Bindloss Harold
The Cattle-Baron's Daughter
XI
LARRY’S ACQUITTAL
A warm wind from the Pacific, which had swept down through the Rockies’ passes, had mitigated the Arctic cold, and the snow lay no more than thinly sprinkled upon the prairie. Hetty Torrance and Miss Schuyler were riding up through the birch bluff from the bridge of the Cedar. It was dim among the trees, for dusk was closing in, the trail was rough and steep, and Hetty drew bridle at a turn of it.
“I quite fancied we would have been home before it was dark, and my father would be just savage if he knew we were out alone,” she said. “Of course, he wouldn’t have let us go if he had been at Cedar.”
Flora Schuyler looked about her with a shiver. The wind that shook the birches had grown perceptibly colder: the gloom beneath them deepened rapidly, and there was a doleful wailing amidst the swinging boughs. Beyond the bluff the white wilderness, sinking into dimness now, ran back, waste and empty, to the horizon. Miss Schuyler was from the cities, and the loneliness of the prairie is most impressive when night is closing down.
“Then one could have wished he had been at home,” she said.
Perhaps Hetty did not hear her plainly, for the branches thrashed above them just then. “Oh, that’s quite right. Folks are not apt to worry much over the things they don’t know about,” she said.
“It was not your father I was sorry for,” Flora Schuyler said sharply. “The sod is too hard for fast riding, and it will be ’most an hour yet before we get home. I wish we were not alone, Hetty.”
Hetty sighed. “It was so convenient once!” she said. “Whenever I wanted to ride out I had only to send for Larry. It’s quite different now.”
“I have no doubt Mr. Clavering would have come,” said Miss Schuyler.
“Oh, yes,” Hetty agreed. “Still, I’m beginning to fancy you were right about that man. Like a good many more of them, he’s quite nice at a distance; but there are men who should never let anyone get too close to them.”
“You have had quite a few opportunities of observing him at a short distance lately.”
Hetty laughed, but there was a trace of uneasiness in her voice. “I could wish my father didn’t seem quite so fond of him. Oh – there’s somebody coming!”
Instinctively she wheeled her horse into the deeper shadow of the birches and Miss Schuyler followed. There was no habitation within a league of them, and though the frost, which put a period to the homesteaders’ activities, lessened the necessity for the cattle-barons’ watchfulness, unpleasant results had once or twice attended a chance encounter between their partisans. It was also certain that somebody was coming, and Hetty felt her heart beat as she made out the tramp of three horses. The vultures the struggle had attracted had, she knew, much less consideration for women than the homesteaders or cattle-boys.
“Hadn’t we better ride on?” asked Miss Schuyler.
“No,” said Hetty; “they would most certainly see us out on the prairie. Back your horse quite close to mine. If we keep quiet they might pass us here.”
Her voice betrayed what she was feeling, and Flora Schuyler felt unpleasantly apprehensive as she urged her horse farther into the gloom. The trampling came nearer, and by and by a man’s voice reached her.
“Hadn’t you better pull up and get down?” it said. “I’m not much use at tracking, but somebody has been along here a little while ago. You see, there are only three of us!”
“They’re homesteaders, and they’ve found our trail,” exclaimed Hetty, with a little gasp of dismay.
There was scarcely an opening one could ride through between the birches behind them, and it was evident that the horsemen could scarcely fail to see them the moment they left their shelter. One of them had already dismounted, and was apparently stooping beside the prints the horse-hoofs had left where a little snow had sifted down upon the trail. Hetty heard his laugh, and it brought her a great relief.
“I don’t think you need worry, Breckenridge. There were only two of them.”
Hetty wheeled her horse. “It’s Larry,” she said.
A minute later he saw them, and, pulling up, took off his hat; but Flora Schuyler noticed that he ventured on no more than this.
“It is late for you to be out alone. You are riding home?” he said.
“Of course!” said Hetty with, Miss Schuyler fancied, a chilliness which contrasted curiously with the relief she had shown a minute or two earlier.
“Well,” said Grant quietly, “I’m afraid you will have to put up with our company. There are one or two men I have no great opinion of somewhere about this prairie. This is Mr. Breckenridge, and as the trail is rough and narrow, he will follow with Miss Schuyler. I presume you don’t mind riding with him, although, like the rest of us, he is under the displeasure of your friends the cattle-barons?”
