CHAPTER XXVI.

“I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn’t write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, ’Tana; though I’ll tell you more of that next time.“I must tell you Mr. Harris has got better—can talk some and walk around; can’t move his left arm any325yet. But Mr. Dan sent for two fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. And I was scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it didn’t. Lavina is here still, and likely to stay. She’s a heap of company; and she and Captain Leek are better friends than they was.“There is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near Bonner’s Ferry, and sold it out well. He was a farmer back in Indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. Mr. Dan says it’s my cooking fetches him. Everything is different here now. Mr. Dan got sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone house, just as if he intends to live and die here. He doesn’t ever seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days. Sometimes I think he ain’t well. Sometimes, ’Tana, I think it would cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to time. He always says, ‘Is she well?’ when I get a letter from you; and about the time I’m looking for your letters he’s mighty regular about getting the mail here.“That old Akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he’ll be back when the leaves get green. His whole village was drunk for days on the money you had Mr. Seldon give him, and he wore pink feathers from some millinery store the last time I saw him. But Mr. Dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober.“I guess that’s all the news. Lavina sends her respects. And I must tell you that on Christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys drank your health—and drank it so often Mr. Dan had to give them a talking to. They think a heap of you. Yours with affection,“Lorena Jane Huzzard.“P. S.—William McCoy is the name of the stranger I spoke of. The boys call him Bill.”

“I got Lavina to write you the letter at Christmas, because I was so tickled with all the things you sent me that I couldn’t write a straight line to save me; and you know the rheumatiz in my finger makes it hard work for me sometimes. But maybe hard work and me is about done with each other, ’Tana; though I’ll tell you more of that next time.

“I must tell you Mr. Harris has got better—can talk some and walk around; can’t move his left arm any325yet. But Mr. Dan sent for two fine doctors, and they tried to help him with electricity. And I was scared for fear lightning might strike camp after that; but it didn’t. Lavina is here still, and likely to stay. She’s a heap of company; and she and Captain Leek are better friends than they was.

“There is a new man in camp now; he found a silver mine down near Bonner’s Ferry, and sold it out well. He was a farmer back in Indiana, and has been on a visit to our camp twice. Mr. Dan says it’s my cooking fetches him. Everything is different here now. Mr. Dan got sawed lumber, and put me up a nice little house; and up above the bluff he has laid out a place where he is going to build a stone house, just as if he intends to live and die here. He doesn’t ever seem to think that he has enough made now to rest all his days. Sometimes I think he ain’t well. Sometimes, ’Tana, I think it would cheer him up if you would just write him a few lines from time to time. He always says, ‘Is she well?’ when I get a letter from you; and about the time I’m looking for your letters he’s mighty regular about getting the mail here.

“That old Akkomi went south when winter set in, and we reckon he’ll be back when the leaves get green. His whole village was drunk for days on the money you had Mr. Seldon give him, and he wore pink feathers from some millinery store the last time I saw him. But Mr. Dan is always patient with him whether he is drunk or sober.

“I guess that’s all the news. Lavina sends her respects. And I must tell you that on Christmas they got some whisky, and all the boys drank your health—and drank it so often Mr. Dan had to give them a talking to. They think a heap of you. Yours with affection,

“Lorena Jane Huzzard.

“Lorena Jane Huzzard.

“P. S.—William McCoy is the name of the stranger I spoke of. The boys call him Bill.”

326CHAPTER XXVI.OVERTON’S WIFE.

A few hours later, ’Tana sat in a box at the theater; for the party she had suggested had been arranged, and pretty Miss Margaret was radiant over the evening planned for her, and ’Tana began to enjoy her rôle of matchmaker. She had even managed to tell Margaret, in a casual manner, that Miss Seldon’s idea of a decided engagement between herself and Max had never a very solid foundation, and now had none at all. He was her good friend—that was all, and she was to leave for Italy in a month.

And Margaret went up to her and kissed her, looking at her with puzzled, admiring eyes.

“They tried at home to make me think very differently,” she said. “But you are a queer girl, Miss Montana. You have told me this on purpose, and—”

“And I want to hear over in Italy that you are going to make a boy I like very happy some of these days. Remember, Margaret, you are—or will be—a millionairess, while he has not more than a comfortable income; and boys—even when they are in love—can be proud. Will you think of that?”

Margaret only blushed and turned away, but the answer was quite satisfying to ’Tana, and she felt freer because her determination had been put into words, and the last bond connecting her with the old life was to be327broken. Ever since the snows had gone, some cord of her heart-string had been drawing all her thoughts to those Northern hills, and she felt the only safety was to put the ocean between them and her.

The home Mr. Seldon had offered her with his sister was a very lovely one, but to it there came each week letters about the mines and the people there. Mr. Seldon had already gone out, and would be gone all summer. As he was an enthusiast over the beauties and the returns of the country, his letters were full of material that she heard discussed each day. Therefore, the only safety for herself lay in flight; and if she did not go across the ocean to the East, she would surely grow weaker and more homesick until she would have to turn coward entirely and cross the mountains to her West.

Realizing it all, she sat in her dainty array of evening dress and watched with thoughts far away the mimic scene of love triumphant on the stage before her. When, on the painted canvas, a far-off snow-crowned mountain rose to their view, her heart seemed to creep to her throat and choke her, and when the orchestra breathed softly of the winds, music, and the twittering of birds, the tears rose to her eyes and a great longing in her heart for all the wild beauty of her Kootenai land.

