THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY
by
MARY ELLEN CHASE
Illustrated by R. Farrington Elwell
The Page CompanyBoston--MDCCCCXVI
Copyright, 1916,by the Page Company
All rights reserved
First Impression, January, 1916Second Impression, March, 1916Third Impression, May, 1916Fourth Impression, June, 1916Fifth Impression, August, 1916
Presswork byThe Colonial Press
C. H. Simonds Company, Boston, U. S. A.
TO THE MEMORY OF MY FATHER WHO, PERHAPS, KNOWS, AND IS GLAD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--VIRGINIA'S COUNTRY CHAPTER II--THE LAST NIGHT AT HOME CHAPTER III--THE JOURNEY EAST CHAPTER IV--VERMONT AS VIRGINIA SAW IT CHAPTER V--THE "BROADENING EXPERIENCE" BEGINS CHAPTER VI--ST. HELEN'S AND THE HERMITAGE CHAPTER VII--"PERTAINING ESPECIALLY TO DECORUM" CHAPTER VIII--THE LAST STRAW CHAPTER IX--THE THANKSGIVING ORATION OF LUCILE DU BOSE CHAPTER X--THANKSGIVING AND MISS WALLACE CHAPTER XI--THE DISCIPLINING OF MISS VAN RENSAELAR CHAPTER XII--THE VIGILANTES CHAPTER XIII--THE TEST OF CARVER STANDISH III CHAPTER XIV--WYOMING HOSPITALITY. CHAPTER XV--VESPER SERVICE CHAPTER XVI--A SPRING-TIME ROMANCE CHAPTER XVII--THE VIGILANTES INITIATE CHAPTER XVIII--THE HEART-BROKEN MISS WALLACE CHAPTER XIX--THE SENIOR PAGEANT CHAPTER XX--THE VIGILANTES' LAST MEETING CHAPTER XXI--HOME ONCE MORE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Rode down the hill into the valley." "Forded the creek in a mad splash of water." "Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chair and stood facing his audience." "Some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a gray shawl." "Virginia knelt by the altar rail." "She sat her horse like a knight of old." "The road lay at the very base of the green foot-hills."
THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY
CHAPTER I
VIRGINIA'S COUNTRY
A September afternoon in the Big Horn mountains! The air crystalclear; the sky cloudless; the outlines of the hills distinct! ElkCreek Valley lay golden in the sunshine, silent save for the incessanthum of locust and cricket, the hurrying of the creek waters, and theoccasional bellowing of steers on the range beyond the foot-hills;deserted except for the distant cattle, a coyote stealing across thehills, a pheasant scurrying through the buck-brush by the creek, andsome cotton-tail rabbits and prairie dogs, who, sure of safety, meantto enjoy the sunshine while they might.
The foot-hills more than half-encircled the Valley. North, east, andsouth they tumbled, their brown, closely-cropped sides glowing hereand there with the yellow of the quaking-asps, the red of hawthorn,and the bronze of service-berry. Above them rose the higher ranges,clothed in gray-green sagebrush and scant timber, and cut bycanyon-forming mountain storms, invisible from the Valley; and farabove all, seemingly near, but in reality miles away, the mountainsextended their blue, snow-furrowed summits toward a bluer sky. Peakabove peak they rose--some isolated and alone, others leaning upon theshoulders of the higher--all silent, majestic, mysterious, as thoughthey held in their great hearts the secrets of the world--secrets ofwhich Elk Creek Valley could never know. Yet the Valley looked veryhappy and content. Perhaps it had lain so long beneath theirprotection that it knew no fear.
The creek, rushing madly from the northern foothills, and fed bymelting snow from the higher mountains, had cut a canyon for itself inits tumultuous journey from the hills; but as the land became morelevel, it slackened its pace, content to make but a slight depressionthrough the Valley. Across it toward the west, beyond a great gap inthe foothills, stretched an open plateau, which rose in undulations,and extended as far as one could see toward other far distantmountains, on less clear days dim and hazy of outline, to-day almostas blue and distinct as the nearer ranges, though sixty miles away.This great sea of open prairie rolling westward was cut in as manypieces and bore as many colors as a patchwork quilt. Goldenwheat-fields, the wheat shocked and piled in wigwams on the plain, metacres of black, freshly-plowed soil, which, in turn, bordered upon thetender green of alfalfa and of newly grown winter grain. Scatteredover the prairie stretches, at intervals of a mile, perhaps ofseveral, were homes--here, large ranch houses with out-lyingbuildings--there, the rough shack of a lone homesteader.
