The Girl from the Big Horn Country, Page 2

  CHAPTER II

  THE LAST NIGHT AT HOME

  In the mountain country the twilights are longer and the sunset colorslovelier than anywhere else. Long after Virginia and her father,supper over, had come out upon the porch to sit together, the goldenlight lingered in the western sky, making more blue the far distantmountains, throwing the prairie into shadow, and casting upon thenearer eastern foot-hills a strange, almost violet glow. Slowly thegold changed to the deep, almost transparent blue of the mountain skyat night. The sunset light faded to give place to the stars, which,when the twilight was almost gone, seemed to shine out all at once, asif fearful of the sunset's lingering too long.

  It was very still everywhere. Virginia sat in her favorite way--on alow stool by her father's chair, her head upon his knees, his hand inhers. Together they watched the light fade and the stars come out, asthey had done for so many nights. No sound anywhere, except Hannah'ssteps in the kitchen, an occasional distant laugh or song from the menin the bunk-house, and the night noises--the stirring of thecottonwoods and the singing of the insects.

  For a long time neither of them spoke, and the realization comingcloser every moment that this evening would be their last chance totalk together for many months, did not seem to make conversationeasier. The big man in his chair was reviewing the years--thinking ofthe time, twenty-five years back, when he had first come to thiscountry--then wild and unbroken like its own animals and roaminghorses. He had come like countless other young men, seeking a newlife, adventure, fortune; and he had stayed, having found an abundanceof the first two, and enough of the last. In the darkness he saw thedistant, widely separated lights of the homes on the prairie--thatprairie which he as a young man had ridden across, thensagebrush-covered, the home of the antelope, the prairie dog, and therattler; now, intersected with irrigation ditches, covered with wheatfields, dotted with homes. Yet the land possessed its old charm forhim. It was still a big country. The mountains had not changed; theplains, though different in feature, stretched as wide; the sky was asvast. He loved this land, so much that it had become a part of him;but his little daughter at his feet he was sending away that she mightknow another life.

  He looked down at her. She was thinking, too--filled with a greatdesire to stay in her own dear, Western country, and with another asgreat to experience all the new things which this year was to bringher. Homesickness and anticipation were fighting hard. She looked upat her father, and even in the darkness saw the sadness in his face.Lost in her own thoughts, she had left him out--him, whose lonelinesswould be far greater than her own. She sprang up from her stool andinto his lap, as she had always done before the years had made hersuch a big girl; and he held her close in his strong arms, while shecried softly against his shoulder.

  "Daddy," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Daddy, dear, do yousuppose people often want two different things so much that they can'ttell which they want the most? Did you ever?"

  He held her closer. "Yes, little girl. I expect many people do thatvery thing when it comes to deciding. And your dad is doing that verything this minute. He thinks he wants to keep you right here with him,but he knows away down deep that he wouldn't let you stay if he could.He knows he wants his little daughter to go away to her mother'sschool, and to have everything this big world can give her."

  "But it's going to be so lonely for you, father. I'm so selfish, justthinking of me, and never of you. I can't leave you all alone!" Andthe tears came again.

  Silently he smoothed her hair, until with a choking little laugh sheraised her head.

  "Don would call me a quitter, I guess," she said. "I'm homesickalready, and he said to-day of course I'd be too plucky to behomesick." She laughed again. "I'm not going to cry another tear. Andthere are so many things I want to ask you. Father, tell me truly, doyou like the folks in Vermont? Will I like them, do you think?"

  She waited for what seemed to her long minutes before he answered her.

  "Virginia," he said at last, "your mother's people are not like usaway out here. They are of New England stock and know nothing of ourlife here, and it naturally seems rough to them. Your mother seemed tohave a different strain in her, else she had never come to Wyoming,and stayed to marry a ranchman like me. But they are your mother'speople, and as such I honor and respect them. And I want you to likethem, Virginia, for your mother's sake."

  "I will, father," she whispered, clinging to him. "I promise I will!"A minute later she laughed again.

  "I've written down all of Aunt Lou's warnings, and I'll learn them allon the train. Are grandmother and Aunt Nan like Aunt Lou, father?"

