CHAPTER III
A group composed principally of cowboys, squaw-men, and breeds squattedand lounged outside of Joe Harris' house. Numerous tousley-headed boys,with worn overalls and bare feet, played noisily on the outskirts, dogsand pigs scurried about everywhere, while in the doorway of the dingy,dirt-covered kitchen in the rear hovered a couple of Indian women andseveral small dark-skinned children. Somewhere out of sight, probablyover the cook-stove, were two or three nearly grown girls. Such, atsupper time, was the usual aspect of Joe Harris' cabins, variedoccasionally by more or less Indians, whose tepees stood at one side, ormore or less dogs, but always the same extraordinary amount of squealingpigs and children.
The huge figure of Joe Harris, squaw-man, cattle-man, and generalprogressive-man, was prominent in the center of the group. He was by allodds the greatest and most feared man in that portion of the country.His judgment as well as his friendship was sought after by all the smallranchers about, and also, it was rumored, by a certain class of cattleowners commonly called rustlers. To be Joe Harris' friend meant safety,if nothing more; to be his enemy meant, sooner or later, a search for anew country, or utter ruination. He brought with him, years before fromthe north, a weird record, no tangible tale of which got about, but themysterious rumor, combined with the man's striking personality, his hugeform, bearded face, piercing blue eyes, and great voice, all combined tomake people afraid of him. He was considered a dangerous man. At thisdate he possessed one thousand head of good cattle, a squaw, and fifteenstrong, husky children, and, being a drinking man, possessed also anerratic disposition. He was very deferential to his Indian wife, a goodwoman, but he ruled his offspring with a rod of iron. His childrenfeared him. Some of them possessed his nature to such a marked degreethat they hated him more than they feared him, which is sayingconsiderable. Even as they played about the group of men they watchedhim closely, as they had learned by instinct at their mother's breast.
In the midst of loud talk from the assorted group, a tiny girl, thegreat man's favorite child, was sent out from the kitchen to tell themthat supper was ready. The little thing pulled timidly at the largeman's coat. He stooped and picked her up in his arms, leading the hungrythrong into the house, where a rude supper was eaten in almost absolutesilence. Occasionally a pig would venture into the room, to beimmediately kicked out by the man who sat nearest the door. Then thechildren that played about the house would chase the offending animalwith sticks and shrill cries.
In a room adjoining this one a girl sat alone in dejected attitude, herface buried between two very brown hands. As the men tramped into thehouse she rose from the trunk upon which she had been sitting andcrossed to the farther side of the room. There, with difficulty, sheforced up a small dingy window looking out upon the mountains at theback of the ranch--a clear view, unobstructed by scurrying dogs, pigs,or children. She leaned far out, drawing in deep, sweet breaths, andwondering if she would follow the impulse to climb out and run to thetop of the nearest hill. She thought not, then fell again to wonderinghow she should ever accustom herself to this place, these newsurroundings. She heard the men tramp out of the house, followed soon bya timid rap upon her door, then moved quickly across the room, an oddcontrast to her rude surroundings.
"You can have supper now," said a tall girl in a timid voice. "The menare through. We ain't got much, Miss Hathaway."
"A little is enough for me," said the girl, smiling. "Don't call me_Miss_, please. It doesn't seem just right--_here_. Call me Hope. Itwill make me feel more at home, you know. You're _Mary_, aren't you?_You_ haven't been to supper, have you?"
"Mother said you were to eat alone," answered the breed girl.
"Oh, no, surely I may eat with you girls! I'd much prefer it. You knowit would be lonely all by myself, don't you think so?"
"We ain't going to eat just yet, not till after the boys get theirs,"said the Harris girl a trifle less timidly.
"Then I will wait, too," Hope decided. "Come in, Mary, and stay till Iunpack some of these things. Just a few waists and extra riding skirts.I suppose I am to hang them up here on these nails, am I not?" When shehad finished unpacking she turned to the breed girl, who had becomequite friendly and was watching her interestedly, and explained: "Just afew things that I thought would be suitable to wear up here, forteaching; but, do you know, I'd feel lots better if I had a dress likeyours--a calico one. But I have this--this old buck-skin one. See, ithas bead-work on it. Isn't it pretty?"
"Oh!" exclaimed the girl, as Hope held it up for inspection. "_Isn't_ itlovely!"
"Very old and dingy-looking, but I'll put it on and wear it," shedecided.