Miss Schuyler looked at him steadily. “I don’t know enough of this trouble to make sure who is right,” she said. “But I should never be prejudiced against any American who was trying to do what he felt was the work meant for him.”
“Well,” said Grant, with a little laugh, “Breckenridge will feel sorry that he’s an Englishman.”
Miss Schuyler turned to the young man graciously, and the dim light showed there was a twinkle in her eyes.
“That,” she said, “is the next best thing. Since you are with Mr. Grant you no doubt came out to this country because you thought we needed reforming, Mr. Breckenridge?”
The lad laughed as they rode on up the trail with Grant and Hetty in front of them, and Muller following.
“No,” he said. “To be frank, I came out because my friends in the old one seemed to fancy the same thing of me. When they have no great use for a young man yonder, they generally send him to America. In fact, they send some of them quite a nice cheque quarterly so long as they stay there. You see, we are like the hedgehogs, or your porcupines, if you grow them here, Miss Schuyler.”
Flora Schuyler smiled. “You are young, or you wouldn’t empty the magazine all at once in answer to a single shot.”
“Well,” said Breckenridge, “so are you. It is getting dark, but I have a notion that you are something else too. The fact I mentioned explains the liberty.”
Flora shook her head. “The dusk is kind. Any way, I know I am years older than you. There are no little girls in this country like the ones you have been accustomed to.”
“Now,” said Breckenridge, “my sisters and cousins are, I firmly believe, a good deal nicer than those belonging to most other men; but, you see, I have quite a lot of them, and any one so favoured loses a good many illusions.”
In the meantime Hetty, who, when she fancied he would not observe it, glanced at him now and then, rode silently beside Grant until he turned to her.
“I have a good deal to thank you for, Hetty, and – for you know I was never clever at saying the right thing – I don’t quite know how to begin. Still, in the old times we understood just what each other meant so well that talking wasn’t necessary. You know I’m grateful for my liberty and would sooner take it from you than anybody else, don’t you?”
Hetty laid a restraint upon herself, for there was a thrill in the man’s voice, which awakened a response within her. “Wouldn’t it be better to forget those days?” she said. “It is very different now.”
“It isn’t easy,” said Grant, checking a sigh. “I ’most fancied they had come back the night you told me how to get away.”
Hetty’s horse plunged as she tightened its bridle in a fashion there was no apparent necessity for. “That,” she said chillingly, “was quite foolish of you, and it isn’t kind to remind folks of the things they had better not have done. Now, you told us the prairie wasn’t safe because of some of your friends.”
“No,” said Grant drily, “I don’t think I did. I told you there were some men around I would sooner you didn’t fall in with.”
“Then they must be your partisans. There isn’t a cattle-boy in this country who would be uncivil to a woman.”
“I wish I was quite sure. Still, there are men coming in who don’t care who is right, and only want to stand in with the men who will give them the most dollars or let them take what they can. We have none to give away.”
“Larry,” the girl said hotly, “do you mean that we would be glad to pay them?”
“No. But they will most of them quite naturally go over to you, which will make it harder for us to get rid of them. We have no use for men of that kind in this country.”
“No?” said the girl scornfully. “Well, I fancied they would have come in quite handy – there was a thing you did.”
“You heard of that?”
“Yes,” very coldly. “It was a horrible thing.”
Grant’s voice changed to a curious low tone. “Did you ever see me hurt anything when I could help it in the old days, Hetty?”
“No. One has to be honest; I remember how you once hurt your hand taking a jack-rabbit out of a trap.”
“And how you bound it up?”
“Well,” said Hetty, “I don’t know, after the work you have done with it, that I should care to do that now.”
“There are affairs you should never hear of and I don’t care to talk about with you,” Grant said, very quietly, “but since you have mentioned this one you must listen to me. Just as it is one’s duty to give no needless pain to anything, so there is an obligation on him to stop any other man who would do it. Is it wrong to kill a grizzly or a rattlesnake, or merciful to leave them with their meanness to destroy whatever they want? Now, if you had known a quiet American who did a tolerably dangerous thing because he fancied it was right, and found him shot in the back, and the trail of the man who crept up behind him and killed him for a few dollars, would you have let that man go?”
Hetty ignored the question. “The man was your friend.”
“Well,” said Grant slowly, “he had done a good deal for me, but that would not have counted for very much with any one when we made our decision.”
“No?” And Hetty glanced at him with a little astonishment.
