THE GIRL FROM MONTANA
by
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
GROSSET & DUNLAPPUBLISHERS NEW YORK
1922
* * * * *
Books By
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
April GoldHappiness HillThe Beloved StrangerThe Honor GirlBright ArrowsKerryChristmas BrideMarigoldCrimson RosesMirandaDuskinThe Mystery of MaryFound TreasurePartnersA Girl to Come Home ToRainbow CottageThe Red SignalWhite OrchidsSilver WingsThe TrystThe Strange ProposalThrough These FiresThe Street of the CityAll Through the NightThe Gold ShoeAstraHomingBlue RuinJob's NieceChallengersThe Man of the DesertComing Through the RyeMore Than ConquerorDaphne DeaneA New NameThe Enchanted BarnThe Patch of BlueGirl from MontanaThe RansomRose GalbraithThe WitnessSound of the TrumpetSunriseTomorrow About This TimeAmorelleHead of the HouseAriel CusterIn Tune with Wedding BellsChance of a LifetimeMarisCrimson MountainOut of the StormExit BettyMystery FlowersThe Prodigal GirlGirl of the WoodsRe-CreationsThe White FlowerMatched PearlsTime of the Singing of BirdsLadybirdThe Substitute GuestBeauty for AshesStranger Within the GateThe Best ManSpice BoxBy Way of the SilverthornsThe Seventh HourDawn of the MorningThe SearchBrentwoodCloudy JewelThe Voice in the Wilderness
Books By
RUTH LIVINGSTON HILL
Mary Arden(_with Grace Livingston Hill_)Morning Is for JoyJohn Nielson Had a DaughterBright Conquest
Dedicated to
MISS VIRGINIA COWAN
OF COWAN, MONTANA, WHOSE BRIGHT, BREEZYLETTERS AIDED ME IN WRITING OFELIZABETH'S EXPERIENCESIN THE WEST
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL
II. THE FLIGHT
III. THE PURSUIT
IV. THE TWO FUGITIVES
V. A NIGHT RIDE
VI. A CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR MEETING IN THE WILDERNESS
VII. BAD NEWS
VIII. THE PARTING
IX. IN A TRAP
X. PHILADELPHIA AT LAST
XI. IN FLIGHT AGAIN
XII. ELIZABETH'S DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE
XIII. ANOTHER GRANDMOTHER
XIV. IN A NEW WORLD
XV. AN EVENTFUL PICNIC
XVI. ALONE AGAIN
XVII. A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
CHAPTER I
THE GIRL, AND A GREAT PERIL
The late afternoon sun was streaming in across the cabin floor as the girlstole around the corner and looked cautiously in at the door.
There was a kind of tremulous courage in her face. She had a duty toperform, and she was resolved to do it without delay. She shaded her eyeswith her hand from the glare of the sun, set a firm foot upon thethreshold, and, with one wild glance around to see whether all was as shehad left it, entered her home and stood for a moment shuddering in themiddle of the floor.
A long procession of funerals seemed to come out of the past and meet hereye as she looked about upon the signs of the primitive, unhallowed onewhich had just gone out from there a little while before.
The girl closed her eyes, and pressed their hot, dry lids hard with hercold fingers; but the vision was clearer even than with her eyes open.
She could see the tiny baby sister lying there in the middle of the room,so little and white and pitiful; and her handsome, careless father sittingat the head of the rude home-made coffin, sober for the moment; and hertired, disheartened mother, faded before her time, dry-eyed and haggard,beside him. But that was long ago, almost at the beginning of things forthe girl.
There had been other funerals, the little brother who had been drownedwhile playing in a forbidden stream, and the older brother who had goneoff in search of gold or his own way, and had crawled back parched withfever to die in his mother's arms. But those, too, seemed long ago to thegirl as she stood in the empty cabin and looked fearfully about her. Theyseemed almost blotted out by the last three that had crowded so closewithin the year. The father, who even at his worst had a kind word for herand her mother, had been brought home mortally hurt--an encounter withwild cattle, a fall from his horse in a treacherous place--and had neverroused to consciousness again.
At all these funerals there had been a solemn service, conducted by atravelling preacher when one happened to be within reach, and, when therewas none, by the trembling, determined, untaught lips of the white-facedmother. The mother had always insisted upon it, especially upon a prayer.It had seemed like a charm to help the departed one into some kind of apitiful heaven.
And when, a few months after the father, the mother had drooped and grownwhiter and whiter, till one day she clutched at her heart and lay downgasping, and said: "Good-by, Bess! Mother's good girl! Don't forget!" andwas gone from her life of burden and disappointment forever, the girl hadprepared the funeral with the assistance of the one brother left. Thegirl's voice had uttered the prayer, "Our Father," just as her mother hadtaught her, because there was no one else to do it; and she was afraid tosend the wild young brother off after a preacher, lest he should notreturn in time.
