That Girl Montana

by Ryan, Marah Ellis

  From him he went again to ’Tana; but she lay still and pale, with closed eyes and no longer muttering.

  “There ain’t a blessed thing you can do, Mr. Max,” said Mrs. Huzzard, in a wheezing whisper; “but if there is, you may be sure I’ll let you know and glad to do it. Lavina says she’s going to help me to a rest; and you must help Dan Overton, for slept he has not, and I know it, these eight nights since I’ve been here. And if that ain’t enough to kill a man!”

  “Sure enough. But now that I am here, we will not have any night watches on his part,” decided Lyster. “Between Miss Slocum and myself I think we can manage to do some very creditable nursing.”

  “I am willing to do my best,” said Miss Lavina, with a shrinking glance toward Flap-Jacks, who just slouched past with a bucket of water; “but I must confess I do feel a timidity in the presence of these sly-looking Indians. And if at night I can only be sure none of them are very close, I may be able to watch this poor girl instead of watching for them with their tomahawks.”

  “Never fear while I am detailed as guard,” answered Lyster, reassuringly. “They will reach you only over my dead body.”

  “Oh, but—” and the timid one arose as if for instant flight, but was held by Mrs. Huzzard.

  “Now, now!” she said reprovingly to the young fellow, “it’s noways good-natured of you to make us more scared of the dirty things than we are naturally. But, Lavina, I’ll go bail that he never yet has seen a dead body of their killing since he came in the country. Lord knows, they don’t look as if they would kill a sheep, though they might steal them fast enough. It ain’t from Dan Overton that you ever learned to scare women, Mr. Max; you wouldn’t catch him at such tricks.”

  “Now I beg that whatever you do, Mrs. Huzzard, you will not compare me to that personage,” objected Lyster; “for I am convinced that anything human would in your eyes suffer by such a comparison. Great is Dan in the camp of the Kootenais!”

  Mrs. Huzzard only laughed at his words, but Miss Lavina did not. She even let her eyes wander again to Akkomi, in order to show her disapproval of frivolous comment on Mr. Overton; a fact Lyster perceived and was immensely amused by.

  “She has set her covetous maidenly eyes on him, and if she doesn’t marry him before the year is over, he will have to be clever,” he decided, as he left them and went to look up Haydon. “Serves Dan right if she did, for he never gives any other fellow half a chance with the old ladies. The rest of us have to be content with the young ones.”

  * * *

  CHAPTER XVI.

  THROUGH THE NIGHT.

  The soft dusk of the night had fallen over the northern lands, and the pale stars had gleamed for hours on the reflecting waves of mountain streams. It was late—near midnight, for the waning sickle of the moon was slipping from its dark cover in the east and hanging like a jewel of gold just above the black crown of the pines. Breaths from the heights sifted down through the vast woods, carrying sometimes the dreary twitter of a bird disturbed, or the mellow call of insects singing to each other of the summer night. All sounds of the wilderness were as echoes of rest and utter content.

  And in the camp of the Twin Springs, shadows moved sometimes with a silence that was scarce a discord in the wood songs of repose. A camp fire glimmered faintly a little way up from the stream, and around it slept the Indian boatman, the squaw, and old Akkomi, who, to the surprise of Overton, had announced his intention of remaining until morning, that he might know how the sickness went with the little “Girl-not-Afraid.”

  A dim light showed through the chinks of ’Tana’s cabin, where Miss Lavina, the doctor, and Lyster were on guard for the night. The doctor had grown sleepy and moved into Harris’ room, where he could be comfortable on blankets. Lyster, watching the girl, was trying to make himself think that their watching was all of no use; her sleep seemed so profound, so healthfully natural, that he could not bring himself to think, as Dan did, that the doctor’s worst prophecy could come true—that out of that sleep she might awake to consciousness, or that, on the other hand, she might drift from sleep to lethargy and thus out of life.