  "I don't quite remember. Your grandmother is a lady, and looks it.Your Aunt Nan was but a little girl of your age when I saw her, but Ithink she's--well, a little less particular than your Aunt Lou, judgingfrom her letters. I have been wrong," he continued after a pause, "innot sending you on to them in the summers, but I could not go, and itseemed a long way to have you go without me. And though we've alwaysasked them, none of them has ever come here, until your Aunt Lou camethis summer."

  "Why didn't mother go oftener?"

  He hesitated a moment. "Some way she didn't want to leave for so long.She loved this Big Horn country as much as you and I. We went togetheronce before you came; and then the summer you were five years old shetook you and went again. But that was the last time. Do you rememberit?"

  "I remember the tall clock on the stairs. I held the pendulum one dayand stopped it, and grandmother said it had not stopped forseventy-five years. Then she scolded me, and told mother I was alittle wild thing--not a bit like my mother--and mother cried and saidshe wished we were back home with you."

  They were silent again, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods. Along silence, then her father said quietly,

  "Your grandmother was wrong. You are very like your mother. But I amsorry you had to look like your dad. It will disappoint them inVermont."

  Virginia's eyes in the darkness sparkled dangerously. She sat up verystraight.

  "If they don't like the way I look," she announced deliberately, "I'llgo on to school, and not trouble them. I'm proud of looking like myfather, and I shall tell them so!"

  Her father watched her proudly. Back through the years he heard hermother's voice:

  "If they don't like the man I've married, we'll come back to themountains, and not torment them!"

  A creaking sound, occurring regularly at intervals of a few seconds,came from the road back of the house leading to the ranch buildings,and gradually grew more distinct.

  "Jim's coming," said Virginia. "He isn't going on the round-upto-morrow, is he, father? Don't let him go, please!"

  The creaking drew nearer, accompanied by hard, exhausted breathing.

  "No," her father told her, his voice low. "I'm not going to let himgo. He's too worn out and old for that work, though it's wonderful howhe rides with that wooden leg; but I can't tell him he shan't takecharge of the branding. He couldn't stand that disappointment. Comeon, Jim," he called cheerily. "We're on the porch."

  Virginia echoed her father. "Come and talk with us, Jim."

  "I'm a-comin'," came from the corner of the porch, "fast as this oldstick'll bring me. Ain't much the way I used to come, is it, sir? Butstick or leg, I'm good for years yet. Lord, Miss Virginia, I'm a-goin'to teach your boys and girls how to throw the rope!" And talking as hewheezed and creaked, Jim reached the porch and laboriously stumped upthe steps.

  Jim was an old man, fifty of whose seventy years had been spent on theranges and ranches of the Great West. He had grown with the country,moving westward as the tide moved, from Iowa to Kansas and Nebraska,Nebraska to the Dakotas, and from the Dakotas to Montana and Wyoming.No phase of the life West had escaped Jim. He had fought Indians andcattle-thieves, punched cattle and homesteaded, prospected and mined.Twenty years before, seeking more adventure, he had made his way onhorseback through the mountains to Arizona. Whether he found what hesought, he never told, but five years later, he appeared aga
in inWyoming, and since that time he had been with Mr. Hunter, whom he hadknown when the country was new. Had his education equaled his honestyand foresight, Mr. Hunter would long ago have made him foreman, for hehad no man whom he so fully trusted; but Jim's limited knowledge ofletters and figures prohibited that distinction, and he remained inone sense an ordinary ranch-hand, apparently content. Still, inanother sense, there was something unique about his position. Theyounger men looked up to him, because of his wide experience and fundof practical knowledge; Mr. Hunter relied implicitly upon his honesty,and consulted him upon many matters of ranch management; and, next toher father, there was no one in all Wyoming whom Virginia so loved.

  Jim had taught her to ride when her short legs could hardly reach thestirrups; had told her the names of every tree, bush, and flower ofthe hills and plains; and had been her guard and companion onexpeditions far and wide. As she grew older, he gave and taught herhow to use her small rifle; and of late had even given her lessons inswinging the lasso in the corral, in which art he was dexterityitself. And last winter Virginia had been able to repay him,--thoughall through the years she had given him far more than she knew,--for inthe autumn round-up, Jim, galloping over the range, had been thrownfrom his horse, when the animal stumbled into a prairie dog's hole,and the fall had broken his leg.