Then, just as the curtain went down on the second act, some one entered their box.

“You, Harvey?” said Max, with genuine pleasure. “Good of you to look me up. Let me introduce you to my aunt and Miss Haydon. You and Miss Rivers are old acquaintances.”

“Yes; and that fact alone has brought me here just now,” he managed to say to Lyster. “To confess the truth, I have been to see Miss Rivers at her home this328evening, having got her address from Roden, and then had the assurance to follow her here. You may be sure I would not have spoiled your evening for any trivial thing, but I come because of a woman who is dying.”

“A woman who is dying?” repeated ’Tana, in wonder. “And why do you come to me?”

“She wants to see you. I think—to tell you something.”

“But who is it?” asked Lyster. “Some beggar?”

“She is a beggar now at least,” agreed Mr. Harvey—“a poor woman dying. She said only to tell Miss Rivers, and here is a line she sent.”

He gave her a slip of paper, and on it was written:

“Come and take some word to Dan Overton for me. I am dying.Overton’s wife.”

“Come and take some word to Dan Overton for me. I am dying.

Overton’s wife.”

Overton’s wife.”

She arose, and Margaret exclaimed at the whiteness of her face.

“Oh, my dear,” sighed Miss Seldon, “you know how I warned you not to give your charities individually among the beggars of a city. It is really a mistake. They have no consideration, and will send for you at all hours if you will go. It is so much better to distribute charity through some organization.”

But ’Tana was tying her opera cloak, and moving toward the entrance.

“I am going,” she said. “Don’t worry. Is it far, Mr. Harvey? If not, perhaps I can be back to go home with you when the curtain goes down.”

“It is not far,” he answered. “Will you come, Lyster?”

“No!” said ’Tana; “you stay with the others, Max. Don’t look vexed. Maybe I can be of some use, and that is what I need.”

Many heads turned to look at the girl whose laces329were so elegant, and whose beautiful face wore such a startled, questioning expression. But she hurried out of their sight, and gave a little nervous shiver as she wrapped her white velvet cloak close about her and sank into a corner of the carriage.

“Are you cold?” Harvey asked, but she shook her head.

“No. But tell me all.”

“There is not much. I was with a doctor—a friend of mine—who was called in to see her. She recognized me. It is the little variety actress who came over the Great Northern, on our train.”

“Oh! But how could she know me?”

“She did not know your name; she only described you, remembering that I had talked with you and your friends. When I told her you were in the city, she begged so for you to come that I could not refuse to try.”

“You did right,” she answered. “But it is very strange—very strange.”

Then the carriage stopped before a dingy house in a row that had once belonged to a very fashionable quarter, but that was long ago. Boarding houses they were now, and their class was about number three.

“It is a horrible place to bring you to, Miss Rivers,” confessed her guide; “and I am really glad Miss Seldon did not accompany you, for she never would have forgiven either of us. But I knew you would not be afraid.”

“No, I am not afraid. But, oh, why don’t they hurry?”

He had to ring the bell the second time ere any one came to the door. Then, as the harsh jangle died away, steps were heard descending the stairs, and a man without a coat and with a pipe in his mouth, shot back the bolt with much grumbling.330

“I’ll cut the blasted wire if some one in the shebang don’t tend to this door better,” he growled to a lady with a mug of beer, who just then emerged from the lower regions. “Me a-trying to get the lines of that new afterpiece in my head—chock-full of business, too!—and that bell clanging forever right under my room. I’ll move!”

“I wish you would,” remarked Harvey, when the door opened at last. “Move a little faster when you do condescend to open the door. Come, Miss Rivers—up this way.”

And the lady of the beer mug and the gentleman of the pipe stared at each other, and at the white vision of girlhood going up the dark, bad-smelling stairway.

“Well, that’s a new sort in this castle,” remarked the man. “Do you guess the riddle of it?”

The woman did not answer, but listened to the footsteps as they went along the hall. Then a door opened and shut.

“They’ve gone to Goldie’s room,” she said. “That’s queer. Goldie ain’t the sort to have very high-toned friends, so it can’t be a long-lost sister,” and she smiled contemptuously.

“She’s a beauty, anyway, and I’m going to see her when she makes her exit, if I have to sit up all night.”

“Oh! And what about the afterpiece?”

“To the devil with the afterpiece! It hasn’t any angels in it.”

Inside Goldie’s room, a big Dutch blonde in a soiled blue wrapper sat by the bed, and stared in open-mouthed surprise at the new-comers.

“Is ityoushe’s been askin’ for?” she asked, bluntly.

But ’Tana did not reply, and Harvey got the blonde331to the door, and after a few whispered words, induced her to go out altogether, and closed the door behind her.

“I thought you’d come,” whispered the little woman on the bed. “I thought the note would bring you. I saw you talk to him, and I dropped to the game. You’re square, too, ain’t you? That’s the kind I want now. That swell who went for you is the right sort, too. I minded his face and yours. But tell him to go out for a minute. It won’t take long—to tell you.”

Harvey went, at a motion from ’Tana. She had not uttered a word yet. All she could do was to stare in wonder at the wreck of a woman before her—a painted wreck; for, even on her deathbed, the ghastly face was tinted with rouge.

