A frontier knight
Date: 2024-07-30T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Siblings -- Juvenile fiction; Mexican War; 1846-1848 -- Juvenile fiction; Texas -- Juvenile fiction

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Title: A frontier knight

A story of early Texan border-life

Author: Amy Ella Blanchard

Illustrator: William F. Stecher

Release date: July 30, 2024 [eBook #74155]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: W. A. Wilde Company, 1905

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/74155

Credits: David Edwards, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A FRONTIER KNIGHT ***

“A GIRL WHO SAT—ON A LOW STOOL.”

A FRONTIER KNIGHT

A STORY OF EARLY TEXAN
BORDER-LIFE

BY
AMY E. BLANCHARD

ILLUSTRATED BY
WILLIAM F. STECHER

W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON AND CHICAGO

Copyrighted 1905
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved

A Frontier Knight

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | The Old Kentucky Home | 9
II. | Fidgetty Lou | 24
III. | The Chase | 40
IV. | Off to the War | 56
V. | In the Dead of Night | 71
VI. | Fidgetty Lou Makes a Discovery | 87
VII. | When Ira was “Skeered” | 106
VIII. | Another Adventure for Alison | 125
IX. | With Hannah Maria | 144
X. | A Raffle | 163
XI. | Lou’s Wedding | 183
XII. | A Clue | 200
XIII. | Neal’s Letter | 217
XIV. | Why Blythe was Late | 232
XV. | Sir Knight | 246
XVI. | A Norther | 262
XVII. | Alison Awakes | 279
XVIII. | Lolita | 294
XIX. | The Return of Sir Artegall | 310
XX. | New Homes | 327

A FRONTIER KNIGHT

CHAPTER I
THE OLD KENTUCKY HOME

THE sun was shining gloriously across level sweeps of blue-grass meadow-land, and sending its beams through the windows of a plain, substantial, country house, where it made squares of brightness on the whitewashed walls, sharply outlining the shadows, and touching to gold the fair hair of a girl who sat motionless on a low stool near the window. She was thinking intently and did not heed the entrance of an older girl who glanced at her with a smile and began to busy herself about the room.

Finally the girl at the window gave a deep sigh and stretched her hands above her head. “Oh, is it dinner time, Christine?” she said.

“Very near,” was the reply. “What a brown study you were in, Alison; you must have been miles away.”

“And so I was. I must decide, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” There was a serious note in Christine’s voice. “And have you decided?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes.” The girl arose and came to where her sister stood. She laid her hands on the shoulders of the other and looked steadfastly into the clear eyes. “I am going with you and John,” she said. “There are just the three of us, and I cannot be separated from you, even though I have this home for always, mine at Aunt Miranda’s death and all its comforts while I live here. I have thought it over. I have thought of the days which will go by all alike; everything just so, all cut and dried; up at such an hour every morning; hot rolls for breakfast on Wednesdays and Saturdays, cold bread on Mondays. Every chair set at exactly such an angle, Aunt Miranda always with her hair parted precisely, Uncle Brown with his whiskers curled in just such a fashion, never a hair out of place; never any excitement; once a month the minister and his wife to dinner; once a year a day in town; twice a year house-cleaning; no adventure, no fun, nothing but dull monotony and commonplace comfort.”

“But Aunt Miranda is good and kind in her way, and Uncle Brown is just, if he is particular and a trifle near.” Christine felt it her duty to plead their cause.

“Then don’t you want me?” said Alison wistfully.

“Want you?” Christine’s arms went around her. “Think how I shall want you when we are away off there amidst strangers; when John must leave me alone in our little cabin and I am homesick and yearning for just one glimpse of my little sister. Think how I shall want you.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said.” Alison moved away and began to set the dishes on the table.

“Yes, there is. I can’t be selfish about it, and I must show you the advantages offered you here: a comfortable home where the larder never fails, where the flour barrel is never empty; where the potatoes and turnips and apples are plentifully stored away every year; where the hogs are killed in due season and the preserves put up; where all is orderly and exact. Uncle Brown is a good provider if his wife does not have much ready money to spend on fripperies. I may not be able to have more than one frock of blue jeans a year.”

“We shall be as well dressed as our neighbors, no doubt,” replied Alison.

“And though you may have to help Aunt Miranda as a daughter should, you will have one more year of schooling, and you will have neighbors, young people, who are not such a very great distance away,” Christine continued her argument. “Our settlement may be miles from any other and there may be only married couples there.”

“But you will be there, and so will John, and—Fidgetty Lou.”

“Why, what do you mean, Alison?” said Christine in surprise.

“Fidgetty Lou declares she is going if you do.”

“But we can’t take her.”

“She says she is going,” repeated Alison. “I think that is a great inducement. No one makes better biscuits and flapjacks. She will be a great addition to our household, I think.”

“But if we do not take her how will she ever get there?”

“She says she can find a way, and she says furthermore that she has worked all these years for nothing but her board and clothes, so she doesn’t see why she cannot do it a while longer, if she chooses to.”

“John will never consent to taking all three of us; he will be delighted if you go, but Fidgetty Lou——” She shook her head, and Alison laughed.

“Settle it between you,” she said. “I am going, anyhow, for if Fidgetty Lou has the courage to face the uncertainty of pioneer life, why should not I? Especially since my nearest and dearest will be with me. Fidgetty Lou has no such tugging at her heart-strings.”

“It will be a blow to Aunt Miranda to lose you both.”

“She has never had me to lose, for I am here only on a visit; it was so understood from the first, and at the end of the three months I was to decide whether I would accept the offer of a home here, an offer which I am made to understand is of great advantage. I am very sure that Uncle Brown will not omit every morning to pray openly for the ‘young pensioner upon our bounty.’ I shall never be allowed to forget, even on Sundays, that I am a pensioner, and it will be a great strain upon me to beam gratitude when my heart is pining for you. As for Fidgetty Lou, she has always declared that when her time was out she meant to leave. She has never said anything else, and now that she has fallen in love with my big sister she is determined to follow her fortunes. You may be four years older than I, Tina, but you cannot persuade me that my lot here will be a happier one than with you and John. It is all clear enough in my mind and I shall tell Aunt Miranda to-night. It will not break her heart to part with me, and so far as Fidgetty Lou is concerned she will get another orphan to train up the way she should go, and will rather enjoy the process.”

“Fidgetty Lou could get good wages somewhere,” said Christine thoughtfully.

“She would rather see the world at present. Here she comes.”

Fidgetty Lou entered, arrayed in a spotless blue frock and gingham apron. Her red hair was drawn tightly back into a hard knot; her freckled face beamed with good-nature. A little nervous twitch of the head alone remained as the result of an attack of St. Vitus’s dance which had obtained for her, when a child, the nickname of Fidgetty Lou. Behind her came Aunt Miranda, as scrupulously neat. Her black alpaca apron covered a black stuff gown; her hair, plastered down each side her face and tucked behind her ears, showed not a stray lock. She looked the table over comprehensively, then replaced some of the knives and forks, remarking that they were not laid quite straight. “Set that dish a little more to the left, Louisa,” she ordered. “Bring in the rest of the dinner, and then call Mr. Brown.” She looked at her nieces critically. “I wish you would try to smooth your hair a little, Alison,” she said. “Your uncle dislikes to see a frowsy head.”

Alison cast an amused glance at her sister as she hastily tucked under a few stray, curling tendrils which had escaped from the confines of her neat braids. “A frowsy head!” she whispered as she passed Christine. “I must go and wet it into sleekness or I shall be disgraced.” The thought that she would soon escape from the lectures of an over-particular uncle and the reproving words of a particular aunt made her sing a little song of joy as she ran down-stairs again.

Her uncle was just coming in. “A little too noisy, Alison,” he said. “Remember that ‘the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.’”

“Yes,” she returned brightly, “but the wise man also says, ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’ You read that this morning, I remember.” Alison was usually too ready to meet her uncle’s quotations with counter-texts exactly to meet his approval, for he preferred to adapt the Scriptures to point his own opinions. But on this occasion he said nothing and the two passed on to the dinner-table.

Nevertheless this small passage at arms had its effect in producing less opposition when the moment came for Alison to declare her decision. This she did that same evening, after supper, when all were gathered in the living-room. Save for the ticking of the big clock all was very still. Uncle Brown was poring over his weekly paper, while Aunt Miranda neatly patched a hole in some table linen, and Christine’s fingers were flying along the hem of a sheet.

“Have you nothing to do, Alison?” asked her aunt disapprovingly. “Where is your knitting?”

“I have it here,” responded Alison, producing her knitting-bag and drawing forth a half finished sock. “I want to tell you,” she said, speaking hurriedly, “that I have decided to go with John and Christine.”

Mr. Brown lowered his paper. “And quite rightly, Miranda,” he observed. “Christine will need the companionship of another woman, and, if ill, her ministrations. I am glad Alison has seen where her duty lies and that she has chosen the rough path of industry and privation rather than the smooth one of sleek and untroubled ease.”

Mrs. Brown looked a little surprised and was ready with her protest. “But for a young girl like you, Alison, to go to such a place as that, haunted by cut-throat Mexicans and lawless Indians, seems unnecessary. Of course if one of you must go, Christine is the older and therefore the proper one, though I must say it would be better if she could remain in a more civilized community. As your father’s elder sister I must object, and I am surprised that you should countenance this decision, Ephraim.” She turned to her husband.

“I quite appreciate your sisterly concern for your brother’s offspring, Miranda,” returned Mr. Brown, “yet viewing it from a disinterested standpoint, I think Alison is right.” Mr. Brown had studied for the ministry in his youth, but owing to ill health had never completed his course. However, he had never lost a certain ministerial manner, and a strong tendency to give opinions upon moral questions.

The farm belonged to Mrs. Brown, but was successfully managed by her husband.

“We do not grudge you a home. I hope you understand that,” Mrs. Brown remarked. “I should be deficient in respect to my brother, as well as in doing my duty, if I did not offer you freely a home with me. I have already said that having no children of my own I shall make a will in your favor if you remain with me, though I do not wish you to think I desire to buy your presence by favors.”

“I understand it all, dear aunt,” said Alison, quite willing to show responsiveness to any affection which Mrs. Brown might feel for her, “but there are only the three of us, and, as Uncle Brown says, if Christine were to fall ill, I should be miserable if I knew I had failed her when she needed me. I thank you very heartily, but I believe my place is with my sister and brother.”

“We will say no more about it, then,” said Mrs. Brown, “except that if you change your mind any time within the next two years you will find my home open to you. I will not stand in the way of what you believe to be your duty at the present moment, but time may work changes. When do you expect John, Christine?”

“He thought he would be able to make all arrangements so as to be here at the end of the week,” Christine told her.

“And we shall be ready to start next week,” Alison added.

No further reference was made to the subject that evening, but the next day Mrs. Brown came to her nieces in a fine passion. “Which of you has been trying to lure Louisa away?” she asked angrily.

“Neither of us,” spoke up Alison. “She told me yesterday that she was free now, and meant either to go with us or to go to a place where she could earn wages; then, later, she said she had decided to go wherever we did.”

“I am sure I don’t know what John will say,” Christine put in. “He surely cannot tote three women down to Texas, and I, for one, am very sorry Lou has any such notion.”

Mrs. Brown was somewhat mollified. “Well, I am glad to know you have no hand in it,” she said. “Of course I’ve known for some time that I couldn’t expect to keep her much longer. Old Maria needs some one to save her steps, and cannot do much out of the kitchen. I suppose I can get another orphan bound out to me, but it is ungrateful of Louisa, I must say, after all I have taught her. I have given her a home, too, all these years.”

“But she has earned her board and clothes, hasn’t she?” said Alison, ready to champion Louisa.

“Well, yes, I suppose some would say so. I should be willing to keep her if Mr. Brown would agree to give her wages, but he will not. Maria belongs to us, and he says we can get plenty of help without paying wages. She is eighteen and over, and I suppose I ought not to expect to keep her much longer.” This ended the controversy over Louisa so far as Christine and Alison were concerned, and soon they were too busy in preparing for their own long journey to be greatly interested in what Fidgetty Lou meant to do.

In due time John Ross appeared. He had been steadily occupied in arranging for the emigration to the new state of Texas, and had left his young sisters with their relatives until he should complete his preparations. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, keen-eyed young fellow, rather quiet in manner but with a fund of humor much appreciated by his comrades. He was always called Texas John in the old neighborhood, to distinguish him from his cousin John Ross, who was about his own age, and who, lately married, had no desire to leave Kentucky. Texas John, at the death of his parents, had found little left for the support of himself and sisters, so he started for Texas to look up a grant which he thought promised a living for the three. The elder Ross had been something of a rover, and had been killed in a struggle with the Mexicans while serving in the effort to maintain the independence of the young republic of Texas. Perhaps his spirit of adventure was his son’s by inheritance, for the latter was enthusiastic in his belief in the wild country, where, he was satisfied, were better prospects for him than nearer home. Having placed his young sisters at school he started off to look up his claim and after a two years’ absence returned home, settled up affairs and was now ready to emigrate for good.

He strode into the living-room one bright day in early October. “Ready, girls?” he cried. “We can be off in a few days.”

Christine sprang to his arms. “Is it all settled then?” she asked eagerly.

“All settled.”

“And do you know Alison has decided to go with us?”

He gave the younger girl a bright look. “I knew we could count on her,” he said. “I didn’t think she would desert her brother for any old——”

“Sh! Sh!” whispered Christine, putting her hand over his mouth as Uncle Brown entered.

“So you are really on the road to that cut-throat country,” he said to young Ross as they shook hands.

“It’s a pretty good country from what I have seen of it,” returned John. “It has had its little scuffles, I admit, but it’s in the Union now and I reckon it’s in for good.”

“It may be in for bad, so far as some of us are concerned,” was the reply. “Mexico will probably think she has a word to say on that subject. She hasn’t acknowledged yet that Texas is anything but one of her provinces. What will you do if she wars over it?”

“I’ll go and fight. You can’t scare me that way,” said John. “We’ve the whole United States to back us now, and I reckon we can teach Mexico where Texas belongs.”

Uncle Brown shook his head. “It doesn’t strike me that I’d like to live in such an unsettled country. Just a few years ago it was a Spanish colony, then it was an independent republic, and now it is a state.”

John looked reflectively out of the window where yellowed fields spoke of gathered harvests. “It has had its baptism of blood,” he said. “It has arisen from its ashes. Brave patriots have made it what it is. My father died for its sake. He would be glad to know that his son means to carry out what he began. When he left his family he meant to come back for us all; it was his dream to build up a home in Texas, and to have us grow up with it. Because he died in the struggle for independence is the very reason that I am the more anxious to carry out his wishes.”

The young man’s face became stern and determined. Christine crept closer to him. Her memory went back to the time when the news came of her father’s death at Goliad, and when her brother, pale and full of set purpose, registered a vow to avenge his death. Seven years later Christine had wept bitter tears at the departure of this brother to the new republic of Texas. Returning when the young state had become a part of the Union, he found Christine a fair, sweet young woman, and Alison almost as tall. The recollection of all these events, during which the elder of the two sisters had grown from girlhood to womanhood, flashed across her memory as she leaned against her brother. She understood and appreciated his desire to follow out his father’s plans. She was willing to share joy or sorrow with him, and now that Alison had cast in her lot with theirs she had not a regret.

There was another reason, too, which Christine acknowledged to no one but herself, but which carried more weight than any other when she came to think of going to Texas, and this was that her brother’s companion and partner was no other than her playmate Steve Hayward, who had been her neighbor and comrade ever since she could remember. It was he who had carried her books to school, who had helped her with her lessons, who had made her a ring carved from a peach stone, when she was but eight years old, and who had promised to marry her when they two should be grown. In later years he had not repeated the promise, but when he went away with John he had said: “I am coming back here to get my wife, Christine,” and she understood, without more words. Now it was she who was going to him, and there was not a fear in her heart, even though Uncle Brown spoke discouragingly. So she smiled up at her brother, saying: “Tell uncle all about the arrangements, John.”

“We go from here down the river to the Red,” he began, “and when we have landed at the nearest point, we can take wagons about twenty miles further on where our grant lies. It isn’t as if it were an entirely strange place, for I’ve plenty of friends there, and we have a stout new house waiting for us. Steve has another a few rods away, and after a while I shall be able to put up a good frame house and be as fine as any one. We shall not be uncomfortable as it is, for we are taking all that is necessary, and I have even such luxuries as I thought could be easily transported, for I didn’t want the girls to feel as if they had no part of their old home. The soil is rich, and the climate can’t be beat. I don’t believe I am taking the girls to such a miserable place as you would have us believe. When you hear how well we are getting along you will be wanting to move down there yourself, sir.”

“Don’t you think it,” returned Mr. Brown. “Kentucky will never see me desert her. Well, John, I wish you luck, though I must say I should have more faith in your getting on if you were going to stay in the old blue-grass country. It is good enough for me.”

John shook his head and smiled. His was adventurous youth and Uncle Brown’s was the conservative spirit of middle age.

CHAPTER II
FIDGETTY LOU

IT was several days after this that the little company started on their journey, though they had not thought to be so detained. Fidgetty Lou made no such delay, however, for after particular inquiries as to where the Rosses were going she set about her own preparations. “I’ve a chance to get started,” she told the girls. “You’ll see me again.”

Mrs. Brown refused approval of this sudden departure and was really so disturbed by it that her nieces had not the heart to leave her until another orphan could be found to take Louisa’s place. “I had counted on you, Alison,” she said, aggrieved, “and now it seems I am to be bereft of even Louisa.”

“But you know, Aunt Miranda, we came only for the summer holidays, or till John should come for us,” Alison answered.

“You were to come for good and all if you so chose,” returned her aunt who could not resist making this last appeal.

“You know that was all settled,” replied Alison, looking distressed. And then came the compromise that there should be no talk of going till Louisa’s place was filled. In consequence of all this delay it seemed probable that Louisa was well on her way before the other travelers started.

But they were off at last, one bright October morning. “Good luck to you,” was Uncle Brown’s parting word as he opened the gate that they might drive through.

“Good-bye,” Aunt Brown called her final farewell, as they leaned from the carriage for a last look of the quiet white house, the orderly whitewashed outbuildings, and the trim garden.

“Our last view of home,” said Alison, her eyes moist.

But Christine was looking straight ahead with a smile upon her face. She leaned towards John. “We’re going home,” she said, “aren’t we, John?”

John’s plan to make the journey by water, so far as it was possible, seemed to involve less fatigue than any other way. Their household furniture was thus readily transported, for though the flatboats, familiarly known as broadhorns, were still in use by the poorer emigrants, the speedier method of travel was by the steamboats which could bear many a comfortable outfit to the settlements located on the rivers of Texas. From these river landings the goods and chattels were transported further inland in carts. The state was filling up rapidly, and those who did not travel by water took the slower way across country in the hooded emigrant wagons, which plodded over many a road as the new settlers poured in.