  The chagrin of the old cow-puncher was more pitiable to witness thanhis pain, when the boys brought him in to the ranch. That he, theveteran of the range, should have behaved thus--"like the rankesttenderfoot"--was almost more than his proud spirit could withstand; andlater, when the doctor said the leg below the knee must be sacrificed,the pain and loss, even the necessity of stumping about the rest ofhis days, seemed as nothing to him compared with the shame he feltover his "tenderfoot foolishness."

  The winter days would have been endless, indeed, had not Virginia beenthere to cheer him. Mr. Hunter would not hear of his staying in thebunk-house, but brought him to the ranch,--and there, under Hannah'sfaithful nursing, and Virginia's companionship, the old man forgot alittle of his chagrin and humiliation. Virginia read to him by thehour, nearly everything she had, and her books were many. Seventy is astrange age to receive a long-deferred education, but Jim profited byevery chapter, even from "David Copperfield," who, he privatelythought, was "a white-livered kind of fool" and his patience inlistening to David, Virginia rewarded by the convict scene in her owndear "Great Expectations," or by "Treasure Island," both of which henever tired.

  Then, when he was able to sit up, even to stump about a little,Virginia, having reviewed the venture in her own mind, suggestedbravely one day that he learn to read, for he barely knew his letters,so that while she was at school the hours might not drag so wearilyfor him. A little to her surprise, the old man assented eagerly, andtook his first lesson that very hour, He learned rapidly, to write aswell as read, and now that his labors on the ranch were so impaired hehad found it a blessing, indeed.

  Of Jim's early life no one knew. He was always reticent concerning it,and no one safely tried to penetrate his reserve. His accent betokenedScotch ancestry, but his birth-place, his parents, and his name werealike a mystery. He was known to miles of country as "Jim." That wasall. Enough, he said.

  As he stood there in the open doorway, the light falling upon his bentfigure, and bronzed, bearded face, Virginia realized with a quick pangof how much of her life Jim had been the center. She realized, too,how worn he looked, and how out of breath he was, and she sprang fromher father's lap.

  "Come in, Jim," she said, taking his hand in hers. "It's cold outhere. Come, father."

  They went into the big, low-storied living-room, where Hannah hadlighted a fire in the great stone fire-place. The spruce logs wereburning brightly, and Virginia drew her father's big arm-chair towardthe fire.

  "Sit here, Jim, where it's warm, and rest."

  Jim about to sit down, hesitated. "You see, sir, I come up on anerrand with a message from the boys. If it's all well and pleasin' toyou both, they'd like to beg permission to come up for a minute. Yousee, they're leavin' early in the mornin' for the round-up, and theywant to wish Miss Virginia good luck. If they was to come, I wasn't togo back."

  "Why, of course, they're to come!" cried Virginia, while her fathernodded his approval. "I'd forgotten they go so early on the range, andI wouldn't go for the world without seeing them all. Sit down, Jim.Do! Will they be right up?"

  Jim sank gratefully into the big chair, placed his broad-brimmed haton his knee, and gave a final twist to his clean bandanna.

  "They was a-sprucin' up when I left the bunk-house, kind o' reckonin'on your sayin' to come along. Beats all how walkin' with a stick takesyour wind." He was still breathing hard. Virginia watched himanxiously.

  "Jim," said Mr. Hunter, after a pause, "I wish you'd look out for theplace to-morrow. I've some matters in town to attend to after takingVirginia in for the train, and it may be late when I get back. A manfrom Willow Creek thought he'd be around this week to look at somesheep. I'm thinking of selling one hundred or so of that last yearlot, and I'll leave the choice and price to your judgment."

  "All right, sir." This helped matters considerably. Jim himself haddecided that he could not go upon the range, but here was afforded avalid excuse to give the boys. His tired face brightened.