  Outside a man stood peering in through a chink from which he had stealthily pulled the moss. He could not see the girl’s face, but he could see that of Lyster as he bent over, listening to her breathing, and he watched it as if to glean some reflected knowledge from the young fellow’s earnest glances.

  He had been there a long time. Once he slipped away for a short distance and stood in the deeper shadows, but he had returned, and was listening to the low, disjointed converse of the watchers within, when suddenly a tall form loomed up beside him and a heavy hand was dropped on his shoulder.

  “Not a word!” said a voice close to his ear. “If you make a noise, I’ll strangle you! Come along!”

  To do otherwise was not easy, for the hand on his shoulder had a helpful grip. He was almost lifted over the ground until they were several yards from the cabin, and out in the clearer light of the stars.

  “Well, I protest, Mr. Overton, that your manner is not very pleasant,” remarked the captive, as he was released and allowed to speak. “Is—is this sort of threats a habit of yours with strangers in your camp?”

  Overton, seeing him now away from the thick shadows of the cabin, gave a low exclamation of astonishment and irritation.

  “You—Mr. Haydon! Well, you must confess that if my threats are not pleasant, neither is it pleasant to find some one moving like a spy around that little girl’s cabin. If you don’t want to be treated like a spy, don’t act like one.”

  “Well, it does look queer, maybe,” said the other, lamely. “I—I could not get asleep, and as I was walking around, it seemed natural to look in the cabin, though I did not want to disturb them by going in. I think I heard them say she was improving.”

  “Did they say that—lately?” asked Overton, earnestly, everything else forgotten for the moment in his strong desire for her recovery. “Who said it—Miss Slocum? Well, she seems like a sensible woman, and I hope to God she is right about this! Don’t mind my roughness just now. I was too quick, maybe; but spies around a new gold mine or field are given pretty harsh treatment up here sometimes; and you were liable to suspicion from any one.”

  “No doubt—no doubt,” agreed the other, with visible relief. “But to be a suspected character is a new rôle for me—a bit amusing, too. However, now that you have broached the subject of this new find of yours, I presume Lyster made clear to you that I came up here for the express purpose of investigating what you have to offer, with a view to making a deal with you. And as my time here will be limited—”

  “Perhaps to-morrow we can talk of it. I can’t to-night,” answered Overton. “To that little girl in there one-third of the stock belongs; another third belongs to that paralyzed man in the other cabin. I have to look after the interests of them both, and need to have my head clear to do it. But with her there sick—dying maybe—I can’t think of dollars and cents.”

  “You mean to tell me that the young girl is joint owner of a gold find promising a fortune? Why, I understood Max to say she was poor—in fact, indebted to you for all care.”

  “Max is too careless with his words,” answered Overton, coldly. “She is in my care—yes; but I do not think she will be poor.”

  “She has a very conscientious guardian, anyway,” remarked Mr. Haydon, “when it is impossible for a man even to look in her cabin without finding you on his track. I confess I am interested in her. Can you tell me how she came in this wild country? I did not expect to find pretty young white girls in the heart of this wilderness.”

  “I suppose not,” agreed the other.

  They had reached the little camp fire by this time, and he threw some dry sticks on the red coals. As the blaze leaped up and made bright the circle around them, he looked at the stranger and said, bluntly:

  “What did Akkomi tell you of her?”

  “Akkomi?”

  “Yes; the old Indian who wen
t in with you to see her.”

  “Oh, that fellow? Some gibberish.”

  “I guess he must have said that she looks like you,” decided Overton. “I rather think that was it.”

  “Like me! Why—how—” and Mr. Haydon tried to smile away the absurdity of such a fancy.

  “For there is a resemblance,” continued the younger man, with utter indifference to the stranger’s confusion. “Of course it may not mean anything—a chance likeness. But it is very noticeable when your hat is off, and it must have impressed the old Indian, who seems to think himself a sort of godfather to her. Yes, I guess that was why he spoke to you.”

  “But her—her people? Are there only you and these Indians to claim her? She must have some family—”

  “Possibly,” agreed Overton, curtly. “If she ever gets able to answer, you can ask her. If you want to know sooner, there is old Akkomi; he can tell you, perhaps.”