“I can’t get well—doctor says,” she continued. “There was a baby; it died yesterday—three hours old; and I can’t get well. But there is another one I want to tell you of. You tell him. It is two years old. Here is the address. Maybe he will take care of it for me. He was good-hearted—that’s why he married me; thought I was only a little girl without a home. Any woman could fool him, for he thought all women were good. He thought I was only a little girl; and I had been married three years before.”

She smiled at the idea of that past deception, while ’Tana’s face grew hard and white.

“How you look!” said the dying woman. “Well, it’s over now. He never cared for me much, though—not so much as others did. He was never my real husband, you know, for I never had a divorce. He thought he was, though; and even after he left me, he sent me money regular for me to live quiet in ’Frisco, but it didn’t suit me. Then he got turned dead against me332when I tried to make him think the child was his. He wouldn’t do anything for me after that; I had cheated him once too often.”

“And was it?” It was the first time ’Tana had spoken, and the woman smiled.

“You care, too, do you? Well, yes, it was. You tell him so; tell him I said so, and I was dying. He’ll take care of her, I think. She’s pretty, but not like me. He never saw her. She’s with a woman in Chicago, where I boarded. I haven’t paid her board now for months, but it’s all right; the woman’s a good soul. Dan Overton will pay when you tell him.”

“You write an order for that child, and tell the woman to give it to me,” said ’Tana, decidedly, and looked around for something to write with. A sheet of paper was found, and she went to Harvey for a pencil.

“’Most ready to go?” he asked, looking at her anxiously.

She nodded her head, and shut the door.

“But I can’t write now; my hands are too weak,” complained the woman. “I can’t.”

“You’vegotto!” answered the girl; and, taking her in her strong young hands, she raised her up higher on the pillow. “There is the paper and pencil—now write.”

“It will kill me to lay like this.”

“No matter if it does; you write.”

“You’re not a woman at all; you’re like iron—white iron,” whined the other. “Any woman with a heart—” and the weak tears came in her eyes.

“No, I have no heart to be touched by you,” answered the girl. “You had a chance to live a decent life, and you wouldn’t take it. You had an honest man to trust333you and take care of you, and you paid him with deceit. Don’t expect pity from me; but write that order.”

She tried to write but could not, and the girl took the pencil.

“I will write it, and you can sign it,” she said; “that will do as well.”

Thus it was accomplished, and the woman was again laid lower in the bed.

“You are terrible hard on—on folks that ain’t just square,” she said. “You needn’t be so proud; you ain’t dead yet yourself. You don’t know what may happen to you.”

“I know,” said the girl, coldly, “that if I ever brought children into the world, to be thrown on strangers’ hands and brought up in the streets to live your sort of life, I would expect a very practical sort of hell prepared for me. Have you anything more to tell me? I’m going.”

“Oh—h! I wish you hadn’t said that about hell. I’m dreadful afraid of hell,” moaned the woman.

“Yes,” said the girl; “you ought to be.”

“How hard you are! And the doctor said I would die to-night.”

Then she lay still quite a while, and when she spoke again, her voice seemed weaker.

“You have that order for Gracie, and you are so hard-hearted. I don’t know what you will do—and I don’t want her to grow up like me.”

“That is the first womanly thing I have heard you say,” replied the girl.

She went over to the bed and took the woman’s hands in hers, looking at her earnestly.

“Your child shall have a beautiful and a good home,” she said, reassuringly. “I am going for her myself334to-morrow, and she will never lack care again. Have you any other word to give me?”

The woman shook her head, and then as ’Tana turned away, she said:

“Not unless you would kiss me. You are not like other women; but—will you kiss me?”

And, with the pressure of the dying kiss on her lips, ’Tana went out the door.

“Please give her every care money can secure for her,” she said to the woman at the door; while the man, minus the pipe, was there to open it.

“Mr. Harvey, can I trouble you to look after it for me? You know the doctor and can learn all that is needed. Have the bills sent to me; and let me know when it is all—over.”

They reached the theater just as the curtain went down on the last act, and she remained in the carriage until her own party came out.

“I can hardly thank you enough for coming after me to-night,” she said, as she shook hands very cordially with Harvey. “You can never be a mere acquaintance to me again. You are my friend.”

“Have I ignorantly done some good?” he asked, and she smiled at him.

“Yes—more than you know—more than I can tell you.”

“Then may I hope not to be forgotten when you are in Italy?”

“Oh!” and the color flushed over all the pallor caught from that deathbed. “But I—I don’t think I will go to Italy after all, Mr. Harvey. I have changed my mind about that, and think I will go back to the Kootenai hills instead.”

335CHAPTER XXVII.LIFE AT TWIN SPRINGS.

Over all the land of the Kootenai the sun of early June was shining. Trees of wild fruits were white with blossoms, as if from far above on the mountains the snows had blown down and settled here and there on the new twigs of green.

And high up above the camp of the Twin Springs, Overton and Harris sat looking over the wide stretches of forest, and the younger man looked troubled.

“I think your fear is all an empty affair,” he said, in an argumentative tone. “You eat well and sleep well. What gives you the idea you are to be called in soon?”

“Several things,” said the other, slowly, and his speech was yet indistinct; “but most of all the feel of my feet and legs. A week ago my feet turned cold; this week the coldness is up to my knees, and it won’t go away. I know what it means. When it gets as high as my heart I’ll be done for. That won’t take long, Dan; and I want to see her first.”