The trip down the muddy waters of the Mississippi was one the two girls never forgot. The steamboat was well patronized, and their fellow passengers represented so many different classes that it was a source of great entertainment to watch them. Here was a set of wild looking men whose whole business in life seemed to be a game of cards, there a group of traders, merchants or mechanics. Families of women and little children, made way for some silken-gowned dame on her way to the city of New Orleans; spruce young soldiers saluted portly politicians; dapper Frenchmen gesticulated to some neighbor planter. In truth the river boats were lively places, and the girls, who had not traveled far beyond their own state, were entertained hour after hour. At last came their final landing when the steamer stopped at a primitive wharf at the foot of a bluff none too easy to climb. A crowd of negroes, Mexicans, Texas rangers, and planters gathered curiously to watch the passengers. At sight of John, one tall young fellow called out: “Look there, boys, if it’s not John Ross, I’m jiggered.” Then, as the gangplank was drawn in, several from the crowd rushed forward with hearty greetings, but at sight of the two girls all but one or two drew back, and these, standing their ground, were presented. The tall young man who had first recognized John was introduced as Neal Jordan. He gave the girls a joyous smile, bowed low, and with perfect ease appropriated the hand luggage, seeming in no way abashed, and carrying on a conversation which was a strange mixture of the local vernacular and that of a man who was accustomed to greater refinements.

“You’ve had right smart of a journey, haven’t you?” he said.

“It did seem rather long,” Alison answered, “but it was interesting, for there were so many queer people on the steamboat and we liked to watch them.”

“They do give you rather a mix up,” returned the young man. “Some pretty tough customers travel down this way, but then we have a better class to offset them. John, going right on?”

“Yes, as soon as we can arrange to get conveyances for our goods. We have about twenty miles further to go before we are really at home.”

“I reckon that’s about the distance. I suppose you’ll want to rest up a little, though I don’t suppose you are as tuckered out as some of the folks are that come down on the broadhorns or in wagons. They get pretty sick of it sometimes. Going to Haller’s, John? It’s about the only place that’s half decent, and none too good for ladies at that.”

“We shall have to go there, I suppose,” said John in reply. “Are you putting up there, Neal?”

“Yes, while I am in town. I just got over yesterday, and am going right back. I reckon I might as well hang on to your train. It won’t do any harm to have two or three of us along.”

“No signs of Indians?” John spoke up quickly.

“No-o, not around here, but it’s always well to be sociable when you have any distance to go with ladies. When a fellow has only his own skin to take care of he doesn’t have to be so particular.”

“That’s so,” returned John, “and if any of the boys are going our way I’d be glad to have them join us.”

“How soon do you start?”

“As soon as I can get the goods loaded. Those lazy little Mexicans will be as long as they can loading the stuff; you may be sure of that. I’d like to get off to-morrow, if it’s possible.”

“We’ll make it possible,” said Neal. “Us boys will tickle up those Greasers so they’ll step lively.”

They had now reached the long low house which served as an inn, and as Alison looked around upon the homely, dingy furnishings which were none too clean, her heart sank within her. “Will it all look like this?” she asked wistfully.

“Bless you, no,” said Neal. “Why, some of our people have as pretty places as you want to see. To be sure the houses ain’t much on the outside, but inside, there’s a power of fine things. More than one has brought his piano and books and pictures along with him, and though you may find some eating out of wooden trenchers and using horn spoons, others will set you out fine china and silver. It’s about as much of a mix up as you found on the steamboat, you’ll find. Our hotels ain’t to say choice.”

“But where we are our own housekeepers,” said Christine brightly, “we can have it as spick and span as we choose. Don’t get discouraged, Allie, before we really get there.”

“No, it’s too early in the game to throw up your hand,” said Neal.

“I’m not homesick,” Alison protested; yet, just then, with the remembrance of Aunt Brown’s neat orderly home and the familiar faces she had left behind, there was mingled a slight feeling of regret at having exchanged quiet ease for this wild place.

Christine, however, had no regrets. To her the end of the morrow’s long ride meant the meeting towards which her thoughts had tended during many months. She watched her brother and his friend depart and stood long by the window seeing nothing but the new home in the prairie, hearing nothing but Stephen’s voice again calling her name.

“You look as happy as a lark,” said Alison, turning her gaze from the crude sights of the village to her sister.

“I am happy,” returned Christine. “We shall soon be all together in our own home. Isn’t that enough to make any one happy?”

“There come John and Mr. Jordan,” said Alison, her eyes again wandering to the street. “What a queer little place this is. The best house in it isn’t as good as Aunt Miranda’s.”

“Did you expect it would be?”

“I expected the best here would be as good, though I knew ours would not be.”

Christine smiled, and at this moment John and his friend entered the little room which served as parlor and office.

“Neal tells me there is some one in town who has been looking for us,” John told his sisters.

“Oh!” Christine’s first thought flew to Steve, but she immediately realized that he would have been on hand to meet them, knowing when the steamboat was expected. “Who can it be?” she said.

“I don’t know who it is,” Neal answered. “Lon Davis was asking where you-alls was going. He said there was some one, a gal, a female woman, I took it, that was out at his house waiting for you to get here.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were Fidgetty Lou,” exclaimed Alison. “When did she come? How did she get here?”

“Came on a broadhorn with the Simmonses. They went further up country, and she said she was going to stick right here till John Ross and his sisters come, if it was a year.”

“Did you see her? What did she look like?” questioned Alison.

“I sorter disremember,” said Neal, “but it strikes me, if she’s the one I saw get off the boat, she’s got red hair. She might have been a Simmons, but I noticed one of the gals didn’t look like the rest, wa’n’t as tall and had a different build, but it runs that way sometimes, even among cattle, and I never thought but she was a Simmons. Of course the boys take right smart of notice of the new arrivals, and I run ’em all over pretty sharp, though I didn’t fancy any of the bunch very much.” He spoke quite honestly and as if it were a matter of course that the subject should be discussed in this way.

Christine dimpled and looked at Alison who did not quite understand this outspoken criticism. She had been away at school for two years and had yet to learn the characteristic manner of Texans.

“If you-all think it’s the gal you know, and you want to see her,” Neal continued, “I don’t mind ropin’ her in for you, but if she’s somebody you don’t want to meet up with, why I’ll chase her out of your way.”

“Oh, we want to see her, surely,” said Alison.

“Do we?” said Christine thoughtfully. “We must talk it over, I think. I did say something about her to you, John, but you said we’d probably never see her again; yet here she is and it’s my opinion that if we don’t take her with us she’ll hunt us up anyhow.”

“The question,” said John, “is whether or not you want her. So far as her keep is concerned, I reckon there’ll be plenty for us all, and if she’s going to be any help to you girls, we’d better let her come along.”

“She certainly will be a help,” put in Alison.

Neal laughed. “Little sis is speaking two words for herself and one for the gal, I reckon. I wouldn’t bother any too much about her, Miss Christine; she’ll likely be taken off your hands by some of the boys before long; there’s lots of ’em won’t mind the color of her hair.”

Every one laughed and the question of Fidgetty Lou’s future was settled.

She made her appearance the next morning under Neal’s escort, and was in high glee at having stolen a march on the later arrivals. “I’ll earn my keep, Mr. John,” she declared, “and I’ve clothes enough to last a year or two, so if you’ll jest let me go along with you I’ll ask for nothing. My father fit and died for Texas, and I always made up my mind I’d go and do likewise, if I could get here by hook or by crook.”

“I didn’t know you remembered your father,” said Alison.

“Didn’t say I did. My mother told me about his going to Texas when I was a baby, and that he got kilt by the Injuns. I was eight years old when she died, so I reckon I was old enough to take in what she said. I said then, and I say now, that I shan’t be satisfied till I get to the place he went, and I mean to go. Where my dad died I mean to die.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Alison, “don’t talk of dying first thing. For my part what I want is to live here. Now tell us, Lou, how you managed to get ahead of us.”

“I knew Jake Simmons’s folks. They are kind of kin of mine, and Lotty Meekins told me that Sadie Simmons told her that Jake Simmons was getting ready to up and go to Texas, and so one day when Joe, the tinman came along, I knew he’d be traveling that way, so I got leave to go along with him in his cart and see the Simmonses. They said I had heard right, and that they was going down on a broadhorn to Texas. I asked ’em where and when, and they told me, so I said I wanted to go along, and Jake he said: ‘Louisa, I’ve heerd my father talk about your father, and so long as we are blood kin I’ll see what I kin do. I know you was never took up by none of the family when you was left an orphan and I always thought they did kind of mean to bind you out, but ma said you had a good home and honest work wasn’t going to hurt nobody, and we might as well let well enough alone and leave you stay with Mis’ Brown till your time was up. But now if you want to go to Texas with me and the gals, go you shall.’ Well, he was as kind as could be, though he ain’t more’n second cousin to my father, and I told him my time was up and over, and I was just staying along till I could see my way clear to get where I wanted to go, that I’d made up my mind to say to Miss Christine, ‘whither thou goest I will go,’ and so then we hashed it all up that I was to go over there and leave with his folks. I didn’t say too much about it, for I was afraid Mis’ Brown would come talking around and make them think I’d ought to stay. Well, we got off all right and made good time, so here I am and here I stay. You won’t turn me off, will you, Mr. John?” She turned pleadingly to the young man.

“Not I,” was the response. “If you choose to follow our fortunes you shall do it, so get your traps, whatever they are, and come along.”

This, Louisa lost no time in doing. Her worldly belongings were packed in two stout bundles standing outside, and with the rest of the goods and chattels they were stowed away in the wagon which was to take them all to their destination.

Many were the westward moving wagons following the roads, some having come all the way from the eastern states, others from no further than the coast, where their owners had landed, and, like the Ross family, were conveying their goods over the last stage of their journey. At the small towns which were come upon at infrequent intervals, the wagoners would stop to help themselves to dipperfuls of tar from the barrels hospitably set out for the newcomers, and many an agonizing creak was thus brought to an end, to the relief of those who for hours had endured the noise of a squeaking wagon.

It was a beautiful open country which the travelers passed through. Even at this season flowers were in bloom, and bees still hummed above them. Herds of deer and wild horses haunted the plains; wild turkeys in great droves frequented the borders of the streams; thickets of prickly pear harbored more dangerous creatures, and the bark of the coyote made the presence of this ubiquitous little creature known even when he was not seen. The wagon in which the girls sat was driven by John Ross, while the others belonging to the party were guided by Mexicans. Neal Jordan and two or three of his comrades accompanied the travelers. True Texas rangers were these hardy fellows, and in buckskins and sombreros, with clanking spurs and long rifles, they looked their character. It gave the girls a sense of security to see these gallant out-riders, for, though the state was at peace, it was necessary for all travelers to be on their guard against the predatory Comanches and Wacos. Especially was this true after the main road was left and the small company turned off towards more isolated settlements.

Christine was as joyous as a maid could be. She and Alison took turns in sitting with John on the front seat, Alison taking the first ten miles by her brother’s side, and Christine the last ten. Louisa was quite content to sit anywhere.

“I shouldn’t wonder if we met up with Steve somewhere hereabouts,” said John, as the last five miles only lay before them.

Christine smiled and murmured: “Two years. Has he changed much, John?” she asked.

“Changed? In what way?” John laughed. “He hasn’t turned gray; neither has he grown decrepit and wrinkled. A man doesn’t alter noticeably in two years. I reckon you’ll be able to recognize him without an introduction. I expect he will have everything in good order for us. I’ll guarantee no one within fifty miles has a better cabin than ours. I don’t know that Steve can calculate to a day when we shall be along, though I reckon he won’t be far out, and we can be looking out for him when we reach Denton; that’s our nearest village and the one you’ll soon be best acquainted with.”

But the village of Denton was reached and no Steve appeared. John stopped to rest his horses, to ladle out a last dipperful of tar for his wheels, and to inquire into the happenings of the little place.

A tall man with a long beard, came out from the building which served as store, post-office and inn. He wore a blue flannel shirt and his trousers were tucked into his boots. “’Light and come in, John,” he said hospitably. “I declar’, yer a sight for sore eyes. How long ye been gone? Come in, all of ye. Mandy ain’t cla’red away yet and we’ll hand ye out somethin’. Got yer fambly in thar?” He peered curiously into the wagon.

“Yes, we’re all here,” John told him. “We’ll not come in, Buck, for the girls are anxious to see their new home. Seen anything of Steve? I thought we’d likely meet him about now.”

The man pulled his long beard thoughtfully. “Now lemme see,” he said. “Steve was here; I reckon it must hev been day before yesterday. He came for some truck, coffee I believe it was. Said he was looking out for you-alls to be gittin’ along. Maybe he thought you’d be as well satisfied if he waited at your house for you and had it comfortable when you got thar.”

“He was all right then?”

“Right as a trivet. Said you’d been gone long enough for him, ’peared like it was three years instead of three months. Said he didn’t reckon nobody’d be gladder than him to see you and your folks. Got some of the boys to come along with ye, didn’t ye? Neal movin’ up this way?”

“Well no, he’s still down on the river, but he and the boys thought they might as well ride along with us.”

“Where there’s women folks,” said Buck, “it’s just as well to pick up as many as ye kin to travel with ye. Ain’t come acrost no Injuns, I suppose?”

“Not one. Been any about?”

“I ain’t sure about that. Ben Phillips was tellin’ me he heard they’d got a bunch of horses from the Carterses the other night.”

“Humph!” John glanced towards the wagon a trifle uneasily. Christine was listening eagerly. Buck followed his glance. “Thar ain’t nothin’ to be skeered of, miss,” he said coming forward. “We don’t hev no trouble nowadays. They will steal horses every chanst they git, and I reckon they’re bound to keep thet up till the cows come home, but they don’t pester us much. White folks is gittin’ too thick fur ’em; settlemints too clost together and Uncle Sam standin’ ready to lick ’em into shape if they git troublesome. Well, you off? Bring the gals over when ye kin.” He waved his hand in farewell and the company proceeded on its way. Three miles beyond Denton lay the home to which they all looked forward expectantly.

They were covering the distance rapidly, when suddenly a riderless horse came dashing up to John’s team, and tossing its head stood still for a moment, then ran alongside.

“It’s Hero, as I live,” exclaimed John, hastily handing the reins to his sister and climbing down. He held out his hand to the pretty creature, who pricked up his ears, lowered his head and looked at him suspiciously, then dashed off a short distance to stand still again. John cautiously followed with a bunch of grass and finally Hero allowed himself to be caught, evidently first making sure that John was a friend.

“I’d like to know what the mischief he’s doing here,” said John. “It’s Steve’s horse, you know.”

Christine looked startled, and asked tremulously: “What do you think can have happened?”

“He’s gotten loose somehow, or has slipped out of the corral, I suppose,” said John carelessly. But he led the horse up to where Neal was watching proceedings, and the two conferred together, Neal taking the horse in charge and John returning to the wagon. Christine thought he looked troubled, but to her questionings he only answered: “I haven’t a doubt but that it’s all right. We’ll soon find out. Steve certainly will be glad to see his horse again. It’s lucky he met us instead of some other crowd, or Steve would likely never have got him back.” But in spite of this off-hand way of disposing of the matter, Christine was not satisfied.

CHAPTER III
THE CHASE

AT last through the trees, appeared the yellow ends of hewn logs attesting to their newness, and a sudden turn into the clearing brought the house into view. It was a roomy affair and much better than the pioneer dwellings of former days. The main room below was supplemented by a lean-to which was divided; while the loft overhead gave ample accommodation for sleeping arrangements and could be partitioned off if necessary. Alison’s eyes were scanning the new house eagerly, but Christine gazed in the direction of the little old cabin which had done service for John and Stephen, and which she knew Stephen still occupied. No smoke came from its chimney, and there was no sign of life anywhere. Christine looked at her brother wistfully. “Where do you suppose Steve is?” she asked faintly.

“Like as not he didn’t look for us just yet or he would have been on hand,” John hastened to say. “I shouldn’t wonder if he had gone to some of the neighbors. Got lonely, I reckon. Come to think of it, that’s just what he has done. He could ride over here every day and look after things and go back again. I suppose that accounts for Hero’s appearance; he got loose and made tracks for his own stable. Neal and I will go and hunt up Steve and give him a surprise.” After having given orders for the unloading of the goods he nodded to Neal, and the two galloped in the direction of the silent little cabin, while the wagons were stopped at the larger house.

The fact that Stephen’s presence was lacking did not prevent Alison from taking a keen interest in the moment of arrival, whatever may have been her sister’s sensations, and it was Alison who was the first to spring lightly down from the wagon and to enter the house. She ran from room to room, then gave a ready hand to the carrying in of the lighter articles, chatting all the while. “Home at last, Tina. Louisa, do help me with this basket; I am sure it has some breakables in it,” and so the removing went on till the main room was full of pieces of furniture, with the boxes, bags and barrels which were set there ready to unpack.

Meanwhile John and Neal had returned from their tour of investigation. “Not a sign of Steve and not a horse on the place,” they reported. “It looks like horse thieves had been about,” said Neal to the other men, “whether Injuns or no we ain’t able to tell, but we lay out to chase after them and I reckon you boys don’t want to miss the fun.”

“Who’s to stay with the gals?” asked one, turning to John.

“I hadn’t thought about that part of it,” he acknowledged.

“I suppose bein’ new to the country they’d be skeered to death to be left alone, and it mightn’t be safe nuther,” said the other.

“They ain’t no war and the Injuns is quiet, if they will steal hosses,” said Ira Korner, unwilling to give up the prospect of the chase.

“That’s so,” returned John. “Suppose we get old Pedro and his Greasers to stay till we get back. He’s a reliable old soul and as good-hearted a yellow-faced, skin-dried old Mexican as I ever met. Feed the men up well and give them nothing to do and they’ll be willing to camp out here for a week.” They hunted up the girls and made the proposition to them.

“I don’t see why we need any one,” said Alison. “You will be back before night, you say, and I should think three women were as good as one man, and not one of you would hesitate to stay here alone.”

“I should think if we three girls can’t look out for ourselves for a few hours we must be poor shakes,” put in Louisa.

“Go, John. Do go. We shall not mind. I am sure Pedro will be an excellent protector,” was Christine’s comment. And so, after a conference with the Mexicans, John and Neal, in company with Ira Korner and Reub Blakely, started off, leaving the girls looking after them. The old Mexican grinned sociably at his charges and in slow halting speech tried to talk to them. “No is to distress the self, the yong lade. Is to return ver soon. Is wish me to make a useful at time all is depart,” he said.

Christine, in whose eyes the tears were standing, turned to Alison who stood by smiling broadly. “Can you make out what he is trying to say?” she asked.

“Why yes, I think I know what he means. We are not to distress ourselves. They will be back soon and then it will be all right. In the meantime he will make himself useful.”

“You are cleverer at translating than I am,” acknowledged Christine. “I wish they did not need to go.”

“The best thing for us to do is to get to work,” said Alison. “The time will pass much more quickly if we do. There is no use in our sitting still and moping. Besides we want to make the place comfortable as soon as possible.”

“But if I only knew what had become of Steve,” said Christine wofully. “Suppose the Indians should have captured him. Suppose they should be torturing him.”

“Nonsense,” said Louisa briskly. “I don’t believe a word of that. You heard Mr. John say that he had probably gone to a neighbor’s and they’ll easy find him. Don’t get yourself all worked up, Miss Tina. It ain’t as if it were Mr. John, your own brother.”

Christine gave her a look which a less simple girl would have understood, but Louisa, blissfully unconscious of the reason for these terrors, went on unpacking and felt that the last word had been spoken upon the subject.

Christine went on murmuringly: “And I was so happy this morning and thought he would be here to meet us.”

This time it was Alison who listened to her plaint, and who began to have a dawning idea that this was a real grief to her sister. “Why, Tina,” she said with some show of indignation, “I believe you are in love with Steve Hayward.”

“CHRISTINE DROPPED HER HEAD ON THE TABLE AND BURST INTO TEARS.”

