Told in the Hills

by Marah Ellis Ryan

  "I don't know—it may be for bad," he replied doubtfully. "I've taken the trail north to sound any tribes that are hostile, and if troops are needed they are to follow me."

  "Up into this country?"

  "I reckon so. Are you afraid of fighting?"

  She did not answer. A new idea, a sudden remembrance, had superseded that of Indian warfare.

  "How long since you left Fort Owens?" she asked.

  "Fifteen days. Why?"

  "A friend of MacDougall's started in that direction about two weeks ago. Davy sent a kind message by him; but you must have passed it on the way."

  "Likely; I've been in the Flathead country, and that's wide of the trail to Owens. Who was the man?"

  "His name is Stuart."

  He set the empty cup down, and looked in the fire for a moment with a steadiness that made the girl doubt if he had either heard or noticed; but after a little he spoke.

  "What was that you said?"

  "That the man's name was Stuart."

  "Young or old?"

  "Younger than you."

  "And he has gone to Fort Owens?"

  "Started for there, I said."

  "Oh! then you haven't much faith in a tenderfoot getting through the hostiles or snow-banks?"

  "How do you know he is a tenderfoot?"

  He glanced up; she was looking at him with as much of a question in her eyes as her words.

  "Well, I reckon I don't," he answered, picking up his hat as if to end the conversation. "I knew a man called Stuart once, but I don't know this one. Now, have you any pressing reason for loafing down here any longer? If not, I'll take my blanket and that lounge and get some sleep. I've been thirty-six hours in the saddle."

  In vain she tried to prevail on him to go upstairs and go to bed "right."

  "This is right enough for me," he answered, laying his hat and gloves on a table and unfastening his spurs. "No, I won't go up to the men's room. Good-night."

  "But, Jack—look here—"

  "I can't—too sleepy to look anywhere, or see if I did look;" and his revolvers and belt were laid beside the growing collection on the table.

  "But Hen will scold me for not giving you better lodging."

  "Then he and another man will have a shooting-match before breakfast to-morrow. Are you going?"

  He was beginning to deliberately unfasten his neck-gear of scarlet and bronze. She hesitated, as if to make a final protest, but failed and fled; and as the door closed behind her, she heard another half-laughing "Klahowya!"

  Early in the morning she was down-stairs, to find Aunty Luce half wild with terror at the presence of a stranger who had taken possession of the sitting-room during the night.

  "Cain't see his face for the blanket, honey," she whispered shrilly, "but he's powerful big; an'—an' just peep through the door at the guns and things—it's wah times right ovah again, shueh as I'm tellen' yo', chile."

  "Be quiet, Aunty, and get breakfast; it's a friend of ours."

  "Hi-yi! I know all 'bout them kind o' friends, honey; same kind as comes South in wah times, a trampen' into houses o' quality folks an sleepen' whah they liked, an' callen' theyselves friends. He's a moven' now!—less call the folks!"

  The attempted yell was silenced by Rachel clapping her hand over the full lips and holding her tightly.

  "Don't be a fool!" she admonished the old woman impatiently. "I let the man in last night; it's all right. Go and get him a good breakfast."

  Aunty Luce eyed the girl as if she thought her a conspirator against the safety of the house, and despite precautions, managed to slip upstairs to Tillie with a much-garbled account of thieves in the night, and wartimes, and tramps, and Miss Rache.

  Much mystified, the little woman dressed quickly, and came down the stairs to find her husband shaking hands quite heartily with Genesee. Instantly she forgot the multitudinous reasons there were for banning him from the bosom of one's family, and found herself telling him he was very welcome.

  "I reckon in your country a man would wait to hear someone say that before stowing his horse in their stables, or himself in their beds," he observed.

  His manner was rather quiet, but one could see that the heartiness of their greeting was a great pleasure, and, it may be, a relief.

  "Do you call that a bed?" asked Tillie, with contemptuous warmth. "I do think, Mr. Genesee, you might have wakened some of us, and given us a chance to treat a guest to something better."