“She can’t help you.”

“Yes, she can, too. You don’t know. Dan, send for her.”

“Things are all different with her now,” protested the other. “She’s with friends who are not of the diggings or the ranges, Joe. She is going to marry Max Lyster; and, altogether, is not the same little girl who made our336coffee for us down there in the flat. You must not expect that she will change all her new, happy life to run back here just because you want to talk to her.”

“She’ll come if you telegraph I want her,” insisted Harris. “I know her better than you do, Dan. The fine life will never spoil her. She would be happier here to-day in a canoe than she would be on a throne. I know her best.”

“She wasn’t very happy before she left here.”

“No,” he agreed; “but there were reasons, Dan. Why are you so set against her coming back?”

“Set against it? Oh, no.”

“Yes, you are. Mrs. Huzzard and all the camp would be only too glad to see her; but you—you say no. What’s your reason?”

“Joe, not many months ago you tried to make me suspicious of her,” said Overton, not moving his eyes from a distant blue peak of the hills. “You remember the day you fell in a heap? Well, I’ve never asked you your reasons for that; though I’ve thought of it considerably. You changed your mind about her afterward, and trusted her with the plan of this gold field down here. Now, you had reasons for that, too; but I never have asked you what they are. Do the same for me, will you?”

The other man did not answer for a little while, but he watched Dan’s moody face with a great deal of kindness in his own.

“You won’t tell me?” he said at last. “Well, that’s all right. But one of the reasons I want her back is to make clear to you all the unexplained things of last summer. There were things you should have been told—that would have made you two better friends, would have broken down the wall there always seemed to be337between you—or nearly always. (She wouldn’t tell you, and I couldn’t.) It left her always under a cloud to you, and she felt it. Many a time, Dan, she has knelt beside me and cried over her troubles to me—and they were troubles, too!—telling them all to me just because I couldn’t speak and tell them again. And I won’t, unless she lets me. But I don’t want to go over the range and know that you two, all your lives, will be apart and cold to each other on account of suspicions I could clear away.”

“Suspicions? No, I have no suspicions against her.”

“But you have had many a troubled hour because of that man found dead in her room, and his visit to her the night before, and that money she asked for that he was after. All such things that you could not clear her of in your own mind, when you cleared her of murder—they are things I want straightened out before I leave, Dan. You have both been good friends to me, and I don’t want any bar between you.”

“What does all that matter now, Joe? She is out of our lives, and in a happier one some one else is making for her. I am not likely ever to see her again. She won’t come back here.”

“I know her best; she will come if she is needed. I need her for once; and if you don’t send for her, I will, Dan. Will you send?”

But Overton got up and walked away without answering. Harris thought he would turn back after a little while, but he did not. He watched him out of sight, and he was still going higher up in the hills.

“Trying to walk away from his desire for her,” thought Joe, sadly. “Well, he never will. He thinks I don’t know. Poor Dan!”338

Then he whistled to a man down below him, and the man came and helped him down to camp, for his feet had grown helpless again in that strange chill of which he had spoken.

Mrs. Huzzard met him at the door of a sitting room, gorgeous as an apartment could well be in the Northern wilderness. All the luxuries obtainable were there; for, as Harris had to live so much of his time indoors, Overton seemed determined that he should get benefit from his new fortune in some way. The finest of furs and of weavings furnished the room, and a dainty little stand held a tea service of shell-pink china, from which the steam floated cheerily.

And Lorena Jane herself partook of the general air of prosperity, as she drew forward a great cushioned chair for the invalid and brought him a cup of fragrant tea.

“I just knew you was tired the minute I saw you coming down that hill,” she said, filling a cup herself and sitting down to enjoy it. “I knew a cup of tea would do you good, for you ain’t quite so brisk as you was a few weeks ago.”

“No,” he agreed, and gulped down the beverage with a dubious expression on his face. He very much preferred whisky as a tonic; but as Mrs. Huzzard was bound to use that new tea service every day for his benefit, he submitted without a protest and enjoyed most the number of cups she disposed of.

“I suppose, now, you got sight from up there on the hill of the two young folks going boat riding?” she remarked, with attempted indifference; and he looked at her questioningly.

“Oh, I mean Lavina and the captain! Yes, he did339get up ambition enough to paddle a boat and ask her to ride in it; and away they went, giddy as you please!”

“I thought you had a high regard for the captain?” remarked Harris.

“Who? Me? Well, as Mr. Overton’s relation, of course I show him respect,” and her tone was almost as pompous as that of the captain used to be. “But I must say, sir, that to admire a man—for me to admire a man—he must have a certain lot of push and ambition. He must be a real American, who don’t depend on the record of his dead relations to tell you how great he is—a man who will dig either gold or potatoes if he needs them, and not be afraid of spoiling his hands.”

“Somebody like this new lucky man, McCoy,” suggested Harris, and she smiled complacently but did not answer.

And out on the little creek, sure enough, Lavina and the captain were gliding with the current, and the current had got them into dangerous waters.

“And you won’t say yes, Lavina?” he asked, and she tapped her foot impatiently on the bottom of the boat.

“I told you yes twenty-five years ago, Alf Leek,” she answered.