At this charge Christine dropped her head on the table and burst into tears, to Louisa’s astonishment and Alison’s distress. “Why, Tina, why, Tina,” said the latter kneeling down by her side. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I didn’t know you cared, though I might have suspected. Don’t cry, Tina dear.” She murmured her words caressingly and the little Mexican, standing by with his head to one side, assumed an expression of interest and sympathy.

“Pobrecita,” he said. “Mientras mas alto es al monte mas profundio es el valle.” Then shaking his head he tried to say in English, “More high is the hill; more low is the val. The sister is so high as the hill and now she make the tear.” He wiped his eye in such a mockingly funny way that Alison had to laugh in spite of herself, and realizing that the old man understood English better than he spoke it Christine restrained herself from further exhibition of feeling and set to work with the rest.

By nightfall the place began to look quite habitable. Pedro and his men had worked with a will, Christine’s tears and Alison’s smiles having been strong factors in urging on their efforts. As dusk approached the wagoners retired, old Pedro alone remaining indoors. The cows came lowing home, the chickens gathered about the hen-house; it was the hour which most strongly carried back the thoughts of the girls to the home they had so lately left. Even Louisa gave a little sigh and said: “That red cow reminds me of Mis’ Brown’s Cherry. I wonder how they’re gittin’ along.”

“I think I should like to feed the chickens myself,” said Alison. “It seems kind of homelike to have something like that to do.”

“And I reckon I may as well do the milking; it will get my hand in,” returned Louisa.

But Pedro had forestalled her in this occupation and was bringing in the brimming buckets as she went into the kitchen. Alison, however, went out and made friends with the chickens and stopped to speak to Steve’s horse which was safe in the stable. Here, to her surprise, she found Christine who had stolen out to comfort herself with ministering to the one thing which was very near and dear to Stephen. Hero had responded cordially to her advancements and was rubbing his handsome head against the girl’s shoulder and nickering softly, as she fed him with apples and talked to him caressingly. Alison backed out of the stable without being observed by her sister and hurried back to the house to help Louisa with the supper.

The men, bivouacked a little distance away, near the wagons, were feasting on the viands with which they had been generously supplied, and were making merry. The girls had not stopped to prepare a meal earlier in the day, but now Alison insisted that they should make a feast in the new home, for, tired though she was, she told Louisa that when the men returned they would probably be more tired still. “And nothing rests one like a good meal,” she remarked.

Louisa was in her element. She had already stowed away the stores, and though books occupied one half the potato bin and fine china stood side by side with wooden platters, she knew where everything was and was ready to produce any article asked for. Soon the fragrance of coffee filled the big room and from the kitchen came the sound of sizzling ham and the odor of browning biscuits. “Just you set still and rest,” said Louisa to the others. “I came here to earn my keep and I mean to do it. You two ain’t used to running your legs off, and you’re all tuckered out while I’m as fresh as a lark. I ain’t lived with Mis’ Brown all these years without getting pretty strong in the muscles. I reckon I’d better cook a-plenty, for there’s no telling when them men will be coming along and they’ll be mortal hungry.”

Such a cheerful possibility had a good effect upon Christine, and as for Alison she would hear nothing but that the entire company, Steve included, would be with them before the meal was ready. “I shall set the table for eight,” she said, “and I mean to put on all our best dishes and things, for this is our house-warming.” Pedro had started a fire in the big fireplace, for the October night was chill, and so industrious had all been that the room presented a very cozy and lived-in appearance. Christine, who had taken her place at the window, was anxiously peering out into the gathering gloom. Presently she started and called out: “Alison, Alison, come here.” Her sister obeyed the summons. “What is that over there?” said Christine eagerly. “Does it seem to you that some one is coming? or is it only the waving branches of a tree? I have looked so long I cannot tell. See if you can make it out.”

Alison bent her eyes in the direction her sister indicated. “It is—one—two—three—— Oh, Christine, they are coming.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“You don’t think it could be Indians?”

Alison laughed. “You are so full of notions you will say next that they are Esquimaux or something equally absurd. Of course it is not Indians. I can see their hats and, unless I am much mistaken, they are John and the rest.” Christine clasped and unclasped her hands in an agony of agitation while Alison ran to the door and called: “Pedro, Pedro, they are coming.”

The old man abandoned his companions and came running. He and Alison had struck up quite a friendship. He had a daughter her own age, he had told her. She was his youngest and his treasure, Alison had discovered, and had won the old man’s heart by the interest she displayed in this Mexican maid. He joined her now by the door and assured her that she was right in her conjectures. “I am sure it is Mr. Jordan riding ahead,” Alison called in to her sister. “There are five of them, I verily believe. I can see them quite easily now. What did I tell you when I set the table?”

Nearer and nearer the horsemen galloped. Now they had passed Steve’s cabin, now they were at the gate and came clattering towards the house at full tilt. Alison fairly danced up and down with excitement. This was something like. Adventure to start with and no dull hours to drone away that evening.

John was the first to alight and Neal followed him. Christine watched breathlessly as one after another emerged from the dimness and stepped into the full light of the room. After John and Neal came Ira Korner, then Reuben Blakely; the fifth man was a stranger. Christine went swiftly up to her brother. “Where is he?” she asked. “Why didn’t you bring him?”

John looked down at her and patted her shoulder in awkward confusion. “Well, the fact is, we didn’t find Steve,” he said, “and we have about concluded that he went off hunting, lost his horse and is footing it back. He’ll likely get along between this and to-morrow night. We’ve about made up our minds that while he was away some pesky redskins, who had been watching their chance, sneaked in and got the horses. We made out by the tracks that it is just about that way. We followed up the thing as far as it seemed any use and then we passed on the word. Pike Toles is going to take a squint at the tracks beyond his place and maybe we can get wind of something. That’s why we brought Pike along. I wouldn’t worry, Tina. Steve’ll be tramping in first thing you know.”

At this report Christine looked so woebegone that Alison flounced out of the room to give vent to her feelings in the kitchen. “The idea of Christine’s looking as if she had lost her last friend. Suppose Steve hasn’t come, that’s no reason why she should be going about looking like a dying calf. I’d be ashamed to let any one know I cared. Big sisters are such sillies sometimes. You can be mighty sure I’d never do that way.”

Louisa laughed. “Just wait till your time comes,” she said, as she began to busy herself in dishing up the supper. All this excitement was having its effect upon her and her head was jerking more than usual, though this did not interfere with her activity, and by the time the horses were put up the supper was on the table.

Neal Jordan looked at the well-served fare and remarked as he took his place: “Reminds me of home, boys. I’ve not seen such a lay-out since I came down here.”

“Looks like somebody here’s a mighty good cook,” remarked Ira Korner, surveying the smoking, light biscuits.

“That coffee smells as good as a weddin’,” said Reub Blakely.

“Speakin’ of weddin’s,” began Ira, looking towards Christine.

“But we’re not speaking of weddings and we don’t want to,” Alison interrupted him by saying. “What we want to speak about is where you have been all day and what your adventures were.”

“Give us leave to eat our supper first,” returned Ira. “I tell you when a fellow gits grub like this he wants to give his whole attention to it without side-tracking onto a narrative. Just you let us get outside that ham and coffee and a pile or so o’ them biscuits and we’ll talk to ye.”

Just then Louisa skurried off saying, “I guess I’ll lose my head next. I clean forgot that honey Pedro got for us. I ain’t got the best head in the world, for I’ve most jerked it off already.”

Ira observed her gravely. Any one who could make such biscuits and coffee appealed to his tenderest sensibilities. “What’s the young lady’s name?” he whispered audibly to Alison by whose side he sat. “I didn’t catch her cognomen, as Pike likes to call it.”

“Her name is Sparks, Louisa Sparks,” Alison told him.

Ira nodded in answer. His eyes followed Louisa when she went from the room to replenish the supplies and when he had finished his thirteenth biscuit he looked across the table and said: “Any kin o’ old Cy Sparks? Old man with a red head, he is.”

Louisa looked up surprised. “Why, my father’s name was Cyrus, but he’s been dead these fifteen years.”

“That so? Orphin?”

“Yes, I lost my mother when I was eight and I was fetched up by Mis’ Brown, aunt o’ Mr. John’s.”

“Humph!” Ira returned to an appreciation of his biscuits and honey.

“Queer there should be another Cyrus Sparks down here in Texas,” said Louisa breaking the silence, for all the men were eating steadily, solemnly and ravenously.

“’Tis queer,” returned Ira. “Old Cy don’t live so terrible far from here. He’s a mean old cuss, though, and I reckon you kin thank your stars that you don’t need to call him pop. No, thank you, miss, I’m sorry to say that I’ve reached my limit. Jerusalem, but I’ve eat hearty!”

Christine had scarcely tasted her supper, but gave her attention to the hungry men. Alison was eagerly alert, her bright little face framed by its bands of fair hair was turned interestedly from one to another. “I think it is time that you told us where you have been all these hours,” she said, her curiosity refusing to be satisfied. “Out with your story, Mr. Jordan.”

“Pretty tame sort of story, isn’t it, boys?” he began. “If we had come back without our scalps it might have been interesting, though we wouldn’t have looked as pretty.”

“And if we’d have left our hides with a lot of bullet holes in ’em we’d have missed one good supper,” remarked Ira. “I reckon it’s a good thing we didn’t come to closter quarters with the redskins. I ain’t to say skeered of ’em, though I’m blest if I wouldn’t rather die in a good rational fight with the boys all yellin’ around me than be kilt by some sneakin’ varmint ketchin’ you unawares when you’re out alone. I must say I don’t ache to play cock-robin and git kilt by a bow and arrer neither. I reckin I’m a sort of skeery fellow.”

A roar of laughter went up at this. “It don’t seem to keep you much at home,” said Neal.

“Well, no, it don’t. I hev to hev my constitutional every day or I git sick. I ain’t sayin’ I’d set at home alone like a toad ketchin’ flies rather’n go out by my lone. I ain’t such a drivelin’ pasty-faced baby as thet. I’m only expressin’ my druthers and a-sayin’ that we were lucky to git back to supper. When I ponder on these here wittles, I tell you, Miss Sparks, I wisht I was twins, so I could eat ’em twicet over.” These remarks met the applause he meant they should, and after the laughter had settled down to an occasional chuckle Neal turned to Alison to give her an account of the day’s adventures.

“We surmised it was Injuns,” Neal began. “We found moccasin tracks and other signs. There must have been about half a dozen of the redskins. We found, too, the tracks of a single horse and that we concluded was Hero. So we put this and that together and made up our minds that Steve went off hunting and the Injuns sneaked in after the horses. Well, we were in a dilemma; we wanted to find Steve and we wanted the horse stealers, so we divided; two of us followed up Hero’s tracks and two went for the other horses. Hero worked around in a sort of circle and brought us out on the road where he came up this morning. We’d looked close all the way and there wasn’t any sign of Steve, so we surmised he had struck out for home after he lost his horse and had taken a different way. We knocked around for awhile but after a bit we concluded that we’d better start up the road and see after the other boys; then we met up with Pike. He was to wait at his house for Ira and Reub and get their report. They had come along by there and had gone on. Well, in about half an hour back they came. No luck. Injuns had got so far off that there was no good following them and so we joined forces and came home together about as disgusted a lot as you ever saw. Not a blessed bit of fun the entire time.”

“But suppose Steve doesn’t come back, what then?” Christine spoke up sharply.

“We’ll scour the country for him.”

And this indeed they came to do, for no Stephen appeared that day nor the next nor, indeed, did it seem after a while that he ever would appear. In time it came to be whispered about that he had been captured by the Indians, who must have come upon him as he was trudging home. No one made this explanation of his disappearance to Christine but she intuitively understood that it was the general opinion, yet she did not give up hope, though many a night her fast-flowing tears moistened her pillow, and the joy she had felt in the prospect of life in this new home was overshadowed by dread.

CHAPTER IV
OFF TO THE WAR

THE state of Texas had yet to battle further for her independence. She had long been a bone of contention between the United States and Mexico. In 1803, when Louisiana was ceded by France to the United States, Texas became disputed territory. Thirty years later the twenty thousand settlers who occupied the land rose up and attempted to found an independent republic. In 1835 a provisional government was formed with Samuel Houston as its head. The story of the continuous struggles with Mexico, the tales of bloodshed, the massacres at the Alamo and Goliad, when the fierce despairing efforts of valiant men were made for independence, belong to this period of the history of Texas, and a thrilling chapter it makes, one which has been the theme of many a writer. The chapter ends with the acknowledgment of the little republic by the United States in 1837, and in 1840 by England, France and Belgium. Feeling herself too weak to withstand continual invasion, Texas desired the support of a stronger government, and in 1845 was admitted into the Union in spite of the protests of Mexico, which had never acknowledged the independence of her small neighbor and which now declared the United States to be an invader. Intense excitement had prevailed previous to the annexation of Texas and it was reasonable to suppose that force must be resorted to before permanent possession of the new territory could be gained. Foreseeing the trouble which must ensue because of the determined opposition of the Mexican government, the United States selected Zachary Taylor as commanding officer of the forces which, it was now decided, must be stationed on the borders of Texas in order to meet any aggressive movement on the part of the Mexicans.

As early as the spring of 1844, in anticipation of future difficulties, certain regiments were ordered to Texas, remaining there ready for active service. There were many who believed that such decided measures on the part of our government would have the effect of chilling the ardor of the Mexicans and that their boasting was all a pretense, a bluster which would be stilled as soon as they discovered the presence of an army, but these optimists were mistaken, for in April, 1846, the first shot was fired, the Mexicans assumed the offensive and war began.

Rumors of this first fight were brought to the new home of the Rosses by Neal Jordan. He dashed in one spring morning, swung himself off his house and demanded to see John.

“You’re mighty peremptory, Mr. Neal Jordan,” said Alison, who was the first to welcome him. “What’s the matter that you’re in such a hurry?”

He set his long rifle against the wall, slipped his fingers along the barrel first on one side and then on the other. “Do you see this old pet?” he asked. “She’s going to speak a word to the Mexicans and I am going along to tickle her into speech. John won’t want to be left out of the little conversation that’s to take place, so I thought I’d stop by and invite him to join in.”

By this time Alison had gained a better understanding of the peculiarities of speech indulged in by her Texas friends. “Do you mean there is to be fighting?” she asked.

Neal nodded. “They’ve fired the first shot and there has been a battle. We boys are going to help out our side.”

“Oh, dear!” Alison shook her head. “Do you suppose it will last long?”

“Can’t tell. It depends upon how soon we lick ’em.”

“You are sure to do that.”

“Sure as shootin’.”

“Will there be fighting up this way?”

“I reckon not, but we can’t tell so early in the game.”

Alison glanced out of the door at the quiet scene before her. She shuddered as her gaze returned again to the long rifle. “I wish John didn’t have to go,” she said, “but I know he will. He’s always said he would. I’ll go find him, but I must say I wish you hadn’t come; for the first time I wish that of you, Neal Jordan.”

The young man looked at her with a half smile. “I’m glad it’s the first time,” he said simply, “and I hope it will be the last time you need say that.”

“What does make you men so eager to fight?” Alison asked, looking back, as she stood with her hand on the door.

“Nature of the beast, I suppose,” returned Neal coolly. “It gets into the blood and you can’t get rid of it. It’s masculine, I reckon, though there’s female women who have it too.”

“Yes, there was Joan of Arc, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of her. They ketched her and burned her. I don’t just recollect who it was did it, but I don’t think it was Injuns.” Neal gravely tried to recall his somewhat limited knowledge of the facts.

“No, it was done by the French. They pretended to think she was a witch.”

“So they did. Well, we did some witch-burning ourselves way back there, so we in the States can’t call the kettle black. That’s what I think sometimes when the boys go to pitchin’ into the Injuns.”

“But we were never as cruel as they.”

“No, but we were smart enough, big enough and ugly enough to know better than to burn women and to cut off people’s ears because they didn’t go to the same church as we did. I’m an Injun fighter from way back, but I ain’t so sure that I wouldn’t do as they do, if I wasn’t any more civilized, and if I was run off my land as they are. We’ve got to run ’em, of course, but in spite of that I reckon they can claim that there ain’t justice done every time.”

Alison regarded him thoughtfully. She had heard others talk less mercifully and yet she knew no man was braver, more ready to rush into action, to lead a band against the Indians, than this same Neal Jordan. Ira Korner, too, was noted for his fearlessness, but he had not Neal’s sense of justice. “Then you wouldn’t fight now if you didn’t believe it right,” the girl said.

“No,” was the reply. “As it is, we only want our own. We claim a certain boundary, you know; the Mexicans say we want more than is coming to us and they are ready to go to war about it. We don’t mean to have them grab what we have a right to and we are perfectly willing to fight, too. That’s what it’s all about. I suppose we wouldn’t be quite so fierce if we didn’t remember the way they did us back in ’36 when they slaughtered every man at the Alamo, and when they gave no quarter at Goliad. We are glad of the chance of paying off old scores and are not above being ready for revenge.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” returned Alison, her eyes kindling. “John has had that in mind ever since our father fell fighting for Texas. John is my only brother, but when I think of father I cannot say a word, and I mean to give him all the encouragement I can.”

Neal looked after her admiringly as she left the room. “Spunky little kitten,” he said to himself. “I like her spirit. I wonder what Christine will say.”

He was not long left in doubt as to Christine’s attitude, for she soon entered the room with the swift directness which was always hers. “You are going to take John away from us,” she said abruptly.

“I am not going to take him,” was the reply. “I reckon he’ll be willing to go without being gagged and bound.”

“Must every one be sacrificed?” asked Christine. “Our father gave up his life in this dreadful land. It has swallowed up Stephen Hayward and now John must go. Must we give up all that we have left? If John is killed what will happen to us, to two defenseless girls alone in this crude country?”

Neal’s face flushed slightly, but he answered quietly, “I’m something of a believer in fatality, Miss Christine. If fate decrees that John must go to his death, he will go as a brave man and not as a coward. He might stay at home and be killed by an Injun or a wildcat and there would be no special glory in it. The chances are as much in his favor if he goes, for all I can see, and it’s something to fall in battle, to die doing one’s duty.”

“I question the duty,” replied Christine. “He brought us here. His first duty is to stand by us and see that we are taken care of.”

Neal bent his steady eyes upon her. “It’s a pity that you ever thought of coming to this crude country as you call it. Any one that feels as you do had better stay at home.”

“I didn’t feel so when we started. I didn’t know what awaited us. I have lost my faith in Texas.” She sat down and dropped her hands listlessly in her lap.

Neal regarded her silently for a minute. “You’re not like those Revolutionary ancestors of yours that you were telling me about the other day; they sent their husbands and brothers to the war with the word that they were to fight to the last lick. But then I don’t know as I blame ye, pore little gal,” he said under his breath. “Allie gone to fetch John?” he asked after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Don’t begrudge him to us, Miss Christine. John won’t leave you all alone. I shouldn’t wonder if he could get old Pedro Garcia and his daughter to come stay on the rancho. There’s the empty cabin, you know.”

“Steve’s cabin?” Christine shook her head in opposition to the suggestion.

“It ain’t any use to have it stand there and fall to pieces, is it?” he said. “I wish to heavens Steve was still in it, but if he was here he’d be going off, too, to this war, and you’d have that trouble to face. There’s no good looking behind. The best way is to let what’s gone lie still and keep on a-stepping forward.”

Christine sighed. “I can’t look forward with much joy unless I let myself believe that Steve will come back.”

“Don’t do any harm to believe it.”

“Do you think there is the slightest hope?”

“Of course there’s a chance, not much of a one, I’ll admit, but Steve was a good fighter.”