  "I suppose, then, I am not counted in with the family," observed Rachel, meekly, from the background. "I was on hand to do the honors, but wasn't allowed to do them. I even went to the stable to receive the late-comer, and was told to skip into the house, and given a general understanding that I interfered with his making himself comfortable in the hay-mow."

  "Did she go out there at night, and alone, after we were all in bed?" And Tillie's tone indicated volumes of severity.

  "Yes," answered Genesee; for Rachel, with a martyr-like manner, said nothing, and awaited her lecture; "she thought it was your man Andrews."

  "Yes, and she would have gone just as quickly if it had been Indians—or—or—anybody. She keeps me nervous half the time with her erratic ways."

  "I rather think she's finding fault with me for giving you that coffee and letting you sleep on the lounge," said Rachel; and through Tillie's quick disclaimer her own short-comings were forgotten, at least for the time. The little matron's caution, that always lagged woefully behind her impulse, obtruded itself on her memory several times before the breakfast was over; and thinking of the reasons why a man of such character should not be received as a friend by ladies, especially girls, she was rather glad when she heard him say he was to push on into the hills as soon as possible.

  "I only stopped last night because I had to; Mowitza and I were both used up. I was trying to make MacDougall's, but when I crossed the trail to your place, I reckoned we would fasten to it—working through the snow was telling on her; but she is all right this morning."

  Rachel told him of her visit to the old man, and his care of the cabin on the Tamahnous ground; of rumors picked up from the Kootenai tribe as to the chance of trouble with the Blackfeet, and many notes that were of interest to this hunter of feeling on the Indian question. He commented on her Chinook, of which she had gained considerable knowledge in the past year, and looked rather pleased when told it had been gained from Kalitan.

  "You may see him again if I have to send for troops up here, and it looks that way now," he remarked, much to the terror and satisfaction of Aunty Luce, who was a house divided against itself in her terror of Indian trouble and her desire to prove herself a prophetess.

  Jim was all anticipation. After a circus or a variety show, nothing had for him the charm that was exerted by the prospect of a fight; but his hopes in that direction were cooled by the scout's statement that the troops were not coming with the expectation of war, but simply to show the northern tribes its futility, and that the Government was strengthening its guard for protection all along the line.

  "Then yer only ringin' in a bluff on the hostiles!" ventured the sanguinary hopeful disgustedly. "I counted on business if the 'yaller' turned out," meaning by the "yaller" the cavalry, upon whose accoutrements the yellow glints show.

  "Never mind, sonny," said Genesee; "if we make a bluff, it won't be on an empty hand. But I must take the trail again, and make up for time lost in sleep here."

  "When may we look for you back?"

  It was Hardy who spoke, but something had taken the free-heartiness out of his tones; he looked just a trifle uncomfortable. Evidently Tillie had been giving him a hint of second thoughts, and while trying to adopt them they fitted his nature too clumsily not to be apparent.

  His guest, however, had self-possession enough for both.

  "Don't look for me," he advised, taking in the group with a comprehensive glance; "that is, don't hurt the sight of your eyes in the business; the times are uncertain, and I reckon I'm more u
ncertain than the times. I'm obliged to you for the sleep last night, and the cover for Mowitza. If I can ever do you as good a turn, just sing out."

  Hardy held out his hand impulsively. "You did a heap more for us a year ago, for which we never had a chance to make return," he said in his natural, hearty manner.

  "Oh, yes, you have had," contradicted Rachel's cool tones from the porch; "you have the chance now."

  Genesee darted one quick glance at her face. Something in it was evidently a compensation, and blotted out the bitterness that had crept into his last speech, for with a freer manner he took the proffered hand.

  "That's all right," he said easily. "I was right glad of the trip myself, so it wasn't any work; but at the present speaking the days are not picnic days, and I must 'git.' Good-bye, Mrs. Hardy, good-bye; boys."

  Then he turned in his saddle and looked at Rachel. "Klahowya—tillikum," he said, lifting his hat in a final farewell to all.