A few minutes later, when they had arranged the small, barren roomsomewhat more comfortably, Hope Hathaway, attired in her dress of Indianmake, joined the Harris girls at their frugal meal. Her dark hair wasparted in the center and hung in two long braids down her back. That,combined with the beaded dress, fringed properly, her black eyes, andquiet expressionless face, made a very picturesque representation of anIndian girl. Truly she was one of them. The breed girls must havethought something of the same, for they became at their ease, talkingvery much as girls talk the world over. There were three of them betweenthe ages of fourteen and eighteen, and Hope soon found herself wellentertained and almost contented. The loneliness soon wore away, andbefore realizing it she began to feel at home--almost one of them, trueto her spirit of adaptability. But yet for her supper she ate only twohard boiled eggs.
After the meal the breed girls walked with her down to the spring-housewhere the milk and butter was kept. From underneath the small logbuilding a large spring crept lazily out, spreading itself as it wentinto a miniature lake which lay between the house buildings and thestables. It was the only thing on the ranch worthy of notice, and, in acountry barren of water excepting in the form of narrow winding creeks,it was pleasing to the eye.
The men and boys had disappeared, the younger children were with theirmother, and even the pigs had drowsily gone to their sleeping quarters.The place seemed strangely quiet after its recent noise and commotion.
Finally the girls returned to the house to help with the small children,while in the deepening twilight Hope remained alone beside the lake. Thewater into which she looked and dreamed was shallow, but the deepeningshadows concealed that fact. To her fancy it might have been bottomless.Someone rode up on horseback, but she paid no attention until apleasant voice close beside her startled her from her reverie.
"Can I trouble you for a drink of that water, please? I have oftenwished for one as I rode past; it looks so clear and cold." She bowedher head in assent, and, bringing a cup from the spring-house, stoopedand filled it for him. He thanked her and drank the water eagerly.
"It is good, just as I thought, and cold as ice," he said; then,noticing the girl more closely, continued: "I have been talking withyour father over there at the corral, and am returning home."
"With my _father_," emphasized the girl. The young man noted withwonderment the richness of her voice, the soft, alluring grace of everymovement. Someone had jokingly told him before he left his old-countryhome that he would bring back an Indian wife, as one of historical famehad done centuries before. He laughed heartily at the time--he smilednow, but thought of it. He thought of it again many times that eveningand cursed himself for such folly. Perhaps there was Indian medicine inthe cup she gave him, or perhaps he looked an instant too long intothose dark, unfathomable eyes. He found himself explaining:
"Yes; your father has agreed to sell me that team I have been wanting. Iam coming back for the horses to-morrow."
"My _father_," she began again. "Oh, yes, of course. I thought----Wouldyou like another drink of the water?"
"Yes, if you please." It seemed good to stand there in the growingdarkness, and another drink would give him fully a minute. He watchedher supple figure as she stooped to refill the tin cup. What perfectphysiques some of these Indian girls possessed! He did not wonder somuch now that some men forgot their families a
nd names for thesedark-skinned women.
"I am coming to-morrow for the horses--in the morning," he repeatedfoolishly, returning the cup. She did not speak again, so bidding her acourteous good-night he mounted his horse and rode slowly into thegathering dusk.
Hope stood there for a moment, returning to her study of the water; thentwo of the breed girls came toward her. One of them was gigglingaudibly.
"We heard him," said Mary. "He thought you was one of us. It'll be funto fool him. He's new out here, and don't know much, anyhow. He's EdwardLivingston, an Englishman, an' has got a sheep ranch about three milesover there."
"A _sheep-man_!" exclaimed Hope, "Isn't that too bad!"
"You hate sheep-men, too?" asked the older girl.
"No, I don't know that I _hate_ them, but there's a feeling--a sort ofsomething one can't get over, something that grows in the air if you'reraised among cattle. I despise sheep, detest them. They spoil our cattlerange." Then after a short pause: "It's too bad he isn't a cattle-man!"
"That's what I think," said Mary, "because the men are all gettin' downon him. He runs his sheep all over their range, an' they're makin' a bigtalk."
"You shouldn't tell things, Mary, they're only talkin', anyway,"reproved the older girl.
"_Talkin'!_ Well, I should say so, an' you bet they mean business! ButMiss Hathaway--Hope--don't care, an' I don't care neither, if he getsinto a scrape; only he's got such a nice, pleasant face, an' he ain't onto the ways out here yet, neither--an' I don't care _what_ the men say!Tain't as if he meant anything through real meanness."
"That's so," replied the older girl, "but maybe she don't want to hearsuch talk. It's bedtime, anyway; let's go in."
"Yes, I'm tired," said Hope wearily, adding as she bade Mary good-nightat her door: "I do hope he won't get into any trouble."