Yes, it was a golden land--smiling and peaceful in the Septembersunshine. Save for horses and cattle dotted here and there, theprairie seemed almost as deserted as Elk Creek Valley, though itshomes promised inhabitants, and a blue line of distant smoke showedwhere the threshers were at work. Moreover, on the barely visiblebrown road that threaded its way across the prairie, two specks weremoving rapidly in the direction of the Gap. The specks took form,became two riders, a boy and a girl, on wildly galloping horses,which, neck to neck, tore at last through the Gap, forded the creek ina mad splash of water, stirrup-high, and dashed away up the Valley.Reaching the foot-hills a trifle in advance of his companion, the boypulled in his restive horse, and called over his shoulder to the girljust behind.
"Are Pedro's feet all right, Virginia?"
"Yes, Don. Jim fixed them yesterday."
"Let's take the Mine then, shall we?"
"Yes, let's!"
And away they went, allowing the sure-footed horses to have their wayup one of the foot-hills, called the "Mine," because some loneprospector, dreaming of a fortune, had dug from its side some poorcoal; and then, perhaps discouraged, had abandoned the fruit of hislabors, leaving the black heap as a monument to his zeal, and atestimony to the vanity of mere dreams.
They reached the hill-top almost at the same instant, their goodsteeds panting; they quite undisturbed, and, turning their horses'heads, drew rein and looked across the Valley. They were arobust-looking pair, red-cheeked and khaki-clad, and as good riders asWyoming could produce. The boy was seventeen, or thereabouts,well-knit and tall for his years, with dark, heavy hair and clear,blue eyes that looked bluer through his coat of tan. His features werecleanly-cut and strong, and his mouth had a laugh in the corners. Amerry, honest, manly-looking lad--Donald Keith by name, and the son ofa ranchman on the other side of the Valley.
"Forded the creek in a mad splash of water."]
She--Virginia Hunter--was a year younger, and for sixteen as tall andstrong as he for seventeen. She was not pretty, but there wassomething singularly attractive about her clear, fresh skin, brownnow, except for the red of her cheeks, her even white teeth, and herearnest gray eyes, at times merry, but often thoughtful, which lookedso straight at you from under brows and lashes of black. Hergolden-brown hair curled about her temples, but it was brushed backquite simply and braided down her back where it was well out of herway. A person riding could not bother about her hair. She sat herhorse as though he were a part of her, holding her reins loosely inher brown left hand, her right hanging idly at her side. The wind blewback the loosened hair about her face, and the ends of the redhandkerchief, knotted cow-boy fashion, under the collar of her khakishirt. She, like the boy, seemed a part of the country--free, natural,wholesome--and she shared its charm.
They had been comrades for years--these two--for, in the ranch country,homes are often widely separated, and the frequent society of manypersons rare. Virginia's home lay up the Valley, beyond the firstrange of the foot-hills, while the Keith ranch was situated on theprairie, west beyond the Gap. Three miles apart across country, fourby the road; but three or four miles in Wyoming are like so manysquares in Boston, and the Keiths and Hunters considered themselvesnear neighbors. This afternoon Virginia had ridden over to say good-byto all the dear Keiths--Mr. David, Mother Mary, Donald's older brotherMalcolm, and his younger, Kenneth, the farm-hands busy with thethreshing, and the men in from th
e range to help with the wheat; forthey were all her friends, and now that she was going so far away toschool, they seemed nearer and dearer--indeed, next to her father andthose upon their own ranch, the dearest of her world.
They had been quite as sad as she to say good-by. "The country won'tbe the same without you, my lass," Mr. David had said in his genialScotch way; and Donald's mother, whom Virginia had called "MotherMary," since the death of her own dear mother six years ago, hadkissed her quite as though she were her own daughter. Even Malcolm hadcome in from the wheat field to shake her by the hand and wish hergood luck, and little Kenneth's feelings had been quite woundedbecause Virginia felt she must decline to carry one of his pet foxesaway with her to boarding-school. Then Donald's father had granted therequest in the boy's eyes that he might be excused from threshing toride up the Valley and home with Virginia. So now their horses, goodfriends, too, stood side by side on the brow of the Mine, while theirriders looked down the Valley, beyond the cottonwood-bordered creek,and across the wide, rolling prairie to the far away mountains; andthen, turning in their saddles, to those ranges and peaks toweringabove them.
Virginia drew a long breath.
"We're like Moses on Mount Nebo, looking away into the Promised Land,aren't we, Don?" Then, as he laughed, "Do you suppose there's anycountry so lovely as ours? Is there anything in the East like this? Doyou think I'll be homesick, Don?"