Grant shook his head. “No,” he said. “We had to do the square thing – that and nothing more; but if we had let that man go, he would, when the chance was given him, have done what he did again. Well, it was – horrible; but there was no law that would do the work for us in this country then.”
Hetty shivered, but had there been light enough Grant would have seen the relief in her face, and as it was his pulse responded to the little quiver in her voice. Why it was she did not know, but the belief in him which she had once cherished suddenly returned to her. In the old days the man she had never thought of as a lover could, at least, do no wrong.
“I understand.” Her voice was very gentle. “There must be a good deal of meanness in me, or I should have known you only did it because you are a white man, and felt you had to. Oh, of course, I know – only it’s so much easier to go round another way so you can’t see what you don’t want to. Larry, I’m sorry.”
Grant’s voice quivered. “The only thing you ever do wrong, Hetty, is to forget to think now and then; and by and by you will find somebody who is good enough to think for you.”
The girl smiled. “He would have to be very patient, and the trouble is that if he was clever enough to do the thinking he wouldn’t have the least belief in me. You are the only man, Larry, who could see people’s meannesses and still have faith in them.”
“I am a blunderer who has taken up a contract that’s too big for him,” Grant said gravely. “I have never told anyone else, Hetty, but there are times now and then when, knowing the kind of man I am, I get ’most sick with fear. All the poor men in this district are looking to me, and, though I lie awake at night, I can’t see how I’m going to help them when one trace of passion would let loose anarchy. It’s only right they’re wanting, that is, most of the Dutchmen and the Americans – but there’s the mad red rabble behind them, and the bitter rage of hard men who have been trampled on, to hold in. It’s a crushing weight we who hold the reins have got to carry. Still, we were made only plain farmer men, and I guess we’re not going to be saddled with more than we can bear.”
He had spoken solemnly from the depths of his nature, and all that was good in the girl responded.
“Larry,” she said softly, “while you feel just that I think you can’t go wrong. It is what is right we are both wanting, and – though I don’t know how – I feel we will get it by and by, and then it will be the best thing for homestead-boys and cattle-barons. When that time comes we will be glad there were white men who took up their load and worried through, and when this trouble’s worked out and over there will be nothing to stop us being good friends again.”
“Is that quite out of the question now?”
“Yes,” said Hetty simply. “I am sorry, but, Larry, can’t you understand? You are leading the homestead-boys, and my father the cattle-barons. First of all I’ve got to be a dutiful daughter.”
“Of course,” he agreed. “Well, it can’t last for ever, and we can only do the best we can. Other folks had the same trouble when the boys in Sumter fired the starting gun – North and South at each other’s throats, and both Americans!”
Hetty decided that she had gone sufficiently far, and turned in her saddle. “What is the Englishman telling you, Flo?” she asked.
Miss Schuyler laughed. “He was almost admitting that the girls in this country are as pretty as those they raise in the one he came from.”
“Well,” said Breckenridge, “if it was daylight I’d be sure.”
Grant fancied that it was not without a purpose his companion checked her horse to let the others come up, and, though it cost him an effort, acquiesced. His laugh was almost as ready as that of the rest as they rode on four abreast, until at last the lights of Cedar Range blinked beside the bluff. Then, they grew suddenly silent again as Muller, who it seemed remembered that he had been taught by the franc tireurs, rode past them with his rifle across his saddle. They pulled up when his figure cut blackly against the sky on the crest of a rise, and Hetty’s laugh was scarcely light-hearted.
“You have been very good, and I am sorry I can’t ask you to come in,” she said. “Still, I don’t know that it’s all our fault; we are under martial law just now.”
Grant took off his hat and wheeled his horse, and when the girls rode forward sat rigid and motionless, watching them until he saw the ray from the open door of Cedar Range. Then, Muller trotted up, and with a little sigh he turned homewards across the prairie.
About the same time Richard Clavering lay smoking, in a big chair in the room where he kept his business books and papers. He wore, among other somewhat unusual things, a velvet jacket, very fine linen, and on one of his long, slim fingers a ring of curious Eastern workmanship. Clavering was a man of somewhat expensive tastes, and his occasional visits to the cities had cost him a good deal, which was partly why an accountant, famous for his knowledge of ranching property, now sat busy at a table. He was a shrewd, direct American, and had already spent several days endeavouring to ascertain the state of Clavering’s finances.
“Nearly through?” the rancher asked, with a languidness which the accountant fancied was assumed.