  But Mr. Haydon made a gesture of antipathy to any converse with that individual.

  “One meets so many astonishing things in this country,” he remarked, as though in extenuation of something. “The mere presence of such a savage in the sick girl’s room is enough to upset any one unused to this border life—it upset me completely. You see, I have a daughter of my own back East.”

  “So Max tells me,” replied Overton, carelessly, all unconscious of the intended honor extended to him when Mr. Haydon made mention of his own family to a ranger of a few hours’ acquaintance.

  “Yes,” Haydon continued, “and that naturally makes one feel an interest in any young girl without home or—relatives, as this invalid is; and I would be glad of any information concerning her—or any hint of help I might be to her, partly for—humanity’s sake, and partly for Max.”

  “At present I don’t know of any service you could render her,” said Overton, coldly, conscious of a jarring, unpleasant feeling as the man talked to him. He thought idly to himself how queer it was that he should have an instinctive feeling of dislike for a person who in the slightest degree resembled ’Tana; and this stranger must have resembled her much before he grew stout and broad of face; the hair, the nose, and other points about the features, were very much alike. He did not wonder that Akkomi might have been startled at it, and made comments. But as he himself surveyed Mr. Haydon’s features by the flickering light of the burning sticks, he realized how little the likeness of outlines amounted to after all, since not a shadow of expression on the face before him was like that of the girl whose sleep was so carefully guarded in the cabin.

  And then, with a feeling of thankfulness that it was so, there flashed across his mind the import of the stranger’s closing words—“for the sake of Max.”

  “For Max, you said. Well, maybe I am a little more stupid than usual to-night, but I must own up I can’t see how a favor to ’Tana could affect Max very much.”

  “You do not?”

  “I tell you so,” said Overton curtly, not liking the knowing smile in the eyes of the speaker. He did not want to be there talking to him, anyway. To walk alone under the stars was better than the discord of a voice unpleasant. Under the stars she had come to him that once—once, when she had been clasped close—close! when she had whispered words near to his heart, and their hands had touched in the magnetism of troubled joy. Ah! it was best to remember that, though death itself follow after! A short, impatient sigh touched his lips as he tried to listen to the words of the stranger while his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “And Seldon would do something very handsome for Max if he married to suit him,” Haydon was saying, thoughtfully. “Seldon has no children, you know, and if this girl was sent to school for a while, I think it would come out all right—all right. I would take a personal interest to the extent of talking to Seldon of it. He will think it a queer place for Max to come for a wife; but when—when I talk to him, he will agree. Yes, I can promise it will be all right.”

  “What are you talking of?” demanded Overton, blankly. He had not heard one-half of a very carefully worded idea of Mr. Haydon’s. “Max married! To whom?”

  “You are not a very flattering listener,” remarked the other, dryly, “and don’t show much interest in the love affairs of your protégeé; but it was of her I was speaking.”

  “You—you would try to marry her to Max Lyster—marry her!” and his voice sounded in his own ears as strange and far away.

  “Well, it is not an unusual prophecy to make of a young girl, is it?” asked Mr. Haydon, with an attempt to be jocular. “And I don’t know where she could find a better young fellow. From his discourses concerning her on our journey here and his evident devotion since our arrival, I fancy the idea is not so new to him as it seems to be to you, Mr. Overton.”

  “Nonsense! when she is well, they quarrel as often as they agree—oftener.”

  “That is no proof that he is not in love with her—and why not? She is a pretty girl, a bright girl, he says, and of good people—”

  “He knows nothing about her people,” interrupted Overton.

  “But you do?”

  “I know all it has been necessary for me to know,” and, in spite of himself, he could not speak of ’Tana to this man without a feeling of anger at his persistence. “But I can’t help being rather surprised, Mr. Haydon, that you should so quickly agree that a wise thing for your partner’s nephew to do is to turn from all the cultured, intelligent girls he must know, and look for a wife among the mining camps of the Kootenai hills. And, considering the fact that you approve of it, without ever having heard her speak, without knowing in the least who or what her family have been—I must say it is an extraordinarily impulsive thing for a man of your reputation to do—a cool-headed, conservative business man.”