“Was? Can’t you say is?”

“I’ll say it till I have to say was. We’ve always been good friends, Steve and I. He’s spoken of you to me,” added Neal a little hesitatingly.

“I felt sure of that, and it is why I have always felt that I could talk to you more freely.”

Neal’s happy smile brightened his face. “That’s right. I want you to feel that you can do that. I know how Steve looked forward to your coming and what his dreams were. I know that we hadn’t a man in the country that I’d rather call my friend than Steve Hayward. Now, Miss Christine, don’t let your feelings interfere with the needs of our army. We want John and you must let him go. That little sister of yours has grit; she’ll stand by you.”

“Alison? She is still such a child. She doesn’t know the troubles that lie in wait for us; she doesn’t understand the bitterness of disappointment.”

“She’s got the grit to stand it when it comes, and that red-headed Lou of yours ain’t far behind her. She don’t stand at anything. I’d as lief have her about as a man.”

“I suppose I do seem very foolish, a silly, weak sort of creature, to you,” returned Christine with a little show of petulance.

“No, I can’t say that,” returned Neal candidly, “but I think you let yourself mope too much. You’re the oldest; you owe it to that little sister of yours to brace up and get through this with all the courage that’s in you. I’m pretty free-spoken, I know, Miss Christine, but—it hurts a fellow to see a girl like you spending her life pining after what can’t be helped.” He drew out his bowie-knife and fell to examining the keen blade, and then John came in.

“Well, it’s come, has it?” was John’s greeting.

Neal nodded.

“Then I’m off with the rest.”

“But not yet, not just yet,” pleaded Christine.

“To be sure I must see that you girls have some one here to look after you. Fortunately we’ve nearer neighbors than we had six months ago; the settlement’s growing, and since the treaty, and the coming in of the troops, there’s no fear of Injuns, so I reckon you won’t be carried off. I’ll see if Bud Haley will look after the crops and we’ll have to get some one to stay on the place to see to the stock.” John’s mind was working rapidly. He never delayed when there was any important matter to be settled.

“I think old Pedro Garcia would be as good a man as you could get to stay on the place,” said Neal. “He knows how to get hold of the best of the Greasers and is rather particular who comes loafing about, on his daughter’s account. She’s a pretty little creetur, that Lolita Garcia, and I don’t wonder he watches her like a hawk. Suppose I go and look up the old fellow and send him over to you. I’ve no family to keep me and I thought you and I might start off soldiering together.”

“First-rate idea,” declared John. “I’m with you, Neal. Then I will ride over to see Bud, and, if you will hunt up Pedro, we can make tracks in no time.”

Christine offered no further word of protest, but watched the two men mount and ride off down the road and on till they were lost to sight. Then the girl felt an arm around her waist. “Isn’t it glorious,” said Alison, “to be a man and to be able to go to war?”

“Yes, I think it is much more so than to be a woman and to sit at home and see your dear ones leave, to go perhaps to their death.”

“Don’t hint at such a thing,” returned Alison. “We shall be sure to win.”

“With no fighting?”

“Of course there’ll be fighting, but John will not be killed.”

“How do you know that?”

“I feel positive of it. At all events we shall see none of the fighting, for it will not be in our part of the country. Mr. Jordan says so.”

“You pin your faith on what he says, always, I think.”

“No—yes, I believe I do, for he knows a great deal; he has lived here so long. Where did they go, Tina?”

“John has gone to Haley’s and Neal to hunt up Pedro.”

“Why Pedro?”

“John thinks he can get him to stay here while he is away.”

“Good! Will he bring his daughter? I’ve always been dying to see her; they say she is a beauty.”

“Who says so?”

“Oh, everybody; Neal Jordan.”

“Is he everybody?”

“No, but he certainly is somebody in this community. Where shall we put Pedro, Tina?”

“In Steve’s cabin, I suppose,” sighed Christine.

Alison felt the awkward silence which followed. She had no word of comfort to offer, and, as time went on, dreaded having the subject of Stephen’s disappearance come up. She realized that, though six months had passed, her sister had not forgotten.

Many improvements had been made within the time of their stay on the rancho. The cabin now had a gallery added; the upper room was partitioned off into three sleeping apartments, and John talked of still further increasing the accommodations by building a “man’s room,” so that theirs would be as commodious as any of the newer buildings. Six months, too, had increased the number of settlers in the neighborhood so that now the community was quite a large one, and in consequence all were safer. The Rosses, to be sure, were on the edge of the settlement, for John had declared he did not want to be crowded, and the farm was a large one. To the right of them lay the woodlands, to the left the prairie, while before them stretched the settlement, whose houses they could see beyond the clearing, and which gave them a sense of protection.

In less than an hour John returned, having dispatched his business with his usual energy. Now he was ready to make preparations for his departure. “Bud says he’ll do his best for us,” he told the girls. “Wishes he could go, too, but he says that though Santa Anna may be a one-legged man it is not to be expected that all one-legged men will fight. He has done his share of it, has Bud, and nobody will cast it up to him if he stays home. He has promised to slip up here whenever he can and you can depend upon him. If anything goes wrong just consult him about it.”

“And between times I can keep an eye on the place,” said Alison.

John laughed. “I believe that’s just what you will do. I’m not afraid of anything but losing the horses; all the horse thieves are not Injuns.”

“They shan’t steal our horses, whoever they are,” declared Alison.

“How are you going to help it?”

For answer Alison picked up her brother’s long rifle, stepped forward, aimed at a mark on the fence and fired. Then she ran down to examine the mark. “Within an inch,” she called back.

John followed her to the spot. “Humph! pretty good for a girl. The gun never made you flinch. Who taught you how to shoot?”

“Mr. Jordan. He said I ought to know, that it might come in handy some time. You must leave us firearms, John, for Louisa is pretty nearly as good a shot as I am, and Christine can use a pistol, though she hasn’t tried the rifle; she’s afraid it will kick. I had a lot of kicks in the beginning. The first time I tried I went over as if I had shot myself from the butt end. I was so mad. It wouldn’t have been half so bad if Neal hadn’t been there. It was his rifle I was using and he came out just in time to see me; but then he showed me how to use it properly, so perhaps, after all, it was as well.”

“I’ll leave you each a pistol,” said John, “and there’s my smaller rifle that can be used in an emergency.”

“I’ll begin to practice with that,” declared Alison, “and I will protect your horses so well that you will find every one when you come back. I think Christine would stand to her guns if any one offered to lay hands on Hero, and Lou hasn’t a bit of fear in her. If Pedro can come we shall get along nicely, for he is the decentest old Greaser I know.”

Her hopes in this direction were realized, for Pedro returned with Neal, and after a long talk which took place down at the little cabin, it was arranged that he should take charge while John was away, bringing his young daughter and establishing himself in the deserted cabin; it was comfortable and sufficiently well furnished for persons more particular than Pedro Garcia.

The old Mexican arrived, bag and baggage, the next day, his pretty daughter with her wonderful dark eyes and her wealth of hair being at once the admiration of Alison, who pounced upon her and bore her triumphantly to the house to display her to Christine. Late in the afternoon John and Neal started to join Jack Hays and his Texas Rangers. Bowie-knives in order, pistols in belts, rifles across knees, they rode away. Bravely though Alison had given her help, had seen to every detail of her brother’s outfit and had sent him off with a smile, as he disappeared from sight she rushed from the house to a little hiding-place in the chaparral and there concealed herself till the sun was low in the west and the green trees along the river course whispered in the evening breeze. No one should behold her in this hour of trouble. Perchance an inquisitive jack-rabbit might lift his long ears and peer at her from his cover, or an impertinent prairie dog might peep from his hole to observe the intruder, but the world of human things should not witness her in tears.

CHAPTER V
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT

AS she lay in the shelter of her hiding-place, her grief so subdued that only a sigh once in a while escaped her, Alison heard a rustling in the thicket. Who could have discovered her lair? Neal had cut away for her the thick tangle of vine, bush, and thorn, the undergrowth which made up the chaparral, and she had called it her fortress. Only Neal and herself knew the way to it, for the path was cleverly cleared beyond a group of trees standing by the road, and one must needs climb one of the trees and drop from a lower limb before the spot could be reached. Alison started to her feet at sound of the intruder. It might be a prowling coyote or other woods creature, for evening was approaching when the wild things of the forest were bolder. But it was nothing wilder than Lolita who had found her out and who smiled at her over the top of the thicket saying caressingly: “Pobrecita! Ella no es feliz. You make a cry?” she asked hesitatingly.

Alison shook her head but Lolita pointed to her own eye and nodded emphatically. “The weep, I see him,” she said.

At this Alison smiled. The broken English of Pedro always entertained her and Lolita’s was even more amusing. “No mas,” she said, drawing on her own small stock of Spanish.

Lolita nodded understandingly. “Is go the broth’r,” she said. “Is make you the weep. Si, si. I come for look you. So long is go you.”

“I believe I have been here a good while,” Alison returned. “I suppose Christine wonders what has become of me. I shouldn’t have left her all this time. Lolita, no tell—no say you of this place—— Oh, dear, how can I make her understand she is not to say anything about it. I wouldn’t have any one find my hiding-place for the world. I wonder what secret is in Spanish. I’ll risk secreto; it sounds as if it might be right.” She pointed to the small cleared space in the midst of the chaparral. “Mi secreto,” she said.

Lolita nodded, smiling assurance, and poured forth a speech not a word of which Alison understood. “I suppose she means she will not tell.” Then by pointing to her lips, shaking her head and repeating: “Mi secreto,” she gained in response significant gestures which satisfied her that Lolita understood perfectly, and that nothing would induce her to reveal the secret. “I’ll have to learn Spanish; that’s all there is about it, or I shall never be able to get along. To be sure Pedro understands me pretty well and can get off a sort of talk which I can partly translate, but I’d better pitch in and study. I’ve no doubt that John has some sort of Spanish books in the house; I’ll look them up and meantime I will learn all I can from Lolita and Pedro. Christine cannot say I am not improving my opportunities.” She smiled brightly at Lolita, and the two went together to the house, each trying to make the other comprehend, and such a funny business did this appear to be, that by the time they reached the door, they were both laughing in the happy, foolish way characteristic of young things like themselves.

At the house the two parted. Alison was surprised to find Christine perfectly calm, going about her evening duties. She looked at Alison keenly and the traces of tears did not escape her notice, though she made no sign. She could not forget Neal’s words: “You’re the oldest; you owe it to that little sister of yours to brace up and get through this with all the courage that’s in you.” To be sure, she argued to herself, Neal Jordan had no right to inform her as to her duty, but she could not forget what he had said. It struck her the more forcibly as she realized that Alison had crept off alone to make her moan, and that she was a brave little lass who did not flinch when trouble came, and who did not ask any one to bear it with her. “I must not let that child outdo me,” Christine told herself. “I must get together all the courage that’s in me.” So she looked up smiling and said: “Guess what we are going to have for supper?”

“What?” Alison paused and sniffed the odors coming from the kitchen, then started for that room.

Christine caught her. “No, it’s a surprise.”

“I smell them. Flapjacks.”

“And what else?” Christine wheeled her round and displayed a plate of fruit cake and a dish of preserved figs prepared after the fashion of the country.

“Where did you get them?” asked Alison. “What a feast we shall have.”

“I brought the cake from home, I have saved it all this time, and the figs Lolita presented to us. I thought this evening we needed something to ’liven us up and so I unsealed my stone crock of cake and Louisa offered to make the flapjacks.” Christine refrained from asking Alison anything concerning her afternoon, and they ate their little feast, each the stronger because of helping the other to face the sacrifice which John’s going meant.

Matters went on quietly for a week after this. Alison improved the opportunity to increase her knowledge of Spanish, while Lolita’s English was added to in like proportion. This mutual desire to learn brought the two younger girls often together, and as Lolita had her own duties to perform Alison sometimes offered to help, that the little Mexican might be free to run out of doors with her. They were so great a contrast that Christine smiled to see them together; Alison tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, white of skin, slight of figure; Lolita scarce up to Alison’s shoulder, her long dark tresses reaching below her waist, her melting brown eyes fringed by long lashes, her skin pale and colorless, her little figure already rounded and plump as that of a more mature person. That Alison should run wild with the daughter of a Greaser whose life had been spent in a mud adobe, would hardly have been countenanced by Aunt Miranda Brown, and, indeed, it was probable that it would not have been approved by John and his friend Neal Jordan, though the latter was hail-fellow-well-met with every newcomer in the county. But, democratic though he was, Neal Jordan possessed the pride of his Southern ancestors and while the daughter of the old Mexican wagoner might be his partner at a fandango he would have discountenanced her intimate friendship with the sister of his friend, Texas John. Alison, however, had no brother and no Neal at hand to criticise, and while the Spanish she acquired was hardly pure Castilian, the vocabulary was such as would serve her well in Texas and she enjoyed learning from Lolita other things besides words. She would squat down by her side and help her prepare tortillas and frijoles for Pedro’s dinner; she learned how to drape a reboso gracefully around her, how to ride a Texas mustang, while various other accomplishments were added to her list. She found time to practice at the round white mark Neal had made upon the fence, and the crack of her rifle was heard daily. Christine and Louisa, too, joined in the target practice, but as neither was enthusiastic in preparing food à la Mexicaine they were perfectly willing that Alison should carry off the honors in that direction.

“There,” said Alison, one day as the girls stood together practicing at the mark, “that’s the best shot yet. I’d like Neal to see that, and I don’t believe he could beat it. Let me have the pistol, Tina, and see if I can do as well with that.” She fired again but this time went wide of the mark. “If that had been an Indian I should only have winged him,” she remarked, “though with the rifle I should have pierced his heart.”

“You bloodthirsty little creature,” cried Christine. “I wonder how you would feel if you actually saw one dead at your feet from a shot of yours.”

“I don’t know; it would depend upon the aggravation,” returned Alison. “Ugh! I don’t like to think of Indians. I hope I shall never see many. I’ll race you to the house, Lou, and carry the rifle in the bargain. Double-quick, now.” She started the pace and arrived breathless, Louisa close at her heels and Christine following more sedately.

“There’s one thing,” said Alison, as she hung up the rifle, “we’ll know how to use these things if ever we need to. Ah, there comes Pedro with some honey; he said he had found a tree.” The queer double gourd which Pedro carried was indeed a receptacle for the honey he had found. Nothing was too good for Alison who had shown such kindness to his daughter, and every day came some new offering. Strange uneatable things sometimes they were, but Alison always accepted them graciously and when she could not eat the, to her, unpalatable cakes made of flour, lard and molasses, she fed them to the pigs and Pedro was never the wiser. On this occasion the honey was very acceptable and served as a fine accompaniment to Louisa’s hot biscuits.

Whether it was because of a too great indulgence in these delicacies, or whether it was that she had worked herself up into a state of nervousness by fancying what she really would do if attacked by Indians, certain it was that Alison did not sleep well that night. More than once she turned on her pillow and listened to Christine’s quiet breathing, wishing she too, were sleeping soundly. Every noise seemed exaggerated. Twice she sat up in bed believing she heard something on the roof. A third time she was convinced that there was an unusual commotion among the horses in the stable. Surely it was no fancy. She crept softly from the bed and stole to the window which looked towards the outbuildings. The night was moonless, but by the light of the stars she could distinguish moving forms about the stable door. She hesitated a moment, groped her way towards the bed, paused a second, deciding not to awaken her sister, then she hastily felt for her clothes, slipped into her frock and tiptoed from the room to the adjoining one where Louisa slept.

At the whispered word: “Louisa!” the girl sprang up. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Anybody sick?”

“Sh!” returned Alison. “I don’t want to wake Tina, but I believe there are horse thieves down at the stable. Do you dare go with me?”

“Go where?”

“I’ll show you. I think we can hide and maybe can scare them off.”

Louisa was not one to stand at anything, so she slipped out of bed, got into her clothes and the two went stealthily down the stairs. Alison reached for the long rifle. Louisa possessed herself of two pistols. Alison led the way, creeping along in the shadows, her dark-blue gown rendering her inconspicuous enough to prevent her being observed by any one on the watch. The night was mild and quiet. Overhead the stars shone brightly. A hundred odors arose from the masses of prairie flowers. The night breeze in the trees, the distant plash of the river, the bark of a coyote, the screech of an owl, once in a while the wild note of a mocking-bird, these were all the sounds distinguishable, as the two girls stole to the clump of trees at the edge of the chaparral.

“They’ll have to pass down the road,” whispered Alison as they came to a halt under the trees. “If they have Hero I shall surely fire. Do you suppose it is Indians?”

“Laws, I hope not,” whispered Louisa.

“Can you climb this tree? Out to that furthest limb?” asked Alison.

“I should hope so,” returned Louisa.

Alison crept along the extended limb and suddenly dropped from it to the ground. Louisa, in good faith, imitated her movement, though it would seem to the uninitiated as if only a tangle of thorn and brier were below to receive them. However, Alison knew her way well, and presently they were hidden in the depth of the thicket, kneeling on the ground and peeping through the screen of leaf and bramble.

At some distance away the group of buildings loomed up darkly under the starry heavens; first the house and its nearer outbuildings, hen-house, meat-house, corn-crib and wood-shed; a little beyond these stood the stable. The girls heard the tramping of the horses and saw dark figures moving stealthily. There were apparently only two or three persons. Alison’s heart beat fast. She felt very sure that this hiding-place of hers would not be discovered, that a fire directed from this point of vantage would surprise the intruders and, unless they were in large enough numbers to assume the offensive, that she and Louisa might well expect to frighten them off. She knew that Hero was the most valuable of the horses and was Christine’s especial pet; the fact of his belonging to Stephen gave him so large a claim upon her affections that if he were taken she would be inconsolable, therefore Alison was determined to rescue him at all hazards. The others she would be sorry to lose, but they were less valuable. She hoped that Christine would not awaken, for if she gave the alarm and directed the men’s attention to the house where she was alone it might be the worse for her, since a desperado would stand at nothing. The country was full of such men who lost no opportunity of securing plunder whenever chance afforded, and who would not hesitate to commit murder when thwarted. Dreadful possibilities crowded to Alison’s mind as she crouched in the dew-laden thicket by Louisa’s side. She regretted her sudden resolve in leaving the house and shivered, not from the chill of the night air, but from a sharp alarm.

“Skeered?” whispered Louisa.

“No, not exactly,” Alison returned. “I was thinking of Tina; if she should wake up; if they were to go to the house and find her alone.”

“Sh!” Louisa appreciated the situation, but her courage was high. “I don’t believe they want anything but the horses and they ain’t got an idea of going to the house.” She kept her eyes fixed upon the stable from which now came three mounted horsemen. Each of the two foremost men led two horses and the third had Hero in charge. Alison set her teeth hard as the first two men passed beyond the clump of trees, and just here, as luck would have it, the last of the three fell a little behind the others on account of Hero’s sudden swerving. Did he detect the presence of his friends hidden in the thicket, that he plunged and pranced at such a rate? At all events his behavior called down growling curses from the man who led him.

“It is Hero,” whispered Alison. “He shall not be taken.” And with this one thought in her mind she raised her rifle and fired. Louisa, too, discharged first one pistol and then the other, aiming at nothing in particular, for at Alison’s shot the man reeled from his saddle and fell to the ground. Hero promptly cantered back to his stable. The men in advance, hearing the reports, cast a quick look behind them, spurred on their horses and escaped, leaving their companion to his fate.