  But in the glance toward her she felt he had said "thank you" as plainly as he had in the Indian language called her "friend."

  "Oh, dear!" said Tillie, turning into the house as he rode away. "I wish the man had staid away, or else that we had known more about him when we first met him. It is very awkward to change one's manner to him, and—and yet it seems the only thing to do."

  "Certainly," agreed Rachel, with an altogether unnecessary degree of contempt, "it is the only thing for you to do."

  Tillie sat down miserably under this stroke, the emphasis denoting very plainly the temper of the speaker.

  "Oh, don't be ugly, Rache," she begged. "I really feel wretched about it. I thought at first all the freedom of social laws out here was so nice but it isn't. It has a terrible side to it, when the greatest scamp is of as much account as the finest gentleman, and expects to be received on the same footing. He—he had no right to come imposing on us at the first;" and with this addition to her defense, Tillie tried to ensconce herself behind the barricade of injured faith, but feeling that her protests were only weakening her argument.

  "To the best of my recollection," said the girl, with a good deal of the supercilious in her manner, "he neither came near us nor advanced any desire for friendship on his own account. We hunted him up, and insisted on talking natural history and singing songs with him, and pressing on him many invitations to visit us, invitations which he avoided accepting. He was treated, not as an equal of the other gentlemen, but as a superior; and I believe it is the only time we ever did him justice."

  "Yes, he did seem very nice in those days; but you see it was all false pretense. Think of the life that he had come from, and that he went back to! It's no use talking, Rachel—there is only a right way and a wrong way in this world. He has shown his choice, and self-respecting people can only keep rid of him as much as possible. I don't like to hurt his feelings, but it makes it very awkward for us that we have accepted any favors from him."

  "The obligation rests rather lightly on your shoulders to cause you much fretting," said the girl bitterly; "and he thought so much of you, too—so much."

  Her voice, that began so calmly, ended a little uncertainly, and she walked out of the door.

  Hardy, coming in a moment later, found Tillie divided between penitence and pettishness, and fighting her way to comfort through tears.

  "I know I'm right, Hen, about the whole question," she whimpered, when safely perched on the stronghold of his knee, "and that is what makes it so aggravating."

  "To know you're right?"

  "No; but to have Rachel, who knows she is in the wrong, take that high-handed way about the affair, and end up by making me feel ashamed. Yes, she did, Hen—just that. I felt so ashamed I cried, and yet I knew I was right all the time—now what are you laughing at?"

  * * *

  CHAPTER VI.

  NEIGHBORS OF THE NORTH PARK.

  Reveille! Boots and saddles! Taps!

  About the Hardy ranch the changes were rung on all those notes of camp, from early morn till dewy eve, by the melodious imitations of Jim.

  Stories of grizzlies and black bear had grown passé; even the more rare accounts of wild horses spotted in some secluded valley failed to stir his old-time interest. All else had drifted into nothingness to him, for the "yaller" had come.

  It had been stationed in the North Park for ten days—days of wild commotion at the ranch, for North Park was only two miles away, following the little branch of Missoula Creek that flowed north to the Kootenai River. The necessary errands to and fro between the two points of residence were multitudinous, for Jim could never remember but one thing at a time of late; and the retraced steps he took would have tired out anyone less curious. He was disappointed, at first, to find that only one company had been sent up to guard the gate into the Kootenai country. It did not look as if they feared any outbreak or active service, and if it had not been in the most miserable of seasons, they would have had much the appearance of a pleasure party; but the rains were in the valleys and the snows were on the hills, and camp life under those circumstances is a breeder of rayless monotony.

  "And your ranch up here has proved the oasis in our desert," declared Fred Dreyer in a burst of gratitude to Rachel, just as if the locating of the sheep farm in that particular part of the world was due to the sagacity and far-sightedness of Miss Hardy; "and when Mr. Stuart told us at the Fort that we should have so charming a neighbor, I wanted to throw up my plate and give three cheers. We were at mess—at dinner, I mean. But I restrained my enthusiasm, because my leave to come along was only provisional at that time, and depended on my good behavior; but once here, my first impulse was to give you a big hug instead of the conventional hand-shake, for there are no girls at the Fort, and I was hungry for the sight of one."