It was six months now since the sad funeral train had wound its way amongsage-brush and greasewood, and the body of the mother had been laid torest beside her husband. For six months the girl had kept the cabin inorder, and held as far as possible the wayward brother to his work andhome. But within the last few weeks he had more and more left her alone,for a day, and sometimes more, and had come home in a sad condition andwith bold, merry companions who made her life a constant terror. And now,but two short days ago, they had brought home his body lying across hisown faithful horse, with two shots through his heart. It was a drunkenquarrel, they told her; and all were sorry, but no one seemed responsible.
They had been kind in their rough way, those companions of her brother.They had stayed and done all that was necessary, had dug the grave, andstood about their comrade in good-natured grimness, marching in orderabout him to give the last look; but, when the sister tried to utter theprayer she knew her mother would have spoken, her throat refused to make asound, and her tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. She had takensudden refuge in the little shed that was her own room, and there hadstayed till the rough companions had taken away the still form of the onlyone left in the family circle.
In silence the funeral train wound its way to the spot where the otherswere buried. They respected her tearless grief, these great, passionate,uncontrolled young men. They held in the rude jokes with which they wouldhave taken the awesomeness from the occasion for themselves, and for themost part kept the way silently and gravely, now and then looking backwith admiration to the slim girl with the stony face and unblinking eyeswho followed them mechanically. They had felt that some one ought to dosomething; but no one knew exactly what, and so they walked silently.
Only one, the hardest and boldest, the ringleader of the company, venturedback to ask whether there was anything he could do for her, anything shewould like to have done; but she answered him coldly with a "No!" that cuthim to the quick. It had been a good deal for him to do, this touch ofgentleness he had forced himself into. He turned from her with a wickedgleam of intent in his eyes, but she did not see it.
When the rude ceremony was over, the last clod was heaped upon the pitifulmound, and the relentless words, "dust to dust," had been murmured by onemore daring than the rest, they turned and looked at the girl, who had allthe time stood upon a mound of earth and watched them, as a statue ofMisery might look down upon the world. They could not make her out, thissilent, marble girl. They hoped now she would change. It was over. Theyfelt an untold relief themselves from the fact that their reckless, gaycomrade was no longer lying cold and still among them. They were done withhim. They had paid their last tribute, and wished to forget. H
e mustsettle his own account with the hereafter now; they had enough in theirown lives without the burden of his.
Then there had swept up into the girl's face one gleam of life that madeher beautiful for the instant, and she had bowed to them with a slow,almost haughty, inclination of her head, and spread out her hands like onewho would like to bless but dared not, and said clearly, "I thankyou--all!" There had been just a slight hesitation before that last word"all," as if she were not quite sure, as her eyes rested upon theringleader with doubt and dislike; then her lips had hardened as ifjustice must be done, and she had spoken it, "all!" and, turning, spedaway to her cabin alone.
They were taken by surprise, those men who feared nothing in the wild andprimitive West, and for a moment they watched her go in silence. Then thewords that broke upon the air were not all pleasant to hear; and, if thegirl could have known, she would have sped far faster, and her cheekswould have burned a brighter red than they did.
But one, the boldest, the ringleader, said nothing. His brows darkened,and the wicked gleam came and sat in his hard eyes with a green light. Hedrew a little apart from the rest, and walked on more rapidly. When hecame to the place where they had left their horses, he took his and wenton toward the cabin with a look that did not invite the others to follow.As their voices died away in the distance, and he drew nearer to thecabin, his eyes gleamed with cunning.
The girl in the cabin worked rapidly. One by one she took the boxes onwhich the rude coffin of her brother had rested, and threw them far outthe back door. She straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if byerasing every sign she would force from memory the thought of the scenesthat had just passed. She took her brother's coat that hung against thewall, and an old pipe from the mantle, and hid them in the room that washers. Then she looked about for something else to be done.
A shadow darkened the sunny doorway. Looking up, she saw the man shebelieved to be her brother's murderer.
"I came back, Bess, to see if I could do anything for you."
The tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her hand to her throat,and caught her breath. She would like to speak out and tell him what shethought, but she dared not. She did not even dare let her thought appearin her eyes. The dull, statue-like look came over her face that she hadworn at the grave. The man thought it was the stupefaction of grief.
"I told you I didn't want any help," she said, trying to speak in the sametone she had used when she thanked the men.
"Yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; she felt a menacein the thought, "and I am sorry for you!"
He came nearer, but her face was cold. Instinctively she glanced to thecupboard door behind which lay her brother's belt with two pistols.
"You're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but I'd rather be alonenow." It was hard to speak so when she would have liked to dash on him,and call down curses for the death of her brother; but she looked into hisevil face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her heart.
He took encouragement from her gentle dignity. Where did she get thatmanner so imperial, she, born in a mountain cabin and bred on the wilds?How could she speak with an accent so different from those about her? Thebrother was not so, not so much so; the mother had been plain and quiet.He had not known her father, for he had lately come to this State inhiding from another. He wondered, with his wide knowledge of the world,over her wild, haughty beauty, and gloated over it. He liked to think justwhat worth was within his easy grasp. A prize for the taking, and herealone, unprotected.
"But it ain't good for you to be alone, you know, and I've come to protectyou. Besides, you need cheering up, little girl." He came closer. "I loveyou, Bess, you know, and I'm going to take care of you now. You're allalone. Poor little girl."