“I can give you a notion of how you stand, right now,” he answered. “You want me to be quite candid?”
“Oh, yes,” said Clavering, with a smile of indifference. “I’m in a tight place, Hopkins?”
“I guess you are – any way, if you go on as you’re doing. You see what I consider it prudent to write off the value of your property?”
Clavering examined the paper handed him with visible astonishment. “Why have you whittled so much off the face value?”
“Just because you’re going to have that much taken away from you by and by.”
Clavering’s laugh was quietly scornful. “By the homestead-boys?”
“By the legislature of this State. The law is against you holding what you’re doing now.”
“We make what law there is out here.”
“Well,” said Hopkins, coolly, “I guess you’re not going to do it long. You know the maxim about fooling the people. It can’t be done.”
“Aren’t you talking like one of those German socialists?”
“On the contrary. I quite fancy I’m talking like a business man. Now, you want to realize on those cattle before the winter takes the flesh off them, and extinguish the bank loan with what you get for them.”
Clavering’s face darkened. “That would strip the place, and I’d have to borrow to stock again.”
“You’d have to run a light stock for a year or two.”
“It wouldn’t suit me to do anything that would proclaim my poverty just now,” said Clavering.
“Then you’ll have to do it by and by. The interest on the bond is crippling you.”
“Well.” Clavering lighted another cigar. “I told you to be straight. Go right on. Tell me just what you would do if the place was in your hands.”
“Sell out those cattle and take the big loan up. Clear off the imported horses and pedigree brood mares. You have been losing more dollars than many a small rancher makes over them the last few years.”
“I like good horses round the place,” Clavering said languidly.
“The trouble,” said Hopkins, “is that you can’t afford to have them. Then, I would cut down my personal expenses by at least two-thirds. The ranch can’t stand them. Do you know what you have been spending in the cities?”
“No. I gave you a bundle of bills so you could find it out.”
Hopkins’ smile was almost contemptuous. “I guess you had better burn them when I am through. I’ll mention one or two items. One hundred dollars for flowers; one thousand in several bills from Chicago jewellers! The articles would count as an asset. Have you got them?”
“I haven’t,” said Clavering. “They were for a lady.”
“Well,” said Hopkins, “you know best; but one would have fancied there was more than one of them from the bills. Here’s another somewhat curious item: hats – I guess they came from Paris – and millinery, two hundred dollars’ worth of them!”
A little angry light crept into Clavering’s eyes. “If I hadn’t been so abominably careless you wouldn’t have seen those bills. I meant to put them down as miscellaneous and destroy the papers. Well, I’ve done with that extravagance, any way, and it’s to hear the truth I’m paying you quite a big fee. If I go on just as I’m doing, how long would you give me?”
“Two years. Then the bank will put the screw on you. The legislature may pull you up earlier, but I can tell you more when I’ve squared up to-morrow.”
There was a curious look in Clavering’s dark eyes, but he laughed again.
“I guess that’s about enough. But I’ll leave you to it now,” he said. “It’s quite likely I’ll have got out of the difficulty before one of those years is over.”
He went out, and a few minutes later stopped as he passed the one big mirror in the ranch, and surveyed himself critically for a moment with a dispassionate interest that was removed from vanity. Then he nodded as if contented.
“With Torrance to back me it might be done,” he said. “Liberty is sweet, but I don’t know that it’s worth at least fifty thousand dollars!”
XII
THE SPROUTING OF THE SEED
Late in the afternoon of a bitter day Grant drove into sight of the last of the homesteaders’ dwellings that lay within his round. It rose, a shapeless mound of white, from the wilderness that rolled away in billowy rises, shining under the sunlight that had no warmth in it. The snow that lay deep about its sod walls and upon the birch-branch roof hid its squalidness, and covered the pile of refuse and empty cans, but Grant knew what he would find within it, and when he pulled up his team his face grew anxious. It was graver than it had been a year ago, for Larry Grant had lost a good deal of his hopefulness since he heard those footsteps at the depot.
The iron winter, that was but lightly felt in the homes of the cattle-barons, had borne hardly on the men huddled in sod-hovel, and birch-log shanty, swept by the winds of heaven at fifty degrees below. They had no thick furs to shelter them, and many had very little food, while on those who came from the cities the cold of the Northwest set its mark, numbing the half-fed body and unhinging the mind. The lean farmers from the Dakotas who had fought with adverse seasons, and the sinewy axe-men from Michigan clearings, bore it with grim patience, but there were here and there a few who failed to stand the strain, and, listening to the outcasts from the East, let passion drive out fortitude and dreamed of anarchy. They had come in with a pitiful handful of dollars to build new homes and farm, but the rich men, and in some cases their own supineness, had been too strong for them; and while they waited their scanty capital melted away. Now, with most of them it had almost gone, and they were left without the means to commence the fight in spring.