After having used up all their ammunition the two girls waited a while to see if the coast was clear, and then they left their hiding-place, swung themselves upon the low-hanging tree and made their way back trembling with excitement, and dreading to see what lay so still by the roadside.

The noise of the firing had aroused both Christine and Pedro. The former in an agony of fright awoke to find Alison gone from her side and Louisa’s room vacant. Without waiting to do more than throw something around her, she rushed down-stairs to meet Pedro in a frenzy of alarm for herself and Alison. He poured forth question after question in broken English which Christine could not understand, and as she began with counter questions up came Alison and Louisa. Christine grabbed her sister. “Where have you been? What have you been doing?” she asked.

“Killing a man, I reckon,” returned Alison leaning her rifle against the side of the house. “He’s down there in the road, but we have saved Hero.”

“For pity’s sake, Alison, what do you mean?” said Christine with shaking voice.

“I mean just what I say. I was awake and thought I heard a noise among the horses, so I got up and looked out and I saw two or three men down by the stable. I waked Lou and we went down. I didn’t think about its not being right to leave you alone, and I didn’t really mean to kill anybody. I thought maybe if we fired at the thieves they would think we were a lot of men and would go off. There were only two or three, you see, but when I found they had Hero I got excited and fired right at the man—and—and the man—the man dropped.” She burst into tears and flung herself into Christine’s arms sobbing wildly.

“You poor child! you poor child!” murmured Christine. “Have they gone off, Louisa? All the rest of them?”

“Yes’m, I think so. They made quick tracks as soon as they heard them shots. I kind of fired wild, and didn’t hit anybody, but Allie’s gun did the damage.”

“Did you wait to see if the man was really killed?”

“No, Allie was so anxious about you and was skeered to go near that ornery crittur.”

“We must go out and see to him,” said Christine. “Light the lantern, Louisa. You stay here, Alison.”

“No, no, I must go too.”

“But, dear child——”

“Never mind. I did it, and I must take the consequences. I don’t suppose I’ll be hanged for it, but oh, I would almost as soon be. I want to know as soon as I can if he is really killed.” Therefore the little company, headed by Pedro, went down the road to where they distinguished a dark horse quietly cropping the grass, his master lying motionless on the ground near him.

Pedro knelt down and put his hand on the man’s breast. “No is daid,” he said.

“I am so thankful, I am so thankful,” whispered Alison.

“Can we get him to the house, do you think?” said Christine.

He was not a large man and by their united efforts they were able to bear him to a room below stairs. By the dim light and because of the blood stains upon his face it was not easy to determine his age nor to distinguish his features. At sight of the thin stream which slowly trickled from his forehead Alison shuddered.

“I think you’d better see what has become of Hero, Pedro,” said Christine. “We don’t want him to get away after all this effort to save him. I think we can manage very well to attend to this man. I do not believe he is wounded so very badly. He is stunned, but I don’t think the bullet did more than graze his forehead.”

Pedro promised to see that the horse was safe and to return immediately. The three girls then gave their whole attention to the man, whom Louisa insisted upon tying hand and foot. “He might be playing ’possum,” she said, “and while Pedro is gone he might try to get away. It’s best to be on the safe side. I’m glad he ain’t a redskin,” she added as she wiped the stains from his face and clothing and bound up his head. “I suppose a horse thief is bad enough, but somehow I don’t mind ’em as much as Injuns. He’s coming ’round, Miss Tina.”

The man opened his eyes and uttered an ugly word. “Who are ye and what are ye doing with me?” he asked looking from one to another.

“We are the people you were stealing horses from when you got shot for it,” said Louisa with a sturdy bluntness.

The man’s brows contracted, whether from pain or anger Louisa could not determine.

“Where’s the fool that shot me?” the man asked.

“Where are you, Alison?” said Louisa with a broad smile.

Alison came forward with a questioning look. “Do you want me?”

“Yes, he wants to look at you.”

“That? That little squeak of a gal? You’re giving me something I can’t swaller,” said the man.

“All the same she’s the one. I know I didn’t do it, for there ain’t a pistol wound on ye. The rifle shot struck you and sorter stunned ye more than it killed ye, and ye just natchelly dropped. We’ve got your horse and our best one, and when you’re able you can get it back, if the boys’ll let ye.”

“There, Louisa, there,” remonstrated Christine. “Wait till he is better.”

“Oh, fire away. I don’t like soft solder, and I rather like her sass. As long as I’m not kilt I kin light out and make tracks for home, I reckon.”

“You kin, but you won’t,” said Louisa. “I reckon you’ll find you’re not as strong as ye think, and moreover if you try to git away there’ll be somebody outside to put a bullet in ye that’ll do better work than Allie’s. We don’t let horse thieves git away so easy as all that.”

“Hush, Louisa,” came peremptorily from Christine.

“He might as well have the truth. They’ll hang him as high as Haman and you know it,” said Louisa stoutly.

“Well, but do wait till he is better.”

“Oh, he’s all right. His head aches, maybe, but he’ll git over that by the time they are through with him.”

“Louisa, you are perfectly heartless.”

“Where was his heart when he came stealing Hero? See here, Mr. Man, whoever you are, you keep yourself quiet. You can’t get away. Every one of us is a good shot, so you’d better make up your mind to take it easy while you can. If you want to go to sleep, we’ll watch. If you try to escape you know what’s waiting for ye. Now make the best of it.” She took a station not far from him, grimly holding a pistol. Pedro had returned and was on guard in the gallery. Christine and Alison snuggled together in a corner. In a half hour the prisoner was sleeping quietly. Louisa, wide awake, kept a ceaseless watch.

CHAPTER VI
FIDGETTY LOU MAKES A DISCOVERY

THE first gleam of the morning sun awakened the wounded man. Its beams fell full upon the red locks of Louisa, and shone upon her round face now pale from her vigil. She had not discarded the pistol, though she was weary and heavy-eyed. As the man’s gaze was directed to the girl keeping watch he regarded her with interest. “What’s your name?” he presently snapped out.

“Louisa Sparks,” she answered, collecting her scattered thoughts.

The man turned his head sharply though the effort made him wince with pain. He uttered an exclamation under his breath. “Where you from?” was his second question.

“Kentucky, though I don’t know as it’s any business of yours. Here, shut up and stop asking me questions. I don’t want to talk to you.”

A grim smile appeared on the man’s face as he continued to regard the girl by his side.

“You seem to be mighty pleased about something,” said Louisa, looking at him disgustedly.

He gave a husky sort of chuckle. “You ain’t asked my name,” he said presently.

“I don’t want to know it. ’Tain’t nothing to me who you are.”

“You’d just as well know. Ever happen to know or hear of anybody named Cyrus Sparks, old Cy Sparks?”

Louisa started, the don’t care expression leaving her face. She leaned eagerly forward and gazed at the man intently. Then she arose and softly closed the door. “Are you any kin of mine?” she asked. “If you are I’m ashamed of you.”

“I rather guess you’ll have to own me,” was the reply. “I shouldn’t wonder if I was your dad.”

Louisa shrank back. “What do you mean? My father died fifteen years ago; my mother told me so.”

“Your mother was Louisa Ricketts, wa’n’t she?”

“That was her name before she was married.”

“Thought so. You ain’t onlike her. I reckon I’m your dad all right.”

“I tell you he’s dead.” Louisa spoke passionately. “I should think my mother ought to know.”

“I rather think your dad knows better. To be sure he let her think so. Wa’n’t no place fur her an’ the young ’un down here with Injuns as thick as blackberries, and he jest let her think that-away, you see.”

Louisa’s head jerked excitedly. “You bad, wicked old man. I disown ye, I do. My father was a hero. He died for Texas. He was a brave, good man. I’ll not give him up for an old horse thief. You’re lying. Them that steals would just as liefs lie, too, and I don’t believe one word of it. You’re trying to fool me. Your name may be Cyrus Sparks, but you’re no kin of mine.”

“Let me see,” said the man, moving uneasily. “I reckon I kin prove my right to the name all right, and I reckon I kin prove my right to my darter, too.”

“Your right to me?” Louisa gazed at him with startled eyes.

“Yes. You ain’t twenty-one yet and I reckon a father has some claim on his darter.”

“Not if he has deserted her and left her an orphin to be bound out to strangers.”

“Now, you don’t tell me it was that-away.” The man turned his sharp old eyes upon her. “When did yer mother die? Pore Louisy, she was a good sort, and I hadn’t oughter hev left her. Seems as if I must hev ben a wuthless kind of fellow. That’s why I didn’t go back. I left her and the young un when things looked pretty bad for me, pretty bad. I wrote to her right reg’lar an’ I’d kep’ on a-writin’ if I hadn’t heerd she was dead and the young un, too. Yes, you needn’t doubt it. I did hear that and believed it too, so I says to myself: what’s the use of goin’ back? I ain’t nobody to welcome me; and as I was beginnin’ to git together a little property I thought I’d as well stay whar I was. I can’t see I was to blame. Now, look-a-here; your name is Louisa Sparks. Your mother was Louisa Ricketts, daughter of old Sol Ricketts and Martha his wife. You was born Jinooary, eighteen hundred and twenty-seven; yer dad lef’ home fur Texas when you was about three year old and your mother went to her folks. Your dad was red-headed; look at my red head. He was son of Jeremiah Sparks and Laviny his wife. That’s me. Now ain’t I giving ye family history all straight?”

Louisa sat silently listening, and after waiting a minute for a response the man went on. “Your mother had fa’r skin, brown ha’r an’ eyes. She was a fine figger, but a leetle tetchy in disposition. She was fond of me, yes, Lou was, and I was good to her, ain’t she said so?” Louisa nodded silently.

The man continued. “Mebbe ef I’d stayed things might hev been diff’rent, but, no, I reckon I never could hev done as well as I’m a-doin’ here. Now, I dare say ye ain’t got a scrap of yer dad’s writin’? Ef ye hev and I could git my hands free I’d show ye my fist so ye could compare the two, ef ye don’t believe me.” Then suddenly. “Why, shucks, gal, what on airth do ye reckon I’d want to claim a strange gal fer? Ye ain’t so purty; ye ain’t no fortin; ye ain’t no prospicks. What on airth would I be tellin’ ye all this fer ef I didn’t hev some natrel affection and wanted ye jest because yer my own flesh an’ blood? Now, look-a-here, you come to yer dad. He ain’t so terble po’ly off, and maybe he’ll git together sompin’ more to leave ye, and ye won’t be destitute when he’s gone.”

Louisa helplessly twisted her fingers together. She began to believe the man was speaking the truth, but it was hard to readjust her attitude of mind. The father of her affections was a hero, a soldier, one whom she reverenced and whose name was enshrined with that of her mother in a fragrant memory. How could she accept this old man, horse thief and perhaps worse? “But my father was a soldier, an honorable man who died for Texas,” she quavered, her beliefs dying hard.

“Well, if I didn’t die for Texas, I’m like to die of her,” remarked Cyrus, “especially ef I don’t git out of this. I was a soldier all right an’ shed my blood. I was reported dead. That’s all true enough.”

“But now—now you are a horse thief.” Louisa spoke with passionate reproach.

“Who says I am?” said Cyrus coolly.

“I do. Why, you can’t deny it. Didn’t we catch you in the very act of stealing our horses?”

“Whose horse did ye see me takin’ away? Was it yourn?”

“No, it wasn’t mine.”

“Was it either of them other gals’?”

“No, not theirs.”

“Was it John Ross’s then?”

“No.”

“Then whose was it, and what right had anybody here to claim it?”

“It belongs to Steve Hayward.”

“And where’s Steve Hayward?”

“No one knows.”

“Then how do ye know the horse is his? Why gal, yer ’way off. Thet horse is mine. I bought him off of Steve Hayward and he got away from my place, broke loose and came back here. I didn’t hear of it till a bit ago. I been a-lookin’ fer thet hoss fer weeks an’ months. I suppose it might hev been better if I hed come up and claimed him, but I heerd thar wa’n’t anybody but you gals about, and I knew how women folks is, so rather than make any trouble I thought I’d jest come in quiet like an’ he’p myself to my own.”

“But those other men, those who were with you,” said Louisa bewildered by this unexpected defense, “they surely did steal three of Mr. John’s horses.”

“Lord, you can’t expect me to be accountable for what other men do. They came along to be company an’ the temptation was too great. One pore old wounded man couldn’t hold ’em back when they had once made up their minds. It was as much as my life was worth to battle with two great, powerful men. They knowed nobody was here to foller ’em and they saw a chanst of bettering therselves. I couldn’t do nothin’, yet here I lay takin’ the brunt of it all.”

All this was amazing to Louisa. She hardly knew what to believe. He spoke so plausibly, in such an injured tone, that she began to feel herself in the wrong.

“Moreover,” Cyrus Sparks went on, “I’d like to know what right any one has to Stephen Hayward’s property. Ef he’s dead an’ gone why don’t his heirs come forrard? Ef he ain’t got no heirs one has as much right as another and I can’t see that I’d be any more stealin’ than John Ross is. ’Tain’t his, and if it ain’t mine whose is it? Not John Ross’s.”

This logic added to Louisa’s bewilderment. She felt as if the world were suddenly turned upside down. All her preconceived ideas were overthrown and she looked at the man in helpless amazement.

“Now, you see then, I’m the fellow that’s got the law on my side. I’m taking peaceable possession of my property and first thing I get a bullet in me.” He edged nearer Louisa. “Now, I ain’t goin’ to be hard on nobody, especially on no women folks. You just leave me loose an’ come go home with me and I’ll promise not to prosecute none of ’em. I see that little gal don’t know she was actin’ agin the law and I’d hate to see her in jail, so I’ll keep quiet if you will. What d’ye say? Is it a bargain?”

Poor Louisa, this turning of the tables was too much for her loyalty and she murmured a faint: “Yes.”

“Ye see,” continued Cyrus pressing his advantage, “I ain’t got no witnesses nor no writin’ to prove I bought that hoss often Steve, but ef he was here he’d tell ye it was all right. Now, as I ain’t got no guarantee, an’ nobody knows about the transaction, these fellers about here might think I really did try to steal him and you know what would happen ef ye give me up. You know I wouldn’t stand no kind of chanst; I’d git strung up instid of dyin’ fer my country or in my bed like an honest man. You’d hate to hev ’em say your dad died like a horse thief, now wouldn’t ye, Lou? An’ him innercent, too.”

“Oh, it would be dreadful,” murmured Louisa.

“Thought you’d feel as I do about it. So then, I’ll be generous an’ not press my claim to the hoss, not yet, anyhow. I’ll jest leave him here for the present, and if Steve never comes back to prove my word is true, why let these people keep him fer what they’ve done fer you.”

This speech struck a responsive chord in Louisa’s breast. She loved the Ross family one and all. The dreadful possibilities that Cyrus had suggested filled her with alarm. She had little knowledge of the world and of the workings of the law. She believed the man to be really her father. It was true that she had neither beauty nor fortune, then why indeed should he wish to claim her if not from fatherly affection? True he did not fulfil her ideal, but the fact was here to face. She ought to believe him innocent till he was proved guilty. If his story were true he was not to be greatly censured. She began to feel a faint stirring of filial affection and to respond to his desire that his home should be hers. She had always so boldly announced that she was going to Texas for her father’s sake and now had come a greater opportunity to prove it than she had ever dreamed of. After all, why was it not a great thing for the poor orphan girl? Fidgetty Lou to possess the protection of a father, to live under his roof, and some day to be an heiress! Why, it was like a novel. The man’s story appeared more and more plausible as she gave herself over to these thoughts, and at length she had persuaded herself that it would be absolutely wicked to yield up her own father to the authorities. If Steve should one day reappear and vouch for his story, and she had failed to save her father from an ignominious death what remorse would be hers. She leaned over and began to unfasten the bandages which bound hands and feet, then helped the man rise. He was not an attractive personality and Louisa did not feel a return of that sudden stirring of affection, but as the man staggered slightly she put out her strong arm to steady him.

“Little onsteady on the pins,” he remarked. “You’ll be a prop to your old dad in his declinin’ years, won’t you, Lou? Ye shan’t lose by it. To think of that little squeak of a gal doin’ up Cy Sparks, this-a way gits me. Jest leave me set down and get me a drop of somethin’ or other an’ I’ll be all right. I’ve got out of worse scrapes than this—when I was in the army,” he added. “Now you’ll get me home, won’t ye?”

“Now? To-day?”

“Why yes, the sooner the better.”

“I’ll have to make some explanation to Miss Tina and Alison.”

“Yes, yes, of course, or else they might——”

“Or else they might set the neighbors on your track. I think Pedro may have gone already.”

“Then let’s hurry and light out. These here Texans are so suspicious, always so impatient. They won’t listen to reason, and even if you was to tell ’em you was my darter they wouldn’t listen to it. My, my, but I’m goin’ to take comfort in my child. All these years a pore, lonely man, thinkin’ all he loved was dead an’ gone; it’s a great change for Cyrus Sparks, I tell ye. Go tell ’em, Louisy, an’ let’s git off before there’s trouble. I’ll keep clost fer a few days an’ nobody will be the wiser. I wouldn’t have a ha’r of that gal’s head in danger, though she did come near to making an end of me, an’ so I’ll keep clost.”

Louisa’s fears being sufficiently aroused she rushed to where Christine and Alison were. Now that it was light they had given over their watch, had despatched Pedro for Bud Haley and were preparing to get breakfast when Louisa appeared with her astounding tale. She told it in such a way as to carry conviction and although both sisters begged her not to leave them till more could be proved, she declared it was her duty and so worked upon their sympathies that they hurried her departure, and within a half hour Cyrus Sparks, with his daughter mounted behind him upon his horse, started forth.

Alison and Christine watched them out of sight and then turned back to the house which seemed lonely without Louisa’s cheerful presence. “We mustn’t let any one know that Louisa has gone, not just yet,” said Christine. “They might suspect that our prisoner was her father. We’ll try and keep her going a secret for a few days and must simply say that our prisoner escaped while Pedro was gone.”

“I hate to have any one think we couldn’t guard him any better than that,” said Alison.

“We’ll have to let them think so for Louisa’s sake. Poor Lou, she was so upset, and I don’t wonder. It certainly is a most remarkable episode. I must confess I don’t admire the looks of Cyrus Sparks.”

“Nor I, but one cannot always judge by appearances, and we must hope that he will treat her well.”

“If he doesn’t she must come back to us. We’ll ask the boys to look out for her. Ira Korner will have an eye to all that concerns Louisa, you may be sure.”

“And if this horrid old war were not going on there would be John and Neal and Reub to see how matters stand. Come, let’s have our breakfast, for Pedro will be back directly.”

It was not very long before Pedro with two other men clattered up to the door and, without ceremony, stalked into the house. “Where’s your man?” cried Bud Haley.

“Oh,” the girls looked at each other in pretended consternation, “he’s gone. He got away.”

“The—dickens he did.” Bud looked at Pedro disgustedly. “You said he was bound. You——”

“He is make fas’. I am see so,” said Pedro, deprecatingly.

“They’re mighty cute, some of these fellows,” put in Blythe Van Dorn, a curly haired, broad-shouldered youth. “They know a trick or two and can get out of ’most any tie-up. How long since he got away?”

“A very little while after Pedro left.”

“Where’s Lou?” Bud looked around inquiringly.

“She’s gone after him.”

Bud laughed. “You bet she has. That gal’s got sense. She ain’t skeered o’ nothin’. Hope she’ll get him. Which way did he go, footback or horseback?”

