou any better for having caught me so!" she finally flashed back athim. "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 greatcommotion, and some shooting, so I came over here to tell you. Perhaps Iwas 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 thismorning? It isn't right that you should be out alone after night likethis."

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

  "They ought to have stayed with you," he declared. "You should neverride 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 heardshooting, too, but thought it must be down at Harris'. There is veryoften a commotion down there, and sometimes the air carries sound veryclearly. 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 alantern, and come on. There's evidently been trouble down there, Mr.Livingston, and your herder may have been hurt. They are not all goodpeople in these mountains, by any means."

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

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

  His face suddenly became anxious. "They may have hurt Fritz. If anythinghas happened to that boy there will be something to pay! But unlesssomething occurred to delay the sheep they should have been put inbefore dark. I will go at once. Will you come in the house and stayuntil 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 securedrifles, and started at once for the corrals; then leading her horse shewalked on ahead with him, followed closely by the two men, who carriedlanterns, which they decided not to light until they reached the sheep.

  Hope never could define her feelings when she found Livingston safe andunhurt, though she made a careless attempt at doing so that night, andafterwards. She walked beside him in absolute silence. They were goingto see if the herder had been injured in any way. She knew that he wasnot only hurt, but in all likelihood fatally so. His groans rangcontinually in her ears, yet it brought her not the least pain, only ahorror, such as she had experienced when it happened. It was a relief toher that it had not been Livingston. She felt sorry, naturally, that aman 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, andHope was filled with a new fear lest some of the ruffians had remainedbehind, and would pick off Livingston. After the lanterns were lightedshe felt still more nervous for his safety, and could not restrain herfoolish concern until she had mounted her horse, and made a completecircuit of the corrals, riding into every patch of brush about; thenonly did this fear, which was such a stranger to her, depart. She rodein 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 overan inert figure stretched upon the ground. Livingston was kneelingbeside 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 whocommitted this crime! It is terrible--_terrible!_ Poor faithful Fritz!Scarcely more than a boy, yet possessing a man's courage and a man'sheart!" He looked up at the girl's face, and was amazed at herindifference. Then he spoke to the men: "Go back and get a wagon and mysaddle horse. I will stay here until you return. Leave one of thelanterns."

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

  "No, only one of my her
ders--Fritz, a bright, good German boy. Why didyou ask, Miss Hathaway?"

  "I thought because you cared so much,--seemed to feel so badly,--thathe must be very near to you."

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

  "Not _pained_--I can't truthfully say that I am pained--or care much inthat way. He is dead, so what is the use of caring or worrying about it.That cannot bring him back to life again. Of course I would rather hehad lived--that this had never happened, yet I do not feel pain, only anabhorrence. I couldn't touch him as you are doing, not for anything!"

  "And you are not pained! _You_, a woman with a white soul and a cleanheart--one of God's choicest creations--_you_ stand there without a pangof sorrow--dry-eyed. Haven't you a heart, girl?" He rose to his feet,holding up the lantern until it shone squarely in her face. "Look at himlying there! See the blood upon his clothes--the look on his face! Whathe suffered! See what he holds so tightly in his hand,--his lastthought,--a letter from his sweetheart over in Germany, the girl he wasto have married, who is even now on her way to him. He had been readingher letter all day. It came this morning, and he held it in his handplanning their future with a happy heart, when some brute sent a bullethere. If it could have been me, how gladly I would make the exchange,for I have nothing that this poor boy possessed--mother, sweetheart--noone. Yet _you_, a girl, can see him so, unmoved! Good God, what are you,_stone_? See his face, he did not die at once, and suffering, _dying_,still held that letter. If not his story, then does not his sufferingappeal to you? His dying groans, can you not hear them?"

  "Stop!" she cried, backing away from him until she leaned against herhorse for support. "Stop! How _dare_ you talk like that to me! His_groans_----" She sobbed wildly, her face buried in her saddle, whichshe clutched.

  He came close beside her, touching her lightly, wondering. "I am sosorry, forgive me! I did not realize what I was doing. I did not wishto frighten you, believe me!"

  The sobs were hushed instantly. She raised her head, and looked at him,still dry-eyed.

  "You were right," she said. "I do not even now _feel_ for him--perhapssome for the little girl now on her way to him; but it is all unreal. Ihave seen men dead like this before, and I could not feel anything buthorror--no sorrow. I am as I am. It makes no difference what yousay,--what anyone says,--I cannot change. I am not tender--only pleasedo not terrify me again!"

  "I was a brute!" he exclaimed, then left her and returned to the deadman's side.

  The girl stood for some time quietly beside her horse, then began toloosen the cinch. Livingston watched her wonderingly as she drew out theblanket, and secured the saddle once more into place. He did not realizeher motive until she stood beside him, holding in her hand the gaylycolored saddle blanket. Kneeling opposite him, beside the body of theboy, she tenderly lifted the long hair from his forehead, spread overhis face a white handkerchief, then stood up and unfolded the blanket,covering the rigid form with it.

  "You have a heart!" exclaimed Livingston softly. "You are thinking ofhim tenderly, as a sister might, and of his sweetheart coming over thewater to him!"

  "No, not of that at all," said the girl simply, "nor of him, as youthink; but of one who might be lying here in his place--one who has nosweetheart, near or far away, to cover him with the mantle of herlove."