  "And, Jim," continued Virginia, eagerly, "I almost forgot to tell you.Don and I spied Bess and the colt to-day on the lower range, not twomiles from the corral. The colt's black like Bess, and a darling!Don't hurt it any more than you can help when you brand it, will you,Jim? Does it hurt much, do you suppose?"

  "Sho' now, don't you worry, Miss Virginia. You see, brandin's likemost other things that don't hurt nearly so much as you think they'regoin' to. It ain't bad after a minute. I'll be careful of the littlefellow. Here come the boys."

  Five stalwart forms passed the window and came to the porch, cleaningtheir feet carefully upon the iron mud-scraper screwed to the side ofthe lowest step for that very purpose. Then, a little embarrassed,they filed up the steps and into the house, the two last bearingbetween them a large box which they placed near the door. They werehardy men, used to a rough life, of ages varying from young DickNorton, who was eighteen and a newcomer, to John Weeks, the foreman, aman of fifty. Roughly dressed though they were, in flannel shirts andknee-boots, they were clean, having, as Jim said, "spruced up" for theoccasion. For a moment they stood ill at ease, sombreros in theirhands, but only for a moment, for Mr. Hunter found them chairs,talking meanwhile of the round-up, and Virginia ran to the kitchen toask Hannah for cider and gingerbread.

  "Come in yourself, Hannah," she said to the kind soul, who sat by thespotless pine table, knitting busily; and she begged until Hannahchanged her apron and joined the circle about the fire.

  "Joe," said Virginia to a big man of thirty, whose feet worried himbecause they demanded so much room. "Joe, you'll keep an eye on thelittlest pup, won't you? He has a lump in his throat, and the otherspick on him. I wish you'd rub the lump with liniment; and don't forgetto tell me how he is."

  Joe promised. If the service had been for the Queen, he could not havebeen more honored.

  "And, Alec," to a tall Scotchman, who had a wife and family in thenearest town, "I'm leaving my black Sampson and all his clothes tolittle David. You'll take them when you go in Saturday night?"

  Alec beamed his thanks.

  "I wish you'd use Pedro all you can, Dick." This to the young lad, whocolored and smiled. "He gets sore if he isn't used; and give him somesugar now and then for me. He'll miss me at first."

  She turned toward the farthest corner of the room where a man satapart from the others--a man with a kind, almost sad face, upon thefeatures of which the town saloon had left its mark. This was William,one of the best cattle hands in the county when he could keep awayfrom town. To every one but Virginia he was "Bill," but Virginia saidhe needed to be called William.

  "William," she said, "if you kill any snakes, I wish you'd save me therattles. I'm collecting them. And, i
f you have any time, I wish you'dplant some perennial things in the bed under my window, so they'llbloom early in June. You choose whatever you like. It'll be more funnot to know, and then see them all in blossom when I get home. Don'tyou think it would be a good plan?"

  William's tired face, on which were written the records of many hopesand failures, grew so bright with interest that he did not look like"Bill" at all. Moreover, he loved flowers.

  "Just the thing, Miss Virginia," he said. "I'll have it ready for youin June, and I won't forget them rattles, either."

  She thanked him. "And oh, Mr. Weeks," she said, for she dignified theforeman by a title, "you won't let father work too hard, will you?Because I shall worry if you don't promise me."

  So the delighted Mr. Weeks promised, while they all laughed. Then themen looked from one another to Jim with shy, embarrassed glances, asthough they were waiting for something. Jim was equal to the occasion.

  "You, Joe and Dick, bring that box in front of the fire while I getup."

  Joe and Dick, glad of something to do, obeyed, lifting the big boxbefore the fire, while Virginia stared in surprise, and her fathersmiled, watching her. Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from hischair and stood facing his audience, but his eyes were on Virginia.

  "Miss Virginia," he began, while the boys fumbled with their hats,"none of us ain't forgot what you've been to us while you've beena-growin' up. Some of us have been here a good while, and some ain'tbeen so long, but we've all been long enough to think a deal o' you.You've always treated us like gentlemen, and we ain't them thatforget. This old ranch ain't goin' to seem the same without you, butwe're glad you're goin' to be educated in that school your mother wentto, for those of us who knowed her, knowed a lady.