“He got his horse from the stable and went off flying,” Alison told him. “I don’t believe you’d ever catch him now. You’d better stop and have some breakfast.”

“Can’t do it. We must try to catch up. Maybe we’ll come acrost Lou and she can tell us which way he went. We can strike his trail easy, I reckon, and kin spot him before night. We’ll stop on our way back and get you to identify him if we catch him. What did he look like?”

Alison glanced at Pedro. “He seemed very heavy when we lifted him in.”

Pedro grinned. “No so ’eavy. No larges mans,” he said.

“Oh, I think he was very heavy,” insisted Alison.

“Ole mans,” put in Pedro.

“Oh, no, not so old as you, Pedro; he didn’t look so.”

Pedro shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe is not. Pedro no is so ole. ’E ’ave no so many year as ’e ’ave a looks ole.”

“I reckon that’s about so,” remarked Blythe. “These greasers age mighty soon. Well, never mind his age, Miss Alison, we’ll follow the trail.”

They were off and the girls despatched Pedro to the performance of the morning duties while they took up their own tasks. They missed Louisa’s ready help and the chirruping song with which she enlivened her work, emphasizing the stirring up of flapjacks, the rolling out of biscuits or the scouring of a kettle by singing:

“Chirping little cricket
Singing in the thicket,
Chirping do not cease.”

“I certainly do miss the cricket this morning,” said Christine, as she wrung out the dish-cloth.

Alison smiled and glanced out of the window. “Yes, and I miss seeing Lou’s blue sunbonnet in the garden patch. Why, Tina, there it comes. It is Lou, as I live! She’s coming back!”

They flew to the door and beheld Louisa, indeed, plodding up the road. Seeing the two girls she snatched off her bonnet and waved it. “I’d know her blessed old red head if I didn’t know her bonnet,” said Alison. “I must go and meet her.” She ran out into the sunshine. “Oh, Lou, Lou,” she began before she reached the girl, “we were missing you so much. How good it is to see you back again. How did it happen that you came?”

Louisa sat down on the front step and began to fan herself with her sunbonnet. The day was approaching noon and was warm. She had walked far and rapidly. “He thought I’d better come back,” she said; “not for good, but for a little while till this all blows over. I thought I’d ought to stay and take care of him, but he said he’d an old Mexican there that was used to doing for him and he’d been worse off. When he gets better he’ll come for me. I got him safe home. I was afraid he was going to faint by the way, but he didn’t.”

“Bud and Blythe Van Dorn have gone after him.”

“They won’t catch him. He’s pretty cute and knows how to put ’em off the track. We went down the road a piece and then we struck off into the woods till we came to a stream; he walked the horse through that stream, right down it till we came to another bit of road all trod down and full of horse’s tracks; he took that till we come to where there was two roads; then he made me ’light and took off the saddle and hid it in the bushes; then he gave his horse a cut and sent him galloping up one of the roads while we took the other and footed it a ways to a bit of woods; then we crawled through a fence and there we were.”

“What became of the horse?”

“He said somebody would bring him home, and if they didn’t he would go after him. He’s smart as an Injun, that dad of mine, if he ain’t much for looks.” Louisa spoke with some pride and it was evident that she had determined to make the best of it. “No body’ll get him,” she repeated. “He must have been suffering, too, with that head of his, but he never stopped going, jest trudged along like a soldier. Said he reckoned your shot kind of knocked him silly more’n it hurt him. Hero’s safe here and nobody’ll find any stolen horses on his place even if they should stop there. ’Tain’t so pretty down there as it is here and it’s terrible lonely. I reckon I can stand it, though, when I get used to it. But I am glad to get back and talk it all over with you.”

“And did you walk all the way back?”

Louisa nodded. “Thought it was best. Just followed the road. He told me how to get here, a short cut. It’s about five miles, I reckon. There, I’m cooled off, I’ll go in and see about dinner.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Christine. “You’ll just sit there and rest.”

Late in the afternoon Bud and Blythe, with—whom but Ira Korner?—came slowly up the road. They had picked up Ira on the way. He had returned home on a furlough, having been ill, and this was but the second time he had been out. He kept in the background till Bud had his say, for on the occasion of his last visit he had gone off in a little huff.

The men found Louisa in a clean frock and apron quietly knitting. “Got back, did ye?” was Bud’s greeting as he came stamping into the gallery. “We thought we’d meet up with ye. How far did ye go?”

“Oh, I went a piece down the road and then I came back,” Louisa told him. “There ain’t no use trying to catch a man on a horse. I’d ought to have taken Hero and gone after him.”

“So ye might have done—but he’d have got the better of ye, most likely. A gal, no matter how good her intentions, ain’t no match fer a full growed man. Well, we trailed him as far as the bayou and there we lost him. There was a trail further down and we followed that to the crossroads, but it turned out to be a horse of old Cy Sparks that got loose somehow and must have gone down to get water. Bill Hatchett caught him and took him back to Cy. Well, I suppose we’ve seen the last of John’s horses this trip.”

Louisa knitted on composedly. “Can’t always have luck,” she remarked.

Bud stumped off to find Christine, and Ira sat down on a stump near to where Louisa had taken her place on the step. “Cy Sparks was makin’ all sorts of inquiries about you the other day,” he said.

“Was he?” Louisa’s hands trembled and she dropped a stitch.

“Yes, and you said your dad’s name was Cy Sparks, too.”

“So it was.”

“Names runs in families sometimes. Shouldn’t wonder if you’d find out he’s kin of yours. He’s a queer old dick, Cy is. Folks look at him suspicious and think he’s up to all sorts of tricks, but nobody ain’t caught him yet, so I say a good bit of it’s talk. Must have something to talk about, ye know. Where’s Blythe?”

Louisa jerked her head in the direction of the garden where Alison stood talking to the young man. “She don’t appear to see you.”

“Humph! that ain’t surprisin’. He’s studyin’ law. Nice boy, but he’s awful young.”

“Alison ain’t a Methusalem,” returned Louisa.

“No, she ain’t. Young things jest natchelly like to flock together when spring comes. What ye makin’, Louisa?”

“Jest knittin’ stockin’s. I ain’t one to be idle.”

“No, you ain’t. I took notice to that. You don’t know how many times when I was down there feedin’ on frijoles and jerked beef I thought of your cookin’, Louisa, and when I took sick, I swan, if I could hev had somethin’ you had cooked I believe I’d got right well. I jest y’arned for a plate of your flapjacks an’ I’m a y’arnin’ yet.”

“Stay to supper an’ you shall have ’em,” said Louisa, rolling up the stocking she was knitting. Bud and Christine were off to look after something about the place and Alison was listening to Blythe’s pretty speeches. He and Neal seemed more like home folks, though both adopted a certain style of free and easy speech common to the country. Old Pedro employed himself close by. He did not mean that his charges should want the influence of his protecting presence, and always stood guard like a faithful watch-dog. He was puzzled at the escape of the prisoner, but Hero was safe and it was evident that neither Christine nor Alison were disposed to investigate further. Indeed, there seemed no way of their discovering who had stolen the other horses since their only chance of doing so had vanished with the man who had so mysteriously broken his bonds and fled. Pedro felt, however, that there should be a closer watch set and that his young ladies needed a greater vigilance, for what might they not do after such an attempt at the offensive as Alison and Louisa had shown?

CHAPTER VII
WHEN IRA WAS “SKEERED”

IT was not many days after this that Cyrus Sparks made an orderly appearance with horse and wagon. At the time of his arrival Ira Korner and Bud Haley were present. “Here comes old Cy Sparks,” said Bud. “What the mischief does he want?”

Ira threw a swift glance at Louisa who had risen to her feet. “He’s come for me,” the girl exclaimed, and a moment after wished her words unsaid.

“What ye talking about?” said Ira sharply.

Louisa hesitated. The truth must out before long, she knew. “He’s my father,” she said simply.

Bud lifted his wooden peg of a leg and brought it down with a thump. “Whewee!” he exclaimed. “How did you find that out?”

Louisa saw that she was in for it. “He was over here the other day,” she said, cudgeling her brains for a plausible explanation, “and we found it out then.”

“Thought your father was dead; thought you was an orphin,” said Ira, speaking as one aggrieved.

“I thought so, too, but he made it plain to me that it wasn’t so.”

“Deserted your mother, eh?” Ira did not mince matters.

Louisa felt that she must be on the defensive. “He didn’t go for to do it. He heard we was both dead and we heard the same of him. He was wounded, you know.”

“Wounded,” Ira gave a snort. “When? Where?”

“You needn’t say he wasn’t,” said Louisa, suddenly aggressive. “It was back there when there was trouble before with Mexico, and he fit for Texas.”

“I believe he did fight. It appears to me I have heerd he did,” put in Bud, giving Ira a significant look. “So, he’s your dad. Well, they say old Cy can always tell which side his bread is buttered on, and that he ain’t so po’ly off.”

This encouragement had the effect of producing a certain warmth of manner in Louisa’s greeting of her father as he came stiffly up. The red scar on his forehead was still noticeable when he took off his hat.

“What ye been doing to yerself, Cy?” said Bud whose attention was attracted by the scar.

“Oh, nothing much,” returned Cyrus, pulling a straggling lock over the wound. “Got to foolin’ around in the dark and scraped my blamed head agin a tree.”

“Oughter had better sense,” said Bud. “They tell me you’re settin’ up to be a family man.”

“How’d ye hear that?” asked Cyrus quickly.

“Louisa was just tellin’ us.”

“Well now, ain’t I in luck? ’Tain’t every man can have a smart darter come down from the States to housekeep for him and he have nothin’ to pay for her comin’.”

“No, ’tain’t every man lucky enough not to ever pay out nothin’ fer fetchin’ up his flesh and blood and after she’s riz up good and respectable to hev the benefit of what she’s larnt. I should call it nothin’ but bald luck,” said Bud.

“Ye certainly can’t call it nothin’ else,” put in Ira. “Now if things was to go by deserts ye never would hev found her out.”

Cyrus looked from one to the other frowning. Just how much they knew and how much they suspected he could not discover, but his rôle was that of the fond father and he was bound to play his part. “Well, all is, Providence put her in the way of findin’ her dad,” he said pleasantly. “I tell ye, boys, ye’ll never know a father’s feelings till ye hev darters of yer own.”

“Providence! Providence!” Ira roared with laughter. “A gal that kin cook like Louisa kin, needin’ Providence to put her in the way of an old shark like Cy Sparks, is a good un.”

“You better go get your things.” Cyrus turned to Louisa with an air of proprietorship that annoyed Ira, and he followed the girl into the house under pretext of wanting to speak to Alison.

“Look a-here, Lou,” he said as he overtook her in the kitchen, “if anything goes wrong I want ye to feel ye kin call on yer friends. Nobody kin tell in this world how things is goin’ to turn out and you may need a friend when ye git away from here; if ye do, I’m ready to stand by ye. Jest give me half a chanst and I’ll fight fer ye down to the soles of my boots. All ye’ve got to do is to send me a stran’ o’ that red ha’r of yourn an’ I’ll come a bilin’.” In such knightly language did Ira proffer his service to his lady-love.

Louisa nodded. “All right; I’ll remember.”

Alison, with woebegone face, stood by as Louisa tied up her bundle. “I hope you won’t have need to run away,” she said. “But, oh, Lou, I do hate to see you go.”

“I’ve learned ye a good bit,” said Louisa. “You can make pretty near as good biscuits as I can and your flapjacks are hard to beat.”

“Oh, it isn’t your cooking we shall miss so much as your nice cheerful self,” Alison assured her.

“Now, ain’t that the truth?” said Ira. “If this confounded war was over I’d—but, sho! I reckon ye’ll git along all right. Cyrus may be an ole fox but he ain’t no wildcat.”

“We’ll come over to see you,” said Christine, who had joined the others to see Louisa off.

“Yes, we will that,” added Ira, “even if your dad ain’t so very hearty in his invitations,” for Cyrus spoke no word.

“Ef Cy Sparks thinks he is going to keep the boys away from a likely gal like that he’s mightily mistaken,” said Bud as the wagon drove away. “There ain’t a boy around here that wouldn’t be glad to see that red head a-firin’ up his kitchen.”

“You bet,” Ira agreed heartily. “I reckon we’d better be off, too, Bud. Ain’t hed no word from John, gals?”

“No, not yet.”

“There’s been fighting,” Ira told them. “They were hard at it at Palo Alto the last I heerd and I reckon we was givin’ it to ’em good and hot. It makes a man feel like he was his own grandmother to stay at home like I’ve been doin’. I reckon I’ll be gittin’ off in a day or so.”

It was quite true that at that time the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma had been fought. In the former the American losses were but four men and three officers killed, and thirty-seven wounded, while the Mexican’s killed amounted to two hundred, and their wounded were four hundred. At Resaca de la Palma the Mexican loss was far greater, being estimated at a thousand. On May 18th the victorious Americans took possession of Matamoras, driving the Mexicans from the city. General Taylor next proceeded to Monterey.

After the departure of Louisa, Pedro’s concern for his young ladies had the effect of his laying the matter before Bud Haley.

“Well, it ain’t right for ’em to have no older woman with ’em. My sister Hannah Maria was sayin’ that they ought to come over to us, but they do hate to give up their home here, and I don’t blame ’em,” said Bud. “Can’t you git a-holt of some decent old Mexican woman, Pedro?”

Pedro thought he could: one old, but of respectability, and, though not capable of much work, quite able to act the part of duenna for the senoritas.

“Produce her,” said Bud. “We’ve got to have this thing done up right. I’m responsible to John Ross for his sisters and I ain’t goin’ to have it said that all ain’t as it should be. As I said, there’s folks enough would be glad to open their doors to two sech likely gals but they want to stay here, and here they shall stay if I kin fix it.”

Therefore, before long, a toothless old Mexican rejoicing in the name of Sofia appeared at the rancho under the escort of Bud. “Fetched ye an old lady,” said he in an off-hand manner. “Guess it’s all right, ain’t it? Thought now that Lou is gone you’d like to have somebody else around.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Alison, looking at the old woman whom Pedro was helping into the house. “I’m afraid if she gets any more dried up and a norther should come along she’ll blow away. What on earth are we to do with her, Bud? What is she for?”

“Oh, just to set around and look pretty,” replied Bud, grinning.

“We can do that for ourselves,” said Alison, saucily. “Do please tell me, Bud, why in the world you brought her here. She’s too old to work. She certainly is not ornamental and it has not been my experience that old crones of her class are specially entertaining. What’s she for, anyhow?”

“I told ye.”

“Nonsense.”

“Well, ye see, to tell ye the truth, us boys likes to feel that things is high-toned and stylish on this here ranch, and we thought if folks could see an old lady like that settin’ ’round nobody would talk. You an’ Miss Christine is rayther young to run things all by yerselves, ye see.”

“Oh-h.” Alison understood. “I think, myself, it is entirely unnecessary, but if our neighbors think we don’t know how to behave I’m perfectly willing to wait on the old creature.”

“Dog it all, Miss Alison, you know that’s not the way to look at it,” said Bud. “Your brother’s away and you gals ain’t no mother nor nobody, and sence that there caper of yours the other night Pedro’s oneasy like and thinks you’d ought not to be here by your loneys. Don’t you see?”

“Pedro is an old goose. He hasn’t American ideas. However, I’ll speak to Christine and see what she says.”

On Bud’s explaining the situation to Christine she agreed to retain the watch-dog, as Alison called her, and Sofia took up her abode until some better arrangement could be made. The old creature occupied the small room below stairs and spent most of her time in mumbling over her beads and in preparing tortillas, in which employment she was very expert, turning her little cakes so rapidly that Alison declared she saved up all her energies for this one performance.

It was some time after the battles of Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma before Ira was well enough to rejoin his company. Meanwhile, more than once, he passed by the Rosses to visit the wilder region where Cy Sparks had his home. Not that he received much encouragement from Cyrus, rather because of the contrary. The other lads in the neighborhood also seemed suddenly to acquire a desire for traveling the road leading to Cyrus Sparks’s, and the consequence was that Cyrus found himself obliged to dispense a greater hospitality than had ever been his wont or his pleasure. He began to wonder if, after all, he had made a good bargain in taking to his home this daughter who, instead of helping him to better economies, only increased his expenditures. Hospitality of the largest sort was the order of the country. Louisa’s fame as a cook began to spread abroad, and it was taken as a matter of course by the young swains that they would be welcome whenever they should choose to drop in for a meal at Cy Sparks’s. Most of them were too obtuse to notice Cyrus’s black looks and his failure to invite them to come again; they only perceived Louisa’s smiles and her savory meals.

“It jes natchelly does me good to see old Cy squirm when he has to set out a meal fer half a dozen of us,” said Ira, as he and Bud rode away after a long afternoon with Louisa. “Nothin’ pleases me better then to see him riled.”

“He’s a wary old fox,” returned Bud, “and I wouldn’t put it past him to do any sort of low down trick about that gal. He’s got a taste of makin’ money, and he don’t stand on the order of gittin’ it. Betwixt you and me and the gate-post I believe, and always shall believe, he had somethin’ to do with that little affair of John’s hosses and I ain’t so dead sure he didn’t hev somethin’ to do with Steve Hayward’s disappearance.”

“Sho!” exclaimed Ira. “What started you thinkin’ that?”

“Well ye know thet hoss of Steve’s is a mighty good piece of flesh, as good as you’ll find about here, and old Pedro was tellin’ me that Hero was in the bunch of hosses they tried to take that night. They’d ha’ got him, too, if the gals hadn’t winged their man. Hero had sense enough to go back to his stable ’stid o’ follerin’ the other hosses, and I’ve heerd Cy admire Steve’s hoss more’n once. Ever take notice to thet scar on Cy’s forehead? Looks mightily like a bullet wound. I’ve hed my suspicions that Cy was mixed up in that. The gals wasn’t so hot foot after gettin’ a-holt of the man, and puttin’ this an’ that together——”

“And knowin’ old Cy’s reputation.”

“Yes, sir, an’ knowin’ that.”

“Well it ain’t out of reason,” said Ira. “But I guess for Lou’s sake we better not play detective any further. What you reckon old Jabe Manypenny’s doin’ shinin’ ’round Cy’s? ’Pears to me he’s struck up a mighty suddent friendship there. It made my dander riz up to see the ole blear-eyed sinner settin’ there gapin’ at Lou.”

“Lou ain’t got no eyes fur him,” said Bud, “not when some other folks is around, but I reckon ole Jabe wouldn’t mind some of Lou’s messes bein’ stirred up in his kitchen. A man’s stummick is a powerful argymint fer matrimony, I’ve remarked, and old Jabe ain’t above a weakness that ketches a-holt of the younger bucks.”

“Humph! I’d like to see Lou stirrin’ up messes in his kitchin,” said Ira disgustedly. “She’s mos’ too good fer any of us, but when it comes to a ole yaller-faced atomy like him I’ll see myself in Jericho before I’ll step out of his way.”

“Ye’d better be spruntin’ up then,” said Bud, “’er some other feller’s picter’ll git prominent in her mind an’ when you git back from the front yer prospecks fer eatin’ hearty fer the rest of yer life’ll be slimmer’n what they are now.”