Breckenridge saw the shadow in Grant’s face, and touched his arm. “I’ll go in and give the man his dollars, Larry,” he said. “You have had about as much worry as is good for you to-day.”
Grant shook his head. “I’ve no use for shutting my eyes so I can’t see a thing when I know it’s there.”
He stepped out of the sleigh and went into the shanty. The place had one room, and, though a stove stood in the midst of it and the snow that kept some of the frost out was piled to the windows, it was dank and chill. Only a little dim light crept in, and it was a moment or two before Grant saw the man who sat idle by the stove with a clotted bandage round his leg. He was gaunt, and clad in jean patched with flour-bags, and his face showed haggard under his bronze. Behind him on a rude birch-branch couch covered with prairie hay a woman lay apparently asleep beneath a tattered fur coat.
“What’s the matter with her?” Grant asked.
“I don’t quite know. She got sick ’most two weeks ago, and talks of a pain that only leaves her when she’s sleeping. One of the boys drove in to the railroad for the doctor, but he’s busy down there. Any way, it would have taken him ’most a week to get here and back, and I guess he knew I hadn’t the dollars to pay him with.”
Grant recognized the hopeless evenness of the tone, but Breckenridge, who was younger, did not.
“But you can’t let her lie here without help of any kind,” he said.
“Well,” said the man slowly, “what else can I do?”
Breckenridge could not tell him, and appealed to his comrade. “We have got to take this up, Larry. She looks ill.”
Grant nodded. “I have friends down yonder who will send that doctor out,” he said. “Here are your dollars from the fund. Ten of them this time.”
The man handed him one of the bills back. “If you want me to take more than five you’ll have to show your book,” he said. “I’ve been finding out how you work these affairs, Larry.”
Grant only laughed, but Breckenridge turned to the speaker with an assumption of severity that was almost ludicrous in his young face.
“Now, don’t you make yourself a consumed ass,” he said. “You want those dollars considerably more than we do, and we’ve got quite a few of them doing nothing in the bank. That is, Larry has.”
Grant’s eyes twinkled. “It’s no use, Breckenridge. I know the kind of man he is. I’m going to send Miss Muller here, and we’ll come round and pound the foolishness out of you if you try to send back anything she brings with her. This place is as cold as an ice-store. What’s the matter with your stove?”
“The stove’s all right,” and the man pointed to his leg. “The trouble is that I’ve very little wood. Axe slipped the last time I went chopping in the bluff, and the frost got into the cut. I couldn’t make three miles on one leg, and pack a load of billets on my back.”
“But you’d freeze when those ran out, and they couldn’t last you two days,” said Breckenridge, glancing at the little pile of fuel.
“Yes,” said the man grimly. “I guess I would, unless one of the boys came along.”
“Anything wrong with your oxen?” asked Grant.
“Well,” said the man drily, “we’ve been living for ’most two months on one of them. I salted a piece of him; the rest’s frozen. I had to sell the other to a Dutchman. Since the cattle-boys stopped me ploughing I hadn’t much use for them, any way.”
“Then,” said Breckenridge, “why the devil did you bring a woman out to this forsaken country?”
Perhaps the man understood what prompted the question, for he did not resent it. “Where was I to take her to? I’m a farmer without dollars, and I had to go somewhere when I’d lost three wheat crops in Dakota. Somebody told me you had room for small farmers, and when I heard the land was to be opened for homesteading, I sold out everything, and came on here to begin again. Never saw a richer soil, and there’s only one thing wrong with the country.”
“The men in it?” asked Breckenridge.
The farmer nodded, and a little glow crept into his eyes. “Yes,” he said fiercely. “The cattle-barons – and there’ll be no room for anyone until we’ve done away with them. We’ve no patience for more fooling. It has got to be done.”
“That’s the executive’s business,” said Grant.
The man rose, with a little quiver of his lean frame and a big hand clenched. “No,” he said, “it’s our business, and the business of every honest citizen. If you don’t tackle it right off, other men will put the contract through.”