He laughed again, used to her questions.
"I suppose every fellow thinks his own State is the best, Virginia,but I don't believe there can be any lovelier than this. You know Itold you about spending a vacation when I was at school last year withJack Williams in the Berkshires. Some of those hills aren't higherthan the Mine, you know, and he called them mountains. It seemed likea mighty small country to me, but he thought there was no place likeit. I wish he could get this sweep of country from here. No, the Eastisn't like this,--not a bit--and maybe you won't like it, but you're tooplucky to be homesick, Virginia."
Little did Virginia realize how often those words would ring in herears through the months that were to follow. She drew another longbreath--almost a sigh this time.
"Oh, I wish you were going East again, Don, instead of to Colorado!'Twould be such fun traveling together, and you could tell me allabout the states as we went through them. But, instead, I'm going allalone, and Aunt Louise has warned me a dozen times about talking tostrangers. Four days without talking, Don! I shall die! Is it very badtaste to talk to good, oldish-looking people, do you think?"
"_I_ think your aunt's mighty particular, if you ask me," the boy saidbluntly. "You'll have to talk to some one, Virginia. You'll never lastfour days without it, and I don't think it's any harm. But, you see,your aunt's from the East, and they're not so sociable as we are outhere. I thought she was going East with you."
"No, she decided not to, and went to Los Angeles this morning; but I'mbursting with watch-words that she left. All the way to your house Isaid them over, and I nearly ran Pedro into a prairie dog's hole, Iwas thinking so hard. I. _It is very bad form to talk to strangers._II. _Try to be as neat in appearance on the train as you are at home._(Aunt Lou really means neater, Don.) III. _Don't forget to tip thewaiter after each meal in the dining-car._ IV. _Be polite to yourtraveling companions, but not familiar._ That's all for the journey,but I've heaps more for Vermont and for school. Oh, why did you chooseColorado, Don?"
"Oh, I don't know, except that it's nearer home, and since I'm goingthere to college in another year, I may as well get used to it. TheEast is all right, Virginia, but some way I like it out here better.I'm a rank cow-boy, I guess. That's what they used to call me atschool. Then, besides, the Colorado fellows ride a lot, and they don'tin the East--that is, so much, you know," he added hastily, as he sawthe dismay on her face.
"Don't ride, Don! Why, I can't stand it not to ride! Don't they havehorses? Don't they--know how to ride?"
Her genuine distress disturbed him, and he hastened to reassure her asbest he could.
"You'll find something to ride, I'm sure," he said. "Don't worry.Maybe the horses won't be like Pedro, but they'll do. You see, yourschool's in a larger town than mine. You'll write me all about it,won't you, Virginia?"
"Of course, I will--every little thing. If the boys thought you were acow-boy, the girls will probably think I'm very queer, too."
"Oh, no, they won't! You're--you're different some way. And, anyway,they won't be as nice as you," he finished awkwardly.
Virginia, full of questions, did not heed the honest compliment.
"What are Eastern girls like, Don? Have you seen many? You see, I'venever known one, except in books. Margaret Montfort certainly wasdifferent. Besides, you know what a time Peggy had when she went Eastto school, and she was only from Ohio."
Donald knew nothing of Margaret or Peggy, and felt incompetent toremark upon them; but he answered Virginia's questions.
"I used to see them last year at school," he said, "at the dances andat Commencement. And in the Berkshires, I knew Jack's sister, Mary.She's great, Virginia. I hope there are some like her. She's at someschool, but I forget where. Oh, I guess they're nice. You see, atparties, when they're all dressed up, you can't get realwell-acquainted."
"Dressed up!" cried Virginia. "Don, you ought to see the clothes I'vegot! And trunks like closets?--two of them! Aunt Lou bought my thingsin Chicago for father. He told her to get what I'd need, and when allthe boxes came, he grew more and more surprised. He thought they hadsent a lot for us to choose from; and when Aunt Lou told him it wasonly my 'necessary wardrobe,' he just sat down and laughed. Then I hadto try them all on--six pairs of shoes, and sailor-suits, and coats andsweaters and dinner dresses, and goodness knows what all! It took thewhole afternoon. That was the one last week, you know, when I didn'tget to go hunting prairie chickens with you. And Aunt Lou made me walkback and forth in the dinner dresses until I could 'act natural,' shesaid." She paused laughing, and the boy looked at her, his facetroubled.
"I hope all those things and going away off there won't make youdifferent, Virginia," he said, a little wistfully.