He sighed helplessly. His old aggressive manner was all gone. The tactics he would adopt for any other woman were useless with this one. She knew him like a book. She had him completely cowed and miserable. No longer did he regale admiring friends with tales of the late war, and incidentally allow himself to be thought a hero. One look from Lavina would freeze the story of the hottest battle that ever was fought.

To be sure, she had as yet refrained from using words against him; but how long would she refrain? That340question he had asked himself until, in despair, a loop-hole from her quiet vengeance had occurred to him, and he had asked her to marry him.

“You never could—would marry any one else,” he said, pleadingly.

“Oh, couldn’t I?”

“And I couldn’t, either, Lavina,” he continued, looking at her sentimentally. But Lavina knew better.

“You would, if anybody would have you,” she retorted. “I know I reached here just in time to keep poor Lorena Jane from being made a victim of. You would have been a tyrant over her, with your great pretensions, if I hadn’t stopped it. You always were tyrannical, Alf Leek; and the only time you’re humble as you ought to be is when you meet some one who can tyrannize over you. You are one of the sort that needs it.”

“That’s why I asked you to marry me,” he remarked, meekly.

And after a moment she said:

“Well, thinking of it from that point of view, I guess I will.”

Far up on the heights, a man lying there alone saw the canoe with the man and the woman in it, and it brought back to him keen rushes of memory from the summer time that had been. It was only a year ago that ’Tana had stepped into his canoe, and gone with him to the new life of the settlement. How brave she had been! how daring! He liked best to remember her as she had been then, with all the storms and sunshine of her face. He liked to remember that she had said she would be cook for him, but for no other man. Of course her words were a child’s words, soon forgotten by her. But all her words and looks and their journeys made him341love the land he had known her in. They were all the treasures he had with which to comfort his loneliness.

And when in the twilight he descended to the camp, Joe—or his own longings—had won.

“I will send the telegram for you, old fellow,” he said, and that was all.

342CHAPTER XXVIII.AGAIN ON THE KOOTENAI.

Another canoe, with a woman in it, skimmed over the waters in the twilight that evening—a woman with all the gladness of youth in her bright eyes, and an eagerness for the north country that far outstripped the speed of the boat.

Each dark tree-trunk as it loomed up from the shores, each glint of the after-glow as it lighted the ripples, each whisper of the fresh, soft wind of the mountains, was to her as a special welcome. All of them touched her with the sense of a friendship that had been faithful. That she was no more to them than any of the strangers who came and went on the current, she could not believe; for they all meant so much, so very much to her.

She asked for a paddle, that she might once more feel against her strength the strong rush of the mountain river. She caressed its waves and reached out her hands to the bending boughs, and laughter and sighs touched her lips.

“Never again!” she whispered, as if a promise was being made; “never again! my wilderness!”

The man who had charge of the canoe—a stalwart, red-whiskered man of perhaps forty-five—looked at her a good deal in a cautious way. She was so unlike any of the girls he had ever seen—so gay, so free of speech343with each stranger or Indian who came their way; so daintily garbed in a very correct creation of some city tailor; and, above all, so tenderly careful of a child who slept among the rugs at her feet, and looked like a bit of pink blossom against the dark furs.

“You are a stranger here, aren’t you?” she asked the man. “I saw no one like you running a boat here last summer.”

“No, no,” he said, slowly; “I didn’t then. My camp is east of Bonner’s Ferry, quite a ways; but I get around here sometimes, too. I don’t run a boat only for myself; but when they told me a lady wanted to get to Twin Springs, I didn’t allow no scrub Indians to take her if my boat was good enough.”

“It is a lovely boat,” she said, admiringly; “the prettiest I ever saw on this river, and it is very good of you to bring me yourself. That is one of the things makes me realize I am in the West once more—to be helped simply because I am a girl alone. And you didn’t even know my name when you offered to bring me.”

“No, but I did before I left shore,” he answered; “and then I counted myself kind of lucky. I—I’ve heard so much about you, miss, from folks up at Twin Springs; from one lady there in particular—Mrs. Huzzard.”

“Oh! so you know her, do you?” she asked, and wondered at the self-conscious look with which he owned up that he did—a little.

“A little? Oh, that is not nearly enough,” she said, good-naturedly. “Lorena Jane is worth knowing a good deal of.”

“That’s my opinion, too,” he agreed; “but a fellow needs some help sometimes, if he ain’t over handy with the gift of gab.”344

“Well, now, I should not think you would need much help,” she answered. “You ought to be the sort she would make friends with quick enough.”

“Oh, yes—friends,” he said, and sent the canoe on with swifter, stronger strokes. The other boat, paddled by Indians and carrying baggage, was left far behind.

“You make this run often?” she asked, with a little wonder as to who the man was. His dress was much above the average, his boat was a beautiful and costly thing, and she had not learned, in the haste of her departure, who her boatman was.

“Not very often. Haven’t been up this way for two weeks now.”

“But that is often,” she said. “Are you located in this country?”

“Well—yes, I have been. I struck a silver lode across the hills in yon direction. I’ve sold out and am only prospecting around just now, not settled anywhere yet. My name is McCoy.”

“McCoy!” and like a flash she remembered the post-script of Mrs. Huzzard’s letter. “Oh, yes—I’ve heard of you.”

“You have? Well, that’s funny. I didn’t know my name had got beyond the ranges.”