  Mr. Haydon found himself scrutinized very closely, very coldly by the ranger, who had all the evening kept away from him, and whom he had mentally jotted down as a big, careless, improvident prospector, untaught and a bit uncouth.

  But his words were not uncouth as he launched them at the older man, and he was no longer careless as he watched the perturbation with which they were received. But Haydon shrugged his shoulders and attempted to look indifferent.

  “I remarked just now that this was a land of astonishing things,” he said, with a tolerant air, “and it surely is so when the most depraved-looking redskin is allowed admittance to a white girl’s chamber, while the most harmless of Caucasians is looked on with suspicion if he merely shows a little human interest in her welfare.”

  “Akkomi is a friend of her own choosing,” answered Overton, “and a friend who would be found trusty if he was needed. As to you—you have no right, that I know of, to assume any direction of her affairs. She will choose her own friends—and her own husband—when she wants them. But while she is sick and helpless, she is under my care, and even though you were her father himself, your ideas should not influence her future unless she approved you.”

  With a feeling of relief he turned away, glad to have in some way given vent to the irritation awakened in him by the prosperous gentleman from civilization.

  The prosperous gentleman saw his form grow dim in the starlight, and though his face flushed angrily at first, the annoyance gave place to a certain satisfaction as he seated himself on a log by the fire, and repeated Overton’s final words:

  “‘Even though you were her father himself!’ Well, well, Mr. Overton! Your uncivil words have told me more than you intended—namely, that your own knowledge as to who her father was, or is, seems very slight. So much the better, for one of your unconventional order is not the sort of person I should care to have know. ’Even though you were her father himself.’ Humph! So he does me the doubtful honor to suppose I may be? It is a nasty muddle all through. I never dreamed of walking into such a net as this. But something must be done, and that is clear; no use trying to shirk it, for Seldon is sure to run across them sooner or later up here—sure. And if he took a hand in it—as he would the minute he saw her—well,
I could not count on his being quiet about it, either. I’ve thought it all out this evening. I’ve got to get her away myself—get her to school, get her to marry Max, and all so quietly that there sha’n’t be any social sensation about her advent into the family. I hardly know whether this wealth they talk of will be a help or a hindrance; a help, I suppose. And there need not be any hitch in the whole affair if the girl is only reasonable and this autocratic ranger can be ignored or bought over to silence. It would be very annoying to have such family affairs talked of—annoying to the girl, also, when she lives among people who object to scandals. Gad! how her face did strike me! I felt as if I had seen a ghost. And that cursed Indian!”

  Altogether, Mr. Haydon had considerable food for reflection, and much of it was decidedly annoying; or so it seemed to Akkomi, who lay in the shadow and looked like a body asleep, as were the others. But from a fold of his blanket he could see plainly the face of the stranger and note the perplexity in it.

  The first tender flush of early day was making the stars dim when the doctor met Overton between the tents and the cabins, and surveyed him critically from his slouch hat to his boots, on which were splashes of water and fresh loam.

  “What, in the name of all that’s infernal, has taken possession of you, Overton?” he demanded, with assumed anger and real concern. “You have not been in bed all night. I know, for I’ve been to your tent. You prowl somewhere in the woods when you ought to be in bed, and you are looking like a ghost of yourself.”

  “Oh, I guess I’ll last a day or two yet, so quit your growling; you think you’ll scare me into asking for some of your medicines; but that is where you will find yourself beautifully left. I prefer a natural death.”

  “And you will find it, too, if you don’t mend your ways,” retorted the man of the medicines. “I thought at first it was the care of ’Tana that kept you awake every hour of every night; but I see it is just the same now when there are plenty to take your place; worse—for now you go tramping, God only knows where, and come back looking tired, as though you had been racing with the devil.”