"Of course, they won't!" she told him. "I couldn't be any different,Don. If it weren't for the fun of wondering about things, I'd neverwant to go even a little, but it will be new and interesting. Besides,you know Aunt Lou says it's 'imperative' that I go. I heard her saythat to father one night this summer. 'It's imperative that Virginiago,' she said. 'She's getting really wild out here with just you men,and that woman in the kitchen.' 'That woman' means old Hannah, who'sbeen so good to us ever since mother died!"
Donald looked angry for a moment. Apparently he did not care a greatdeal for Virginia's Aunt Louise.
"What did your father say?"
"He didn't say anything, like he doesn't when he's thinking ortroubled; but, next morning, he told me he was going to send me Eastto mother's old school. He said he guessed I needed to see differentthings. Aunt Lou was there when he told me, and she said, 'It will bethe making of you, Virginia,--a very broadening experience!'"
"I don't think I'd like your aunt very well," Donald announcedbluntly.
Virginia was not surprised. "No, I'm sure you wouldn't, and I don'tthink she'd like you either. That is, she _ought_ to like you, andmaybe she would, but she probably wouldn't approve. She's a personthat doesn't often approve of things. She doesn't approve of myshooting, or of Jim teaching me to lasso the steers in the corral; andthat afternoon when I wanted to go rabbit hunting with you instead oftrying on dresses, I heard her tell father that I was getting to berather too much of a young lady to ride the country over with you. Butfather laughed and laughed, and said he'd as soon have me with you aswith himself."
Donald looked pleased. Then--
"I hope you won't get to be too much of a young lady while you'regone, Virginia," he said, "so you won't care for hunting and--andthings like that, next summer."
"Don't worry," she said. "I won't be a young lady for years. I hate toeven think of it! But we must go
down, Don. The sun says five o'clock,and it's my last evening with father."
Her gray eyes, thoughtful and almost sad, swept the country beforeher.
"I hate to leave you all," she said softly, a little catch in hervoice. "The valley and the creek and the cottonwoods and theprairie--all of you. And, most of all, the foot-hills. You know, Don,"she continued, turning toward him, "I think I like the foot-hillsbest. They're so sort of friendly, and they don't make you feel littlelike the mountains. You know what I mean!"
He nodded with quick understanding. They turned their horses to lookat the peaks towering above them.
"Sometimes they really scare me," she said almost in a whisper."They're so big, and look as though they knew so many things.Sometimes I wish they'd talk, and then I know if they did, I'd run andhide, I'd be so frightened at what they were going to say." Her eyesleft the mountains and swept across the nearer hills. Suddenly shegrasped his arm, all excitement. "Hst, Don!" she whispered, her eyesgleaming. "There! Behind that clump of pine on the range! Not aquarter of a mile away! Bess and the new colt! I know the way sheholds her head. Wait a minute! There she is! She's seen us, and thereshe goes!"
With a wild snort, which they could hear distinctly in the clear air,and a mad kick of the heels, the horse tore away across the range, hercolt trying manfully with his long ungainly legs to keep near hismother. Months on the range had transformed Bess from a corral pet toa wild steed, suspicious even of her mistress, and mindful only of hersafety and that of her colt.
"A nice colt," said Don, "and now she's down this far she won't go faraway. Doesn't your father brand this week? They'll probably mark thelittle fellow with the rest."
"Yes, I suppose they will. That's one thing I can't bear to see--thebranding. Father and Jim will be so glad to know about the colt. Youcan break it for me, Don, when it's two years old."
"All right, I'll not forget," he promised.
Then they turned again, and rode down the hill into the valley. Thistime they did not ford the creek, but turned north, following an oldtrail up the valley and through another gap in the hills a mile above.This brought them again to the open, where Virginia's home lay--a long,rambling house with its back against the foot-hills and its frontlooking westward across the prairie. Tall cottonwoods shaded the brownroad that led to it; and down this road, beneath the trees, they rode,more slowly now.
A tall man, reading on the broad front porch, rose as they drew reinunder the cottonwoods.
"Come in to supper, Don," he called cordially. "It's all ready, andwe're glad to have you."
"Thank you, Mr. Hunter, but I can't. I've got to be making for home.Good-by, Virginia," he said, jumping from his horse to shake handswith her, as she stood beside her father. "I'm going to be lonesomewithout you. Don't forget us, will you?"
"Good-by, Don." She had the same little catch in her voice as upon thehills, and her eyes were grave again. "I'll miss you, and, of course,I won't forget. And, Don," she called, as he swung himself into hissaddle and galloped away, "remember, I'll not be a young lady when Icome back!"