“Didn’t you? Well, it got across the country to Manhattan Island—that’s where I was when it reached me,” and she smiled quizzically. “You know Mrs. Huzzard writes me letters sometimes.”

“And do you mean—did she—”

“Yes, she did—mentioned your name very kindly, too,” she said, as he hesitated in a confused way. Then, with all the gladness of home-coming in her heart and her desire that no heart should be left heavy, she added:345“And, really, as I told you before, I don’t think you need much help.”

The kindly, smiling eyes of the man thanked her, as he drove the canoe through the clear waters. Above them the stars were commencing to gleam faintly, and all the sweet odors of the dusk floated by them, and the sweetest seemed to come to her from the north.

“We will not stop over—let us go on,” she said, when he spoke of Sinna Ferry. “I can paddle while you rest at times, or we can float there on the current if we both grow tired; but let us keep going.”

But ere they reached the little settlement, a canoe swept into sight ahead of them and when it came near, Captain Leek very nearly fell over the side of it in his anxiety to make himself known to Miss Rivers.

“Strangest thing in the world!” he declared. “Here I am, sent down to telegraph you and wait a week if need be until an answer comes; and half-way on my journey I meet you just as if the message had reached you in some way before it was even put on paper. Extraordinary thing—very!”

“You were going to telegraph me? What for?” and the lightness of her heart was chased away by fear. “Is—is any one hurt?”

“Hurt? Not a bit of it. But Harris thinks he is worse and wanted you, until Dan concluded to ask you to come. I have the message here somewhere,” and he drew out a pocket-book.

“Dan asked me to come? Let me see it, please,” and she unfolded the paper and read the words he had written—the only time she had ever seen his writing in a message to her.346

A lighted match threw a flickering light over the page, on which he said:

“Joe is worse. He wants you. Will you come back?“Dan Overton.”

“Joe is worse. He wants you. Will you come back?

“Dan Overton.”

“Dan Overton.”

She folded it up and held it tight in her hand under the cloak she wore. He had sent for her! Ah! how long the night would be, for not until dawn could she answer his message.

“We will go on,” she said. “Can’t you spare us a boatman? Mr. McCoy has outstripped our Indian extras who have our outfit, and he needs a little rest, though he won’t own up.”

“Why, of course! Our errand is over, too, so we’ll turn back with you. I just passed Akkomi a few miles back. He is coming North with the season, as usual. I thought the old fellow would freeze out with the winter; but there he was drifting North to a camping-place he wanted to reach before stopping. I suppose we’ll have him for a neighbor all summer again.”

The girl, remembering his antipathy to all of the red race, laughed and raised in her arms the child, that had awakened.

“All I needed to perfect my return to the Kootenai country was the presence of Akkomi,” she confessed. “I should have missed him, for he was my first friend in the valley. And it may be, Mr. McCoy, that if he is inclined to be friendly to-night, I may ask him to take me the rest of the way. I want to talk to him. He is an old friend.”

“Certainly,” agreed McCoy; but he evidently thought her desire was a very peculiar one.

“But you will have a friend at court just the same—whether347I go all the way with you or not,” she said and smiled across at him knowingly.

Captain Leek heard the words, too, and must have understood them, for he stared stonily at the big, good-looking miner. Their greeting had been very brief; evidently they were not congenial spirits.

“Is that a—a child?” asked the captain, as the little creature drooped drowsily with its face against ’Tana’s neck; “really a child?”

“Really a child,” returned the girl, “and the sweetest, prettiest little thing in the world when her eyes are open.” As he continued to stare at her in astonishment while their boats kept opposite each other, she added: “You would have sooner expected to see me with a pet bear, or wolf, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes; I think I would,” he confessed, and she drew the child closer and kissed it and laughed happily.

“That is because you only know one side of me,” she said.

The stars were thick overhead, and their clear light made the night beautiful. When they reached the boats of Akkomi, only a short parley was held, and then an Indian canoe darted out ahead of the others. Two dark experts bent to the paddles and old Akkomi sat near the girl and the child. Looking in their dusky faces, ’Tana realized more fully that she was again in the land of the Kootenais.

It was just as she would have chosen to come back, and close against her heart was pressed the message by which he had called her.

The child slept, but she and the old Indian talked now and then in low tones all through the night. She felt no weariness. The air she breathed was as a tonic348against fatigue, and when the canoe veered to the left and entered the creek leading to camp, she knew her journey was almost over.

The dusk was yet over the land, a faint whiteness touched the eastern edge of the night and told of the dawn to come, but it had not arrived.

The camp was wrapped in silence. Only the watch-man of the ore-sheds was awake, and came tramping down to the shore when their paddles dipped in the water and told him a boat was near. It was the man Saunders.

“Miss Rivers!” he exclaimed, incredulously. “Well, if this isn’t luck! Harris will about drop dead with joy when he sees you. He took worse just after dark last night. He says he is worse, though he can talk yet. I was with him a little while, and how he did worry because you wouldn’t get here before he was done for! Overton has been with him all night; went to bed only an hour ago. I’ll call the folks up for you.”

“No,” said the girl, hastily; “call no one yet. I will go to Joe if you will take me. If he is so bad, that will be best. Let the rest sleep.”

“Can I carry the—the baby?” he asked, doubtfully, and took the child in his arms with a sort of fear lest it should break. He was not the sort of man to be needlessly curious, so he showed no surprise at the rather strange adjunct to her outfit, but carried the little sleeper into the pretty sitting room, where he deposited it on a couch, and the girl arranged it comfortably, that it might at last have undisturbed rest.