He was so near that she almost felt his breath against her cheek. Shefaced him desperately, growing white to the lips. Was there nothing onearth or in heaven to save her? Mother! Father! Brother! All gone! Ah!Could she but have known that the quarrel which ended her wild youngbrother's life had been about her, perhaps pride in him would have salvedher grief, and choked her horror.
While she watched the green lights play in the evil eyes above her, shegathered all the strength of her young life into one effort, and schooledherself to be calm. She controlled her involuntary shrinking from the man,only drew herself back gently, as a woman with wider experience andgentler breeding might have done.
"Remember," she said, "that my brother just lay there dead!" and shepointed to the empty centre of the room. The dramatic attitude was almosta condemnation to the guilty man before her. He drew back as if thesheriff had entered the room, and looked instinctively to where the coffinhad been but a short time before, then laughed nervously and drew himselftogether.
The girl caught her breath, and took courage. She had held him for aminute; could she not hold him longer?
"Think!" said she. "He is but just buried. It is not right to talk of suchthings as love in this room where he has just gone out. You must leave mealone for a little while. I cannot talk and think now. We must respect thedead, you know." She looked appealingly at him, acting her partdesperately, but well. It was as if she were trying to charm a lion or aninsane man.
He stood admiring her. She argued well. He was half minded to humor her,for somehow when she spoke of the dead he could see the gleam in herbrother's eyes just before he shot him. Then there was promise in thiswooing. She was no girl to be lightly won, after all. She could hold herown, and perhaps she would be the better for having her way for a little.At any rate, there was more excitement in such game.
She saw that she was gaining, and her breath came freer.
"Go!" she said with a flickering smile. "Go! For--a little while," andthen she tried to smile again.
He made a motion to take her in his arms and kiss her; but she drew backsuddenly, and spread her hands before her, motioning him back.
"I tell you you must not now. Go! Go! or I will never speak to you again."
He looked into her eyes, and seemed to feel a power that he must obey.Half sullenly he drew back toward the door.
"But, Bess, this ain't the way to treat a fellow," he whined. "I came wayback here to take care of you. I tell you I love you, and I'm going tohave you. There ain't any other fellow going to run off with you--"
"Stop!" she cried tragically. "Don't you see you're not doing right? Mybrother is just dead. I must have some time to mourn. It is only decent."She was standing now with her back to the little cupboard behind whosedoor lay the two pistols. Her hand was behind her on the wooden latch.
"You don't respect my trouble!" she said, catching her breath, and puttingher hand to her eyes. "I don't believe you care for me when you don't dowhat I say."
The man was held at bay. He was almost conquered by her sign of tears. Itwas a new phase of her to see her melt into weakness so. He was charmed.
"How long must I stay away?" he faltered.
She could scarcely speak, so desperate she felt. O if she dared but say,"Forever," and shout it at him! She was desperate enough to try herchances at shooting him if she but had the pistols, and was sure they wereloaded--a desperate chance indeed against the best shot on the Pacificcoast, and a desperado at that.
She pressed her hands to her throbbing temples, and tried to think. Atlast she faltered out,
"Three days!"
He swore beneath his breath, and his brows drew down in heavy frowns thatwere not good to see. She shuddered at what it would be to be in his powerforever. How he would play with her and toss her aside! Or kill her,perhaps, when he was tired of her! Her life on the mountain had made herfamiliar with evil characters.
He came a step nearer, and she felt she was losing ground.
Straightening up, she said coolly:
"You must go away at once, and not think of coming back at least untilto-morrow night. Go!" With wonderful control she smiled at him, onefrantic, brilliant smile; and to her great wonder he drew back. At thed
oor he paused, a softened look upon his face.
"Mayn't I kiss you before I go?"
She shuddered involuntarily, but put out her hands in protest again. "Notto-night!" She shook her head, and tried to smile.
He thought he understood her, but turned away half satisfied. Then sheheard his step coming back to the door again, and she went to meet him. Hemust not come in. She had gained in sending him out, if she could butclose the door fast. It was in the doorway that she faced him as he stoodwith one foot ready to enter again. The crafty look was out upon his faceplainly now, and in the sunlight she could see it.
"You will be all alone to-night."
"I am not afraid," calmly. "And no one will trouble me. Don't you knowwhat they say about the spirit of a man--" she stopped; she had almostsaid "a man who has been murdered"--"coming back to his home the firstnight after he is buried?" It was her last frantic effort.
The man before her trembled, and looked around nervously.
"You better come away to-night with me," he said, edging away from thedoor.
"See, the sun is going down! You must go now," she said imperiously; andreluctantly the man mounted his restless horse, and rode away down themountain.
She watched him silhouetted against the blood-red globe of the sun as itsank lower and lower. She could see every outline of his slouch-hat andmuscular shoulders as he turned now and then and saw her standing stillalone at her cabin door. Why he was going he could not tell; but he went,and he frowned as he rode away, with the wicked gleam still in his eye;for he meant to return.
At last he disappeared; and the girl, turning, looked up, and there rodethe white ghost of the moon overhead. She was alone.