Ira was very silent for some time after this speech. Like many of the adventurers into Texas, he had little ambition beyond living a wild free life. A good time with the boys, a dash out upon an Indian trail, days of hunting, a fandango with some bonita señorita, constituted the employments to which he devoted himself. He had his own land grant, a little cabin where he stayed long enough in a year to make good his claim to his property, a couple of horses, his rifle and a dog, and that was about all he cared to possess. The idea of settling down to clear land, to acquire stock and to become a family man had never been seriously considered. But now with Jabez Manypenny appearing as a rival all the pugnaciousness in Ira arose. He would not be beaten. Jabez owned many acres, a fine lot of stock, a good and roomy house. He was reputed a rich man, a widower of two years’ standing, and with no nearer relatives than married sisters somewhere in “the States.” Ira pondered over the situation. To snatch Louisa from both Cyrus and Jabez would be a fine stroke. But there was the war going on, he must join his company, and if he had the luck to come back unscathed what had he to offer a girl like Louisa? As he considered the matter her charms seemed to increase, and his own chances to decrease. He drew so long a sigh that Bud laughed.

“Ye heave like ole Ben Hoke’s ole hoss,” he said. “What’s wrong with yer lungs?”

Ira gave voice to a remark in keeping with the occasion. Then said, “What’s a fool creetur like me to do? I can’t lay ’round here and play huntin’ dog to ary ole varmint like Jabe; I’m natchelly obleeged to go jine the boys.”

“Wel, ain’t ye a purty little feller?” said Bud, sneeringly. “Ain’t ye got a tongue in yer head? What’s the matter with yer speakin’ out? I been a-knowin’ this long time how the land lay. You shorely air gittin’ weakly all of a suddent. Ye ain’t afraid o’ painters, ner Injuns, ner bullets. What’s got ye?”

“No, I ain’t skeered o’ none o’ them things, but a female woman’s differnt. Painters springs at ye, Injuns sneaks on ye, bullets comes a whizzin’, but a female woman jest backs away an’ ye don’t know how far she’s goin’ ter git. You feels fer yer weepon an’ it ain’t thar. You kin reach down an’ pull a bunch o’ grass fer a mare, er put yer hand in yer pocket an’ git out a lump o’ sugar fer her, but how ye goin’ ter tole a female woman?”

“Ye ain’t never done it, I suppose,” said Bud, sarcastically.

“Not this variety,” replied Ira.

Bud threw back his head and gave vent to boisterous mirth. “Ye’re ketched fer shore, this time, an’ by a red head, too. I ain’t never seen nothin’ to skeer anybody in Lou Sparks. All ye got ter do is ter buckle up and throw out yer purtiest talk.”

“Think so?”

“I know so.”

But Ira’s timidity increased with his ardor, and up to the time of his departure he had spoken not a word of love to the object of his affections. On the day that he made his adieux he went so far as to say: “Ye won’t spring a surprise on us boys an’ go git married before we come back from the war, will ye, Louisy?”

“No, indeed,” she answered, emphatically. “I ain’t goin’ to leave dad yet awhile. I ain’t had him long enough to do that.”

“Think he needs ye?”

Louisa considered the question. “Well no, not so much as if I’d always been here, and,” she lowered her voice, “sometimes I think he’d like to get shet of me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He’s always talking of what a good house old Jabez Manypenny has, and how lucky a girl will be if she gets him. Sometimes I think——”

“What do ye think?”

“Oh, never mind. I guess I can look after myself. I’ve done it this good while, and hadn’t kith nor kin to turn to, so I reckon I can do it a while longer.”

“Till the war’s over?”

“And longer, if it comes to that.”

“Ye won’t fergit about that stran’ o’ ha’r. Ef ye need a feller to do anythin’ a woman can’t do, I’ll get to ye somehow. Nothin’ short o’ desertin’ shall stand in the way.”

“I reckon I won’t need to send my ugly old hair, but I’m much obliged to you all the same.”

“Well, good-bye and good luck to you.”

“The same to you.” And they parted.

If Ira regretted his lack of courage in failing to be more outspoken, he did not show it, but rode away with a soldierly bearing which was Louisa’s admiration, and which made her more determined than ever to look to her own affairs, allowing no interference.

However, within the next few weeks this grew more and more difficult, for Jabez Manypenny made known his intentions and openly declared his desire to transfer Louisa to his own home. “Got a nice place,” he told her, “a heap better than this un where yer father keeps ye, and I’ve two or three niggers, too, to do the work fer ye, though there ain’t one among ’em can come up to you in cookin’ wittles.”

“My father’s place suits me well enough,” replied Louisa, “an’ I’m able to work for myself and him, too. I don’t want no niggers to wait on me, lazy triflin’ things, that give ye more trouble than they’re worth.” Jabez’ offer had no attractions for her. She felt it no advantage simply to exchange one old man for another, and saw little choice between the two, beyond the fact that her father possessed the claims of natural affection. She told him of the offer, adding, “I don’t want that old bag o’ bones. I’m in no hurry to leave you, dad.”

“’Course not,” he replied. “What’s the use of my giving ye up jest as I’ve got ye, onless it was wuth my while. If old Jabe comes ’round me I’ll tell him he ain’t goin’ to git my gal jest fer the astin’.”

Yet he pondered over the question. If he gave up Louisa it should be to some one who would make it an exchange to his advantage. He was not sure but that he could turn a pretty penny in the transaction. Just how, he could not at once decide, but it would surely be a queer thing, in that country where women were at a premium, if he could not dispose of his daughter’s hand to his own betterment, a girl whose accomplishments were such as appealed to every householder in the county.

He had been living very quietly since Louisa’s sojourn with him. He had been compelled to do this, he reflected, for she was too straightforward and honest to approve of any shady transactions, and, once he aroused her suspicions in any of his dealings, she would be direct enough, not only to charge him with them, but to report them. Yet this virtuous existence was growing monotonous. He was not sure but that he preferred the uncertainty of a reckless life with no one to answer to; there was at least excitement in it, and greater profits, if there were greater risks. The novelty of possessing a daughter was wearing off and the difficulties were beginning to present themselves. Marry her to the highest bidder and he could renew his old life and settle her future. And this was the way matters stood during that summer which saw Ira and Neal and John with the Texas Rangers, doing duty, while Jabez Manypenny paid court to Louisa and feared no rival.

One-legged Bud Haley kept Christine and Alison informed as to the movements in the neighborhood. As an enforced stay-at-home he performed a sort of detective service for the settlement, and little escaped his vigilant eye. Louisa’s affairs were of particular interest to him, since she had been a member of the Ross household and what concerned John Ross concerned Bud, who was under more than one obligation to his friend and nearest neighbor. Bud, likewise, championed Ira Korner’s cause and was indignant that Jabez Manypenny should receive the smallest attention at the hands of Louisa.

“’Tain’t fa’r,” he said to Alison. “Iry he’s off to the wars, an’ old Cy’s beginnin’ to nag Lou. Fust thing ye know the gal will be druv to takin’ Jabe jest to git rid of Cy. He’s a sly ole shark, is Cy, and I reckon he thinks ole Jabe ain’t got sich a ter’ble holt on life, an’ if he leaves Lou a well-to-do widder Cy kin step in an’ git all the profits. Fer my part, I don’t see what a ole man like thet’s going ter do with money; he kain’t more’n eat so much an’ he kain’t live in more’n one house, an’ he kain’t w’ar more clothes than he kin carry, but Cy has got a eetchin’ palm, as the sayin’ is, and they ain’t nothin’ he wouldn’t do fer money. He’d pick the eyes outen a blind mewl if he could sell ’em, an’ he’d chase a skeeter over a ten mile swamp fer its hide an’ taller. I’ve thought sometimes he kinder favored Pike Smith, but I don’t know. I’ve always heerd that him an’ Pike was in cohoots somehow, and Pike’s been a settin’ up ter Louisa, so I don’t know as Pike won’t git her if Jabe don’t, that is, if Cy has his way.”

“He won’t have his way,” declared Alison; “I’ll answer for that. Lou has a mind of her own and she’ll outwit her father, if she doesn’t come out and oppose him to his face. She likes Ira, and unless Cy uses foul means she’ll be faithful to him.”

“But there’s the foul means to be considered,” said Bud reflectively. “She’d oughter be warned ter look out fer snags.”

“I’ll tell her myself,” said Alison. “I was thinking of riding over there this very afternoon. I can take Hero.”

“Better not. Take yer pony.”

“Why not Hero?”

“Cy’s too fond of hoss flesh, an’ when you come to git yer hoss ye might find he’d got loose or somethin’. Take yer little pony and keep an eye on him. Ye’d better not make it too late comin’ home, neither.”

“All right,” agreed Alison. “I’m not afraid, but since you’re so cautious I’ll start right along, and if I’m not back by dark you can be on the lookout for me.”

“Jest sound Louisa and see how the land lays. Hanner Maria was tellin’ me that Jabe’s been havin’ some whitewashin’ done, an’ thet looks purty serious.”

Hannah Maria was Bud’s elder sister who was an efficient aid to her brother in his capacity as news-gatherer, and what Hannah Maria Haley said was generally taken as credible information. Neal Jordan called her the “Texas Gazette.” She was not a malevolent gossip; on the contrary she was always on the outlook for news of a cheerful character, and was an ardent advocate of truth, a defender of the unfortunate, a consoler of the unhappy. Her unfailing good heart and large sympathy made her a general favorite, though she was “as homely as a mud fence” Ira said.

“If Hannah Maria says Jabez has been whitewashing, it must be so,” was Alison’s comment, “and the sooner we look after Miss Louisa Sparks the better.”

“That’s so,” returned Bud. “You kain’t tell what a girl’ll do jest fer spite sometimes.”

“What spite?”

“Well, Iry he’s the contrariest feller I ever see. He’d walk up to a cannon’s mouth as easy as git out, but when it comes to facin’ a ‘No’ from Lou Sparks he’s ready to run. Kain’t no other kin’ o’ sparks skeer him, but that red head o’ hern knocks his wits outen him. Mebbe you could sorter let Lou understand thet fac’; a gal kin do them things when a man kain’t.”

“All right,” said Alison. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll fetch yer crittur up fer ye,” said Bud. And Alison entered the house to make ready for her ride.

CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER ADVENTURE FOR ALISON

TURNING her little pony’s head down the road, Alison cantered in the direction of Cyrus Sparks’s cabin. It was rather a lonely ride, but she had taken it several times, knew the way perfectly, and felt no fear. Part of the road led over the prairie, but beyond this was a bit of woodland, and further off the road branched; the turning to the left leading to Cyrus Sparks’s. Though she had not long been riding her pony Alison had every confidence in the little beast and was growing fond of him, although at first she had declared that Chico could never supersede Hero in her affections. Since Christine, however, had established a tacit right to Hero, Alison thought she must be provided with something to ride or else stay at home, so Chico had been found for her by Pedro, approved of by Bud, and she was now his proud possessor.

Having reached the cabin Alison dismounted, hitched her pony to the fence, and entered the house without ceremony. She had seen Cyrus out in the hog-yard and knew he was not within. But she did not expect to find herself face to face with the unwelcome countenance of Pike Smith, who sat glowering in one corner. Alison had always been repelled by this silent individual who paid her sparse courtesy at the best of times, and who now did not move from his chair, nor give her more of a greeting than a grunt and a nod.

“Where is Louisa?” asked Alison, pausing on the door-sill.

Pike jerked his thumb in the direction of the lean-to and Alison, without further words, passed through the room and on to the kitchen in the rear. Here she found Louisa, red of face and brisk of movement, beating eggs.

“Why Allie Ross,” she exclaimed, dropping her beater and extending her hand. “I surely am glad to see you. Set down. I’ll hev this cake in the oven before you can turn around and then I’ve a power of talk to get rid of. The good Marster must have sent you here to-day.”

“Why?” asked Alison, as she sat down on the rough bench and watched Louisa deftly mix her ingredients together.

“Oh, there are lots of whys. I’ll tell you in a minute. Pike Smith still in there?” she asked in an undertone.

Alison nodded yes.

Louisa made a contemptuous mouth. “Wish he’d git out,” she continued, still in a low voice, stirring her batter vigorously and then slipping the yellow, smooth mixture into the pan.

“I thought you must be making the cake specially on his account,” said Alison with a little laugh.

Louisa cast her a scornful glance. “You know better than that. He thinks, and they all think, I’m plum crazy to want anything but corn-bread and fry. I tell dad if I tend to the chickens, and if he can’t buy me a little flour and sugar once in a while I’ll go where I can get it easier. I ain’t seen any decent butter sence I came down here except what I make myself. I never did see people so easy pleased.”

“I’m sure we never get any good butter any more,” complained Alison. “Christine was saying the other day that we’d have to learn to make it if you would show us how. Nobody about here knows what real butter is.”

“I’ll show you and welcome. Let’s go outside; it’s getting hot as Tophet in this kitchen.”

They established themselves comfortably on a log by the door, and Alison immediately began her questioning. “Why did you say I was specially sent to you to-day?”

“Oh, things ain’t going the way I like.”

“Better come back to us.”

“Wish I could, but somehow I’ve got the feeling that I ought to stick to dad right or wrong.”

“I don’t think so at all, if you are not happy here.”

“He’s all I’ve got and I’m all he’s got. He’s told me a lot of things about old days, same that mother used to talk about, and I know he belongs to me all right, though he does seem powerful anxious to get me married.”

“He does?”

“Yes, and what’s more he wants to pick out my man for me. Says I’ve got to take either Pike or old Jabe Manypenny.”

“I can understand why he might want you to marry old Jabez Manypenny, for he’s rich, but I can’t see why he should pick out Pike when he’s about the most disagreeable, glum looking wretch that I ever saw. I can’t bear him. I’d rather you’d marry Jabez, old as he is. Goodness knows there are enough hard characters down here in Texas, and sometimes I think every other man must be an escaped criminal, but of them all I do think Pike is about the worst. I can’t imagine what your father sees in him.”

“That’s just what I can’t see. They’re mighty thick, and dad always treats him as polite as a lord, like he wanted to keep on the good side of him. Says I mustn’t judge by appearances, and if I keer anything fer him I’ll be a dutiful darter and marry to suit him.”

“Well I must say I don’t envy you a father, if that’s the way they do. I’m glad I’ve no one to bother me about such things.”

“How about that young feller I hear comes shinin’ ’round you, that Blythe Van Dorn?”

“Oh, he’s only a boy. He has said some soft things to me, but I just laugh at him. I did have a proposal, though, my first, and you’ll never guess who it was.” She laughed gleefully.

“Not Van Dorn?”

“No.”

“Bud?”

“Bud, indeed. No, of course not. I wouldn’t marry a one-legged man, would you?”

“I don’t know. It would depend upon how he lost his leg. Suppose your brother John came home with but one leg, wouldn’t you think him still good enough for any girl?”

“That I would. I see the difference lies in who the man happens to be. As it happens my suitor has both his legs, such as they are, but he is not so young as John.”

“I can’t think who it can be. Tell me, Alison.”

“Old Billy Jones.” Alison’s laughter rang out merrily.

“That old goose, with daughters twice your age.”

“He’s no older than our friend Manypenny.”

“Yes, but Jabez has no family.”

“Can’t you imagine Sally Jones calling me mamma?” Louisa joined in the burst of laughter, for old Billy Jones had sought a wife in the family of nearly every newcomer who chanced to have marriageable daughters. His own daughter, Sally, was a perfect virago and ruled her father with a rod of iron, but Billy was soft-hearted, and had a special fancy for the very young girls, whom he courted in turn, being nothing discouraged when one after another refused him.

“We’re not getting on at all with your story,” said Alison, when the laugh had subsided.

“Wait till I look at my cake and then I’ll tell you more.” The cake being in a satisfactory state Louisa returned and began: “Well, you see dad says he wants to see me settled, says he has only a fatherly interest in seeing me in a home of my own, that he ain’t so young as he might be and it’s my duty to be obedient to my only parent and all that.”

“But though good men may be scarce, surely there are enough of them who would be glad to marry you without his settling on Jabez and Pike. Now there is Ira, Lou. When he comes back——”

Louisa turned her head away and began to braid three long blades of grass together. “Yes, I know,” she said in a low tone, “and I promised if I ever needed a friend I’d send him word. Dad has been pushing me closter and closter agen the wall. I do need a friend. I can’t tell you all, Alison, but there’s things going on that it needs a man to settle. Dad doesn’t mean me to think so, but he really keeps me a prisoner, watches me so I don’t go off the place without him or Pike follerin’ me, and I ain’t a-going to stand it.”

“And what will you do? Oh, Louisa, I am sorry you ever left us.”

“So am I, to tell you the truth, but there’s no help for it now. Here I am. I’m his flesh and blood and I don’t mean to be disobedient out and out, though I’ll find a way to outwit him if he tries any underhanded game on me. He is as sly as a fox and he’ll find I can be sly, too.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you? Shall I tell Bud or anybody?”

“No, I don’t need that. He don’t treat me cruel or nothing. All he wants is to make me do as he chooses.”

“Then will you write to Ira? I know he would lay down his life for you, Louisa, though he is afraid of you. He is not afraid of anything else, and he’d do anything you asked him.”

“Yes, I believe that. I reckon I understand Ira. He wanted me to send him a stran’ of my old red hair if I was in trouble and if you get that to him I’ll try to stave off dad for awhile. I ain’t fond of writin’ and somehow I’d rather not send none nohow. Anyway a clip of ha’r couldn’t git nobody into trouble.”

“Into trouble? How could it?”

“I say it couldn’t. Where’s your horse? Did you come on Hero?”

“No, Chico brought me. I fastened him out front.”

“Better bring him around here and water him before you go.”

“So I will. I promised Bud I’d be back early. He didn’t quite approve of my riding around the country by myself anyhow, but I told him I’d be safe enough coming here.”

“Well, I reckon you are. I hope so. He’s right, though, about your not staying out late. The days aren’t as long as they were. I’d like to keep you, or, better still, I’d like to go back with you. Miss Tina well?”

“Yes, though I can see she grows more and more quiet and indifferent. Oh, if Steve would but come back. Louisa, has your father ever said anything more about his having a right to Hero?”

“No.” Louisa made her monosyllabic answer, then went into the house hastily with the excuse that her cake needed attention.

A little later Alison set forth on her return journey. She carried a long shining strand of Louisa’s hair which she had playfully braided with some pampas grass and twisted around her hat. “It won’t get tangled that way,” she said. With a wave of the hand she disappeared from Louisa’s eyes, not the only ones watching, for Pike Smith stood sullenly looking after her.

The summer was on the wane and the days were shortening perceptibly. Alison urged on her little mustang as she approached the road through the woods. It was here alone that she felt any timidity. There were many possible dangers lurking in the silent forest. Suppose a wildcat should suddenly spring upon her, or a Mexican lion. Suppose some band of wandering Indians should be prowling about in search of booty, or, if not Indians, some of those lawless freebooters who haunted lonely places, and who, seeing a damsel thus alone and unprotected, might attack her and carry her off.

“Faster, Chico, faster,” she whispered, and Chico’s short legs fairly twinkled along. But they were not swift enough to prevent the steady gain of a powerful horse, the thud of whose hoof-beats was now plainly perceptible. Some one was coming. Was it friend or foe? A great terror seized the girl, bending forward in her saddle and urging on her little pony who, though he responded to the best of his ability, could not cover the ground with the same speed as the approaching steed. Alison gave a frightened look behind her and the next moment a man snatched at her bridle.

“Here, girl, get off,” said a stern voice, and, looking up, Alison saw Pike Smith’s lowering face above her.

“Why should I get off?” she asked pluckily, though her heart beat fast.

“Because I say so.”

“Suppose I won’t do it.”

“Then I’ll make ye.”

“Don’t you dare to do such a thing. I defy you, Pike Smith. You had better let me go, and that quickly. Bud Haley and some others will be coming to meet me in a minute and it will be the worse for you.”