“You’ll have to talk plainer,” said Grant.
“Well,” said the farmer, “that’s easy. It was you and some of the others brought us in, and now we’re here we’re starving. There’s land to feed a host of us, and every citizen is entitled to enough to make a living on. But while the cattle-men keep hold, how’s he going to get it? Oh, yes, we’ve cut their fences and broken a few acres here and there; but how are we going to put through our ploughing when every man who drives a furrow has to whip up six of his neighbours to keep the cow-boys off him? Well, there’s just one answer. We’re going to pull those men down.”
“You’re going to sit tight until your leaders tell you to move,” Grant informed him.
The man laughed harshly. “No,” he said. “Unless they keep ahead of us we’re going to trail them along. You’re a straight man, Larry, but you don’t see all you’ve done. You set this thing going, and now you can’t step out if it goes too far for you. No, sir, you’ve got to keep the pace and come along, and it’s going to be quite lively now some of the Chicago anarchy boys are chipping in.”
Grant’s face was very stern. “When they’re wanted, your leaders will be there,” he said. “They’ve got hold, and they’ll keep it, if they have to whip the sense into some of you. Now give me that axe of yours, and we’ll get some wood. I don’t want to hear any more wild talking.”
He went out, taking Breckenridge with him, and an hour later returned with a sleigh-load of birch branches, which he flung down before the shanty. Then, he turned the team towards Fremont ranch, and his face was grave as he stared over the horses’ heads at the smear of trail that wound away, a blue-grey riband, before the gliding sleigh.
“I wonder if that fellow meant to give us a hint,” said Breckenridge.
Grant nodded. “I think he did – and he was right about the rest. Two years ago I was a prosperous rancher, proud of the prairie I belonged to, and without a care; but I could see what this country was meant to be, and when the others started talking about the homestead movement I did my share. Folks seemed keen to listen; we got letters from everywhere, and we told the men who wrote them just what the land could do. It was sowing blindfold, and now the crop’s above the sod it ’most frightens me. No man can tell what it will grow to be before it’s ready for the binder, and while we’ve got the wheat we’ve got the weeds as well.”
“Wasn’t it always like that? At least, it seems so from reading a little history. I don’t know that I envy you, Larry. In the tongue of this country, it’s a hard row you have to hoe. Of course, there are folks who would consider they had done enough in planting it.”
“Yes,” Grant agreed, “we have quite a few of them over here; but, if more than we’ve planted has come up, I’m going right through.”
Breckenridge said nothing further, and there was silence until the lights of Fremont rose out of the snowy wilderness. When they reached it they found a weary man lying in a big chair; he pointed to the litter of plates on the table as he handed Grant a letter.
“I haven’t eaten since sun up, and drove most of sixty miles, so I didn’t wait,” he said. “Our executive boss, who told me to lose no time, seemed kind of worried about something.”
Grant opened the letter, which was terse. “Look out,” he read. “We had to put the screw on a crazy Pole who has been making wild speeches here, and as he lit out I have a notion he means to see what he can do with the discontented in your district. We couldn’t have him raising trouble round this place, any way. It’s taking us both hands to hold the boys in already.”
“Bad news?” said Breckenridge sympathetically.
“Yes,” Grant said wearily. “Get your supper and sleep when you can. You’ll be driving from sun up until after it’s dark to-morrow.”
They ate almost in silence, but, though the messenger and Breckenridge retired shortly after the meal, Grant sat writing until late in the night. Then, he stretched his arms wearily above his head, and his face showed worn and almost haggard in the flickering lamplight.
“It has put Hetty further from me than ever, and cost me the goodwill of every friend I had; while the five thousand dollars I’ve lost as well don’t count for very much after that,” he said.
Early next morning Breckenridge and the messenger drove away, and rather more than a week later Fräulein Muller, whom the former had taken to attend on the homesteader’s wife, arrived one night at Fremont ranch. She came in, red-cheeked, unconcerned, and shapeless, in Muller’s fur coat, and quietly brushed the dusty snow from her dress before she sat down as far as possible from the stove.
“I a message from Mrs. Harper bring,” she said. “Last night two men to Harper’s house have come, and one now and then will to the other talk in our tongue. He is one, I think, who will destroy everything. Then they talk with Harper long in the stable, and to-day Harper with his rifle rides away. Mrs. Harper, who has fears for her husband, would have you know that to-night, or to-morrow he will go with other men to the Cedar Ranch.”