  "Now there ain't a better rider in all this country than yourself,Miss Virginia, and I can just see how you'll make them Easterners'eyes stick out. And we boys don't want you to have to ride on any o'them flat-seated English saddles, that ain't fit for any one but atenderfoot. So we've just took the liberty of gettin' you a littleremembrance of us. Joe and Dick, suppose you lift the cover, and showMiss Virginia her present."

  "Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chairand stood facing his audience."]

  Joe and Dick raised the cover of the box, and lifted from it beforeVirginia's shining eyes a new Western saddle. It was made from russetleather with trappings complete, and could not be surpassed in designand workmanship. On its brass-topped saddle-horn were engraved theletters "V. H."; the same monogram was embroidered on the four cornersof the heavy brown saddle blanket; and the brass of the bridle,suspended from the saddle-horn, was cunningly engraved with the samedesign.

  Virginia gazed at the saddle, at her father, at the men, one by one,at Hannah, who was wiping her eyes; and then suddenly the tears cameinto her own eyes, and her voice, when she tried to thank them, brokeat every word.

  "Oh, I--just--can't--thank--you--" she managed to say, while the men'srough faces twitched, and tears filled the furrows of Jim's cheeks,"but I'll--never forget you, never, because you're my very bestfriends!" And she went from one to the other, shaking hands with each,while her father followed her example, for he was quite as touched anddelighted as she.

  Then, after she had examined all over again every part of the saddle;after Jim had explained how they were to pack and ship it so that itwould reach school by the time she arrived; after gingerbread andcider had helped them all to regain composure, Virginia went to herroom and returned with a tiny box, and her fountain pen.

  "Aunt Lou says that every girl who goes away to school must havecalling cards," she explained, "and I'm going to use mine for the veryfirst time to-night to write my address for each one of you. And everytime you look at it, please remember how much I thank you every one,and how much I'm missing you."

  So when the men went back to the bunk-house, after an hour they wouldalways remember, each carried in the pocket of his flannel shirt acalling-card, given by a "lady" to a "gentleman."

  "Oh, daddy," cried Virginia, as the last faint creak of Jim's stickdied away on the road to the bunk-house. "Oh, daddy, why did they everdo it for me? And I've never done a thing for them, except perhapsreading to Jim!"

  Her father gathered her in his lap for the last few minutes before thefire.

  "Virginia," he said, "I learned long ago that we often help othersmost by just being ourselves. When you grow older, perhaps you'llunderstand what the men mean." They sat silently for a while, neitherwanting to leave the fire and each other. From the bunk-house came thesound of voices singing some lusty song of the range. The boysapparently were happy, too. "And now, little girl, it's a long driveto-morrow, and we must be off early. Kiss your father, and run tobed."

  Closely she clung to him, and kissed him again and again; but when thelump in her throat threatened to burst with bigness, she ran to herown room, leaving her father to watch the fire die away and to thinkof many things. Pinned to her pillow, she found a brown paper parcel,with "From Hannah" written in ungainly characters upon it. Inside werered mittens, knitted by the same rough fingers that had penned thewords. The lump in Virginia's throat swelled bigger. She ran acrossthe hall to the little room where Hannah, muffled in flannel gown andnight-cap, lay in bed, and kissed her gratefully.

  "Run to bed, dearie," muttered the old servant. "It's cold thesenights in the mountains."

  But Virginia's mind was too full of thoughts for sleep. She reviewedher ride with Donald, her talk with her father, all the dear events ofthe evening with its crowning joy. It seemed hours when she heard herfather go to his room, and yet she could not sleep. At last she sat upin bed, bundling the covers about her, for the air was cold, andlooked out of her window. At night the mountains seemed nearer still,and more friendly--more protecting, less strange and secretive. Shelooked at them wondering. Did they really know all things? Were theymillions of years old, as she had read? Did they care at all forpeople who looked at them, and wondered, and wanted to be like them?

  "To-night I half believe you do care," she whispered. "Anyway, I'm notfrightened of you at all. And oh, do take care of those I love till Icome back again!"

  Then she lay down again, and soon was fast asleep.