A man in an adjoining room heard their voices and came to the door.349

“You can come out for a while, Kelly,” said Saunders. “This is Miss Rivers. She will want to see him.”

A minute later the man in charge had left ’Tana alone beside Harris.

All the life in him seemed to gather in his eyes as he looked at her.

“You have come! I told him you would—I told Dan,” he whispered, excitedly. “Come close; turn up the light; I want to see you plain. Just the same girl; but happier—a heap happier, ain’t you?”

“A heap happier,” she agreed.

“And I helped you about it some—about the mine, I mean. I like to think of that, to think I made some return for the harm I done you.”

“But you never did me any harm, Joe.”

“Yes, I did—lots. You didn’t know—but I did. That’s why I wanted you to come so bad. I wanted to square things—before I had to go.”

“But you are all right, Joe. You are not going to die. You are much better than when I saw you last.”

“Because I can talk, you think so,” he answered. “But I am cold to my waist—I know what that means; and I ain’t grumbling. It’s all right, now that you have come. Queer that all the time we’ve known each other, this is the first time I’ve talked to you! ’Tana, you must let me tell Dan Overton all—”

“All! All what?”

“Where I saw you first, and—”

“No—no, I can’t do that,” she said, shrinking back. “Joe, I’ve tried often to think of it—of telling him, but I never could. He will have to trust or distrust me, but I can’t tell him.”

“I know how you feel; but you wrong yourself. Any350one would give you credit instead of blaming you—don’t you ever think of that? And then—then, ’Tana, I tried to tell him down at the Ferry, because I thought you were in some game against him. I managed to tell him you were Holly’s partner, but hadn’t got any farther when the paralysis caught me. I hadn’t time to tell him that Holly was your father, and that he made you go where he said; or that you dressed as a boy and was called ’Monte,’ because that disguise was the only safety possible for you in the gambling dens where he took you. Part of it I didn’t understand clearly at that time. I didn’t know you really thought he was dead, and that you tramped alone into this region in your boy’s clothes, so you could get a new start where no white folks knew you. I told him just enough to wrong you in his eyes, and then could not tell him enough to right you again. Now do you know why I want you to let me tell him all—while I can?”

It had taken him a long time to say the words; his articulation had grown indistinct at times, and the excitement was wearing on him.

Once the door into the room where the child lay swung open noiselessly, and he had turned his eyes in that direction; but the girl’s head was bowed on the arm of his chair, and she did not notice it.

“And then—there are other things,” he continued. “He don’t know you were the boy Fannie spoke of in that letter; or that she gave you the plot of this land; or, more—far more to me!—that you took care of her till she died. All that must give him many a worried thought, ’Tana, that you never counted on, for he liked you—and yet all along he has been made to think wrong of you.”351

“I know,” she assented. “He blamed me for—for a man being in my cabin that night, and I—I wanted him to—think well of me; but I could not tell him the truth, I was ashamed of it all my life. And the shame has got in my blood till I can’t change it. I want him to know, but I can’t tell him.”

“You don’t need to,” said a voice back of her, and she arose to see Overton standing in the door. “I did not mean to listen; but I stopped to look at the child, and I heard. I hope you are not sorry,” and he came over to her with outstretched hand.

She could not speak at first. She had dreamed of so many ways in which she would meet him—of what she would say to him; and now she stood before him without a word.

“Don’t be sorry, ’Tana,” he said, and tightened his hand over her own. “I honor you for what I heard just now. You were wrong not to tell me; I might have saved you some troubles.”

“I was ashamed—ashamed!” she said, and turned away.

“But it is not to me all this should be told,” he said, more coldly. “Max is the one to know; or, maybe, he does know.”

“He knows a little—not much. Seldon and Haydon recognized—Holly. So the family knew that, but no more.”

It was so hard for her to talk to him there, where Harris looked from one to the other expectantly.

And then the child slipped from the couch and came toddling into the light and to the girl.

“Tana—bek-fas!” she lisped, imperatively. “Bek-fas.”352

“Yes, you shall have your breakfast very soon,” promised the girl. “But come and shake hands with these gentlemen.”

She surveyed them each with baby scrutiny, and refused. “Bek-fas” was all the world contained that she would give attention to just then.

“You with a baby, ’Tana?” said Harris. “Have you adopted one?”

“Not quite,” and she wished—how she wished it was all over! “Her mother, who is dead, gave her to me. But she has a father. I have come up here to see what he will say.”

“Up here!”

“Yes. But I must go and find some one to get her breakfast. Then—Dan—I would like to see you.”

He bowed and started to follow her, but Harris called him back.

“This spurt of strength has about done for me,” he said. “The cold is creeping up fast. I want to tell you something else. Don’t tell her till I am gone, for she wouldn’t touch my hand if she knew it. I killed Lee Holly!”

“You didn’t—you couldn’t!”

“I did. I was able to walk long before you knew it, but I lay low. I knew if he was living, he would come where she was, sooner or later, and I knew the gold would fetch him, so I waited. I could hardly keep from killing him as he left her cabin that first night, but she had told him to come back, and I knew that would be my time. She thought once it might be me, but changed her mind. Don’t tell her till I am gone, Dan. And—listen! You are everything to her, and you don’t know it. I knew it before she left, but—Oh, well, it’s all353square now, I guess. She won’t blame me—after I’m dead. She knows he deserved it. She knew I meant to kill him, if ever I was able.”