  It was not, as one may suppose, one of the uniformed warriors of the camp who expressed himself with this enthusiasm, though several looked as if they would like to, but it was the most petite little creature in petticoats—to her own disgust; and to mitigate the femininity of them as much as possible, they were of regular army blue, their only trimming belt and bands of the "yaller," an adornment Jim openly envied her, and considered senseless when wasted on a girl. She was Miss Frederick Dreyer, the daughter of Major Dreyer, of the Fort, and the sweetheart of most of the men in it, from the veterans down.

  "They all think they own me," she confided plaintively to Rachel, "just because I'm little. It's only a year and a half since they quit calling me 'Baby Fred'—think of that! When you're owned by a whole regiment, it's so hard to gather up any dignity, or keep it if you do get hold of it; don't you think so?"

  "I have had no experience in that line," answered Rachel. "You see I have never been owned by a regiment, nor by anybody else."

  "How delightfully independent you are!" and Miss Fred, encircled by comrades, seemed really to envy the other her loneness in the world. "No orderly forever on duty at your heels, and—"

  "And no lieutenant," put in Rachel; and then they both laughed, and the younger told the elder she was ridiculous, for the lieutenants were not a bit worse than the rest.

  "Worse? Not at all. I could even imagine circumstances under which they might be preferable, and I'm not gifted with much imagination, either."

  "I know someone who thinks you are, and an enviable imagination at that," laughed Miss Fred.

  Rachel opened her eyes a little in questioning, but did not speak.

  "Why, it was Mr. Stuart. He talked about you a good deal at the Fort. You know there are several officers who have their wives with them, and he was asking them lots of questions about typical Western girls, but they didn't seem to know any, for at a military fort girls don't remain girls long—unless they're half boys, like me. Someone always snaps them up and tacks 'Mrs.' to their name, and that settles them."

  "Poor girls!"

  "Oh, bless you! they would say that same thing of anyone who visited a fort and did not become married, or engaged—well, I should think so!"

&nbs
p; "Do you come in for your share of commiseration?" asked Tillie, who was listening with interest to this gossip of military life that seemed strange for a woman to share.

  "Me? Not a bit of it. I am not worth their notice in that respect. They haven't begun to treat me as if I was grown up, yet; that's the disadvantage of being little—you never can impress people with a belief in your own importance. Yesterday, Lieutenant Murray had the impudence to tell me that, when all was said and done, I was only a 'camp follower' hanging onto the coat-tails of the army, and likely to be mustered out of the regiment at the discretion of the superior officers—my lords and masters! What do you think of that?"

  "That you must have made things rather warm for the poor Lieutenant to provoke a speech so unnatural to his usual courtesy," answered Rachel. "Whatever Mr. Stuart may credit me with, I have not imagination enough to conceive that speech being unprovoked."

  "Well, if you're going to champion his High-Mightiness, I'll tell you nothing more. Mr. Stuart said you were so sympathetic, too."

  "I should say it was the Stuart who was imaginative," laughed Rachel; "ask Tillie."

  "But, he did say that—seriously," insisted Miss Fred, turning to Tillie. "When Mrs. Captain Sneath was curious about you, he said you had a delicate imagination that would find beauty in things that to many natures would be commonplace, and topped off a long list of virtues by saying you were the most loyal of friends."

  Tillie sat looking at Rachel in astonishment.

  "What have you been doing with the man?" she asked; "giving him some potion brewed by an Indian witch? A sure 'hoodoo' it must be, to warp a man's judgment like that! And you were not so very nice to him, either."

  "Wasn't she?" asked Fred in amazement. "Well I think it would be hard to be anything else to so charming and so clever a man. Do you know he is very rich?"

  "No," answered Tillie. "We only knew that he was a physician out here for a change of air. He is splendid company."