“But why?”

“Don’t you know? He was the man—my partner—who took Fannie away. Don’t you—understand?”

“Yes,” and Overton, after a moment, shook hands with him.

“I didn’t want ’Tana to go back on me—while I lived,” he whispered. It was his one reason for keeping silence—the dread that she could never talk to him freely, nor ever clasp his hand again; and Overton promised his wish should be regarded.

When he went to find ’Tana, Mrs. Huzzard had possession of her, and the two women were seeing that the baby got her “bek-fas,” and doing some talking at the same time.

“And he’s got his new boat, has he?” she was saying. “Well, now! And it’s to be a new house next, and a fine one, he says, if he can only get the right woman to live in it,” and she smoothed her hair complacently. “He thinks a heap of fine manners in a woman, too; and right enough, for he’ll have an elegant home to put one in and she never to wet her hands in dish-water! But he is so backward like; but maybe this time—”

“Oh, you must cure him of that,” laughed the girl. “He is a splendid fellow, and I won’t forgive you if you don’t marry him before the summer is over.”

At that instant Overton opened the door.

“If you are ready now to see me—” he began, and she nodded her head and went toward him, her face a little pale and visibly embarrassed.

Then she turned and went back.354

“Come, Toddles,” she said; “you come with ’Tana.”

A faint flush was tingeing the east, and over the water-courses a silvery mist was spread. She looked out from the window and then up the mountain.

“Let us go out—up on the bluff,” she suggested. “I have been shut up in houses so long! I want to feel that the trees are close to me again.”

He assented in silence and the child, having appeased its hunger, was disposed to be more gracious, and the little hands were reached to him while she said:

“Up.”

He lifted her to his shoulder, where she laughed down in high glee at the girl who walked beside in silence. It was so much easier to plan, while far away from him, what she would say, than to say it.

But he himself broke the silence.

“You call her Toddles,” he remarked. “It is not a pretty name for so pretty a child. Has she no other one?”

They had reached the bluff above the camp that was almost a town now. She sat down on a log and wished she could keep from trembling so.

“Yes—she has another one—a pretty one, I think,” she said, at last. “It is Gracie—Grace—”

She looked up at him appealingly.

But the emotion in her face made his lips tighten. He had heard so many revelations of her that morning. What was this last to be?

“Well,” he said, coldly, “that is a pretty name, so far as it goes; but what is the rest of it?”

“Overton,” she said, in a low voice, and his face flushed scarlet.355

“What do you mean?” he asked, harshly, and the little one, disliking his tone, reached her arms to ’Tana. “Whose child is this?”

“Your child.”

“It is not true.”

“It is true,” she answered, as decidedly as himself. “Her mother—the woman you married—told me so when she was dying.”

He stared at her incredulously.

“I wouldn’t believe her even then,” he answered. “But how does it come that you—”

“You don’t need to claim her, if you don’t want to,” she said, ignoring all his astonishment. “Her mother gave her to me. She is mine, unless you claim her. I don’t care who her father was—or her mother, either. She is a helpless, innocent little child, thrown on the world—that is all the certificate of parentage I am asking for. She shall have what I never had—a childhood.”

He walked back and forth several times, turning sometimes to look at the girl, whom the child was patting on the cheek while she put up her little red mouth every now and then for kisses.

“Her mother is dead?” he asked at last, halting and looking down at her.

She thought his face was very hard and stern, and did not know it was because he, too, longed to take her in his arms and ask for kisses.

“Her mother is dead.”

“Then—I will take the child, if you will let me.”

“I don’t know,” she said, and tried to smile up at him. “You don’t seem very eager.”356

“And you came back here for that?” he said, slowly, regarding her. “’Tana, what of Max? What of your school?”

“Well, I guess I have money enough to have private teachers out here for the things I don’t know—and there are several of them! And as for Max—he didn’t say much. I saw Mr. Seldon in Chicago and he scolded me when I told him I was coming back to the woods to stay—”

“To stay?” and he took a step nearer to her. “’Tana!”

“Don’t you want me to?” she asked. “I thought maybe—after what you said to me in the cabin—that day—”

“You’d better be careful!” he said. “Don’t make me remember that unless—unless you are willing to tell me what I told you that day—unless you are willing to say that you—care for me—that you will be my wife. God knows I never hoped to say this to you. I have fought myself into the idea that you belong to Max. But now that it is said—answer me!”

She smiled up at him and kissed the child happily.

“What shall I say?” she asked. “You should know without words. I told you once I would make coffee for no man but you. Do you remember? Well, I have come back to you for that. And see! I don’t wear Max’s ring any longer. Don’t you understand?”

“That you have come back tome—’Tana!”

“Now don’t eat me! I may not always be a blessing, so don’t be too jubilant. I have bad blood in my veins, but you have had fair warning.”

He only laughed and drew her to him, and she could never again say no man had kissed her.

“’Tana!” said the child, “’ook.”357

She looked where the little hand pointed and saw all the clouds of the east flooded with gold, and higher up they lay blushing above the far hills.

A new day was creeping over the mountains to banish shadows from the Kootenai land.

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