For answer Pike growled something unintelligible, swung his horse around, and, still holding Alison’s bridle, went crashing through the bushes forcing Chico along with him, the girl bravely keeping her seat, and avoiding the low branches and thorny twigs as best she could. Once she attempted to make an outcry but Pike turned threateningly on her. “None o’ that or I’ll stop your sassy mouth for good and all,” he said savagely.

Full of mortal fear Alison could only keep silence and cling to her horse desperately. A half hour’s ride brought them to a lonely little hut. Here Pike dismounted, curtly ordered the girl to get down, and, keeping an eye upon her, approached the hut. “Brigida,” he called. A shuffling, blear-eyed old woman came out. Pike addressed a few words of Spanish to her, then lifted Alison from her horse, set her within the hut and closed the door.

Divided between fear and anger Alison wondered what would happen next. She was not long kept in suspense, for the woman began carefully to search her, examining every article of clothing, even to her shoes and stockings. The twist of hair mingled with the braid of grass around her hat attracted no notice. It meant nothing to Brigida; she was searching for a bit of paper.

The search being concluded the old woman made her report and Pike entered the room. “Well, I hope you are satisfied,” said Alison, nothing daunted by these investigations. “Will you please tell me what this is all about? Do you suspect me of being a spy and of carrying despatches for the Mexican government? Or what is it you are looking for?”

“What I want is that letter Lou give ye,” said Pike, bluntly. “Ye can’t deny she give ye one. She’s as sly as her old dad, but they can’t neither of them pull the wool over my eyes. I ain’t to be made a fool of by none of that lay-out. The gal’s promised to me and I’ll have her sendin’ no word to other men. You can’t swear she didn’t give you a bit of writin’.”

“She did nothing of the kind. You are very far off the track, Mr. Pike Smith, and I’ll thank you to conduct me safely home.”

“And a purty hue an’ cry ye’ll raise when ye git thar.”

“Naturally.”

“Then ye don’t go. I’ve more’n one grudge agin ye. It was you hit old man Sparks, wan’t it?”

“How do you know unless you were there?” Alison was quick to draw her conclusions.

Pike saw his mistake. “Old Cy tol’ me so hisse’f,” he replied.

“Why did he? He was anxious enough to keep the matter quiet and unless you were in cohoots with him he never would have told it. I suppose you were one of the men who got away, and if so what have you done with my brother’s horses? I always suspected you were some kind of rascal.”

The man approached her with clenched fist, but Alison slipped behind a table and drew forth the pistol she always carried. “I’ll blow out your brains if you touch me,” she cried.

“Two kin play at that game,” said Pike, whipping out his own pistol. “It’s a duel, is it?”

“What a fine, brave, manly person you must be to want to fight a girl who has never done you any harm, who has been on no wrong errand,” cried Alison. “Why do you want to stain your soul with my blood? Will it make you any worthier of Louisa that you murder her best friend?”

Pike lowered his pistol with a short laugh. “I only wanted to skeer ye. Ef ye promise ter say nothin’ of this to nobody and not ever mention that other time ye was jest talkin’ about, I’ll not harm ye this time.”

It was decidedly an occasion when discretion was the better part of valor, and Alison gave the promise. Pike without another word stalked out, leaving the girl alone with the old woman. Presently the sound of his horse crashing through the chaparral told them he had gone. Alison seized the old woman’s hands. “I am safe,” she cried, “but I do not know my way home.” She ran to the door, half expecting to find Chico gone, but there he stood nibbling at the bushes. She waited a moment to be sure that Pike had really departed, then she mounted her horse without protest from the woman, whom she bade adieu with a feeling of thankfulness.

It had grown much darker and there was no road, only straggling paths hard to discern. In what she believed to be the right direction Alison turned, her little horse gallantly making his way through the difficulties of an unbroken road. After a while, when the girl felt that they had traveled long enough to have reached the main road, poor though it actually was, there was still no evidence of it, but afar off she saw a light, and made towards it. To be sure, it might be out of the frying-pan into the fire she reflected, and she might be walking directly into a den of thieves; but on the other hand night was coming on, there were prowling beasts to fear and she was willing to take her chances. She drew nearer and nearer to the light and presently she saw it came from a camp-fire, and that around it were several figures. She went a few paces further and listened, hoping to gain some idea of what manner of persons these were. While she waited, half fearing to make her presence known, a woman’s voice arose, singing shrilly: “How firm a foundation,” and emphasizing the words as she moved about. A great sense of relief swept over the girl who, without further hesitation, rode into the small encampment. A large white-covered wagon stood at a short distance; some men were gathering wood to feed the fire, a woman with frying-pan in hand was preparing the evening meal, two or three little children at her heels. At the sudden apparition of a girl riding out of the depths of the wood the woman gave a startled exclamation. “La, where did you come from?” she asked. “We didn’t think there was a house within miles.”

“Maybe there isn’t,” said Alison. “I’ve lost my way. Can you tell me if I am near the road to Denton?”

“It’s the road we come over. We passed through Denton this morning,” one of the men told her. “You belong to these parts?”

“Yes, and I should know my way better, shouldn’t I? It’s lucky I came upon you all, or I might have traveled around all night. Are you going much further?”

“A matter of thirty mile or so.”

“THE WOMAN GAVE A STARTLED EXCLAMATION.”

“And glad enough I shall be to get there. It’s weary traveling all this way from the States,” said the woman. “I reckon you find it pretty lonesome down here, don’t you?”

“Not so very. I am used to the country and I am with friends. Besides we don’t live very far from Denton, just on the edge of it, you might say, though the store is three miles away. There are two or three ranchos between us and the village but we can see the houses quite plainly and that makes it seem less lonely.”

“I wish we were going to be that near somebody,” said the woman.

“Oh, it won’t be long before we have neighbors,” said the man, cheerfully. “It’s fillin’ up fast down this way. Fine country, miss.”

“Yes, it is so,” said Alison.

“Won’t you light and take supper with us?” said the woman. “It don’t seem to me like you ought to go on alone; you’d better get down and stay here with us till morning.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Alison, “but I must go on. My sister will be worried to death if I don’t get home.”

She bade them farewell and, once on the road, put her little mustang at his best paces. She felt herself lucky to have struck the right way and to have the knowledge that there was a friendly company between her and the stretches of forest beyond the turn. Realizing that he was on the homeward path Chico cantered along bravely, and in a short time the twinkling lights of the first house appeared across the stretch of prairie. At the edge of the woods a horseman came dashing towards the girl. “Hallo!” came the shout. “That you, Alison Ross?”

Alison rode forward. “That’s just who it is,” she said. “Is that you, Bud Haley?”

“I’m the feller,” he replied, making his way towards her. “You’ve give me a purty scare. What happened to ye?”

“I got lost,” replied Alison, with a confused laugh. “At least I heard something behind me and I got scared and didn’t keep the road.”

“Humph! I reckon you’ll either stay at home after this or hev a man’s company when you’re goin’ this fur. Miss Christine’ll be scared to death about ye. She’s there alone, ’ceptin’ Pedro and his gal. Ole Sofia got tired of her job and has went home. It ’pears to me like you and Miss Tina better bundle up and come over to our house till your brother gits back. I ain’t easy one minute about ye.”

“That’s too bad,” said Alison with compunction. “We have no business keeping you worried about us. I only wish John would come home.”

“Well, you know you’d be as welcome as flowers in May. Hanner M’ri was sayin’ so this very day. I reckon we’ll hev to talk that plan over with Miss Tina. See Lou?”

“Yes, and her father isn’t making things any too easy for her. He keeps her close and says she’s got to marry either Jabez Manypenny or Pike Smith.”

“The blamed old ijit!” ejaculated Bud. “Ain’t he got no more sense than to hand his darter over to an ornery rascal like Pike? Bet he swops her fer a hoss. Pike’s got some sort of holt on Cy and he’s skeered of him. Why, I’d sooner see old Jabe git Lou; he’s close but he ain’t ter say cruel and Pike, well I wouldn’t let my orneries’ ole mewl git into Pike’s hands, not if I could help it. We’ve got to try an’ git Lou out of this mess. Why didn’t that fool Iry git her landed safe before he lit out, thet’s what I can’t see.”

“I have something that Lou wants to send to Ira,” said Alison.

“You hev? Well, I’ll see that it gits started good an’ airly. I ain’t goin’ to hev you goin’ over there ag’in onless me, or Blythe, or some of us boys goes with ye. Meanwhile we’ll keep our eyes open; I don’t want no second skeer like you give me this evenin’.”

Christine was nervously watching for her sister when she appeared. “Brought her back safe an’ sound,” said Bud. “We ain’t goin’ to let her git out of our sight agin, no siree. She’s too precious to git lost. Got somethin’ to talk to you about to-morrer, Miss Tina.” So saying he rode away with Chico in charge.

“What did happen to keep you so late, Alison?” asked her sister.

Alison looked around to be sure Bud was out of hearing. “I had an adventure,” she said. “Some one followed me, a man, and I was scared to death; that’s why I got off the road. I found the way back by a mere chance, for I came across a party of emigrants camping in the woods and they put me right. Don’t tell Bud about it.”

“Why not? I think he ought to know. Was the man any one you ever saw before?”

“I hope I shall never see him again,” said Alison fervently. “Oh, Tina, poor Lou is just the same as a prisoner. Her father is badgering her to death to marry old Jabez or Pike Smith, and he doesn’t let her off the place.”

“Pike Smith? That evil-looking man?” In this new piece of gossip Christine did not notice that her sister had skilfully turned the subject.

“He is evil-looking, and I can’t bear him. I’d rather see Lou dead than his wife. I told Bud about it, and, Tina, I have a lock of Lou’s hair to send to Ira. You may know things are in a pretty desperate case when she summons him. If the boys were all at home they’d soon settle matters for Cy Sparks; you know John wouldn’t let him abuse Lou.”

“He doesn’t really abuse her, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t bodily ill-treat her. He pretends he is very fond of her, but she can’t stir out of his sight, or if he is not there Pike Smith is.”

“Did you see Pike Smith?”

“I should think I did. What’s this, Tina, about Sofia?”

“She’s gone. She went off this afternoon, was tired of it here, said it was too lonely for an old woman who had always lived near her own kin. I believe she has a sister somewhere and a lot of nieces and nephews.”

“Well, I am sure they are welcome to her,” returned Alison, beginning to lay the table for supper.

CHAPTER IX
WITH HANNAH MARIA

ABOUT this time the report of a civil revolution in Mexico was confirmed. Paredes, the erstwhile president, had been made prisoner and Gomez Farias declared president. The one-time favorite, Santa Anna, was recalled by his fickle people to be placed at the head of the army. On the 20th of September began the battle of Monterey, which lasted three days and resulted in victory to the Americans. In spite of this fact Ampudia still blustered and Santa Anna, still arrogant and confident, refused to consider overtures for peace. After the fall of Monterey an armistice of eight weeks was declared and for a time all was quiet. This war of invasion, so far from being looked upon as a disaster by the Mexican non-combatants, appears to have been regarded as bringing about rather a desirable condition of affairs. Good prices and “spot cash” obtained in the towns taken, the people were kindly treated, and prosperity seemed the order of the day wherever the Americans entered. No wonder they were welcomed and treated as friends, rather than foes, by a large portion of the inhabitants. To be sure the inflammatory bulletins issued by the Mexican generals served to rouse many to a pitch of animosity, and by a certain class the Americans were considered as “barbaric northern invaders.” So bitter, indeed were this latter class that even the women were ready to join in battle, and it is told that at Monterey a company of Lancers were led by a woman who swore she would never yield till the last Americano should be driven from the land.

All these pieces of news interested Christine and Alison greatly. For some time they had been established under the roof of Bud and Hannah Maria Haley, it being the universal opinion that two young girls ought not to remain in their house alone with no other protector than old Pedro, who, because of his being a Mexican, was not regarded in high esteem, and who, at his best, was not a vigorous fighter.

Accustomed to cleanliness and a well-ordered household, both Christine and Alison had long held out against the suggestion that they should go to the Haleys’, for a slip-shod, down-at-heel condition, such as often obtained in Texas, characterized the place which Bud called his. Two or three negroes served to perform all the labor Bud required. For about one month in the year he devoted himself to his stock, driving his cattle into the pen, marking the calves after they were roped in, and so on. But this performance was generally made the occasion of a frolic, the neighbors flocking to the different ranchos and assisting one another when spring brought around this duty. Bud raised a little corn, a little cotton, no more than it pleased him to look after, and enough hogs to supply the family with all the pork they wanted. The house required little attention from Hannah Maria, one negro woman doing the work in her own fashion. The daily fare of corn-bread, bacon and muddy coffee was supplemented infrequently by sweet potatoes, a little milk and poor butter, a bill of fare not requiring great skill in its preparation, and a very different sort of diet from that considered necessary by the Rosses. Alison especially rebelled against it, and declared to Christine that she would rather eat Lolita’s frijoles and tortillas.

“I get so desperately tired of it all,” she said. “Pone and fry and coffee, coffee and fry and pone. Nowhere to sleep but in the room where we can see the sky through the rafters. Nothing to do but to listen to Hannah Maria’s incessant chatter. It may amuse you, Tina, to talk to her and to Cynthia Thompson and Laura Van Dorn, when they come in, but as for me I get tired of them. I enjoy Lolita much more. She is really entertaining and far more lovable. Besides we teach each other many things.” So off Alison would go to spend the morning with Lolita, while Christine would turn her attention to whatever she could find to occupy her. The place was not very attractive, she was forced to agree with Alison, and though she expostulated with her sister upon her frequent abscondings, she did not blame the girl.

The house certainly had no claim to either comfort or beauty. The main room, about twenty feet square, served as living-room, bedroom and dining-room. The kitchen, a small log structure, stood some yards to the rear of the house. The family table-ware, the stock of groceries and all wearing apparel found place in the living-room. A great canopy bed, which both Christine and Alison shared with Hannah Maria, filled a large space in one corner, a table stood in the middle of the floor, several chairs seated with untanned deer-skin were pushed against the wall haphazard; over the mantelpiece hung a rifle, powder-horn, and pouches; a bureau held its place as general receptacle for anything which could not be poked away elsewhere. A Bible occupied one end of the mantel; on the other end was a Connecticut clock supporting a card to which was pinned a flashy breastpin. On state occasions, such as funerals and weddings, Hannah Maria wore the pin.

It was not the home of elegance, but there was easy content and rough kindliness of the truest sort. If both Christine and Alison had elected to spend the remainder of their mortal existences under Bud’s roof, they would have been as cordially welcome as if they were members of the family. Indeed, it was because any other arrangement would have given offense that they were obliged to accept this ready hospitality. Fortunately it was mild weather, and, unless a norther drove every one within doors to seek the fire, the gallery was the gathering place for all, and here, on a pallet, Bud was wont to sleep in summer. The Haleys’, being the centre of neighborhood news, was seldom passed by those going up or down the road, and the gallery was usually occupied by half a dozen persons during the greater part of the day, for even if Hannah Maria had gone forth on some charitable errand, incidental to gathering news, Bud would be at home; or if Bud were away Hannah Maria would be found surrounded by the hounds and shooing off chickens from her untidy flower-beds, but ready to smile a welcome to whomever should ride up.

The lock of hair had been sent by a safe hand to Ira, and every day some of the boys managed to bring a report of Louisa. “Old Cy has some scheme in his head,” Bud told the girls. “I don’t know jest what. I think he’d send Pike about his business if he dared. As for Jabe he’s easier managed; he wants Lou, but he’s divided between his desire for her and his love of his money-bags, so he’ll only come up to the scratch when it’s now or never.”

Hannah Maria, softly plump and comfortable, nodded approvingly from her rocking-chair. She considered that Bud was a person of marked perspicuity and his opinions those of great weight. She was a great lover of the romantic and was continually seeking out sentimental motives. Christine’s sad little story interested her deeply and she would talk for hours upon the possibility of Steve’s return. It must be said that her cheerful optimism was a good thing for Christine who, from constant brooding and from being much alone, was in danger of becoming morbid. Alison was a very much less interesting companion to Hannah Maria, for Alison laughed at her sentimentalities, refused to talk of love affairs, and though Hannah Maria declared it was unnatural in a girl nearly seventeen to fight shy of love-making, Alison insisted that she was not yet ready for anything of the kind.

“The very idear of it,” said Hannah Maria, as Alison vanished from the house one day. “I never see a young gal so sot agin love stories.”

Christine smiled. “She isn’t so indifferent as she seems. She thinks a lot about such things, but they are all imaginary ones so far. She hasn’t met her knight yet.”

“Maybe she has, an’ maybe she hain’t,” said Hannah Maria. “There’s young Van Dorn thinks a mighty heap of her an’ he mought be jedge some day.”

“That some day is a long way off yet,” returned Christine. “I am glad Alison is in no haste. She seems such a child.”

“Laws, Tiny, when gals is so skeerce they git married dreadful airly, an’ sixteen’s the age fer most of ’em to be pickin’ out their husbands. You don’t want her to be a old maid.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Christine; “it’s what I expect to be and it would be rather nice for us to live together.”

“But you won’t be. Your time’ll come, too. Nobody can’t make me believe Steve won’t come back. Why, I remember jest how he looked the very day he was missin’. He come by an’ says: ‘I’m expectin’ John back in a few days, an’ I’ll be expectin’ you to dance at my weddin’ purty soon, Hannah Maria. If you’ll make my weddin’ cake I’ll see that you git a sweetheart.’ Jest like his jokin’; always purtendin’ I ain’t got married ’cause I kain’t git ary man ter hev me. I says, ‘I reckon ’most anybody could git married in this country if they wanted to pick up a crooked stick like some I could name,’ an’ he laughed and said I’d better look out or I’d git a crooked stick myself if I waited too long. He knows as well as anybody thet I’ve hed chances and thet nobody could induce me to leave Bud while he’s single. There, I declar’ ef Laura Van Dorn ain’t a-comin’. She will be disapp’inted not to see Allie. She’s real fond of Allie, on her brother’s account, I reckon. I wonder if he came with her.”

“Heard the news?” said Laura as she entered.

“No. What is it?” said Hannah Maria eagerly.

“The Dutch have taken Holland,” returned Laura laughing.

“Oh, git out,” cried Hannah Maria. “You’re always foolin’. I thought it was something from the seat of war.”

“It’s likely to be quiet down there for awhile,” said Laura, swinging her sunbonnet by its strings. “Where’s Allie?”

“Gone over home. She’s daft about that place and that little greaser gal, pretty little thing she is, and well-behaved as any lady I ever saw. Her father’s kep’ her good and quiet an’ she’s real superior, though I ain’t much for them greasers at the best. Still, I dunno that she’ll do Allie any harm.”

“I certainly don’t think she will,” put in Christine. “I should not let Alison be so intimate with her if I did not think it was perfectly safe for her. Lolita is very quick to learn and you would be surprised to see what a good appearance she makes anywhere. Alison watches her like a hawk, to be sure, and brings her to task if she commits any mistake at table, or anywhere else, for that matter.”

“You ought just to see some of ’em,” said Hannah Maria. “They ain’t no idea of usin’ anything but their fingers when they eat, an’ such messes as they do cook would make a cat sick. I reckon Lolita has some good blood in her. They say old Pedro belonged to right nice folks. Blythe come over, Laura?”

“Yes, I left him talking to Bud. When he finds Alison has gone I suppose he will be ready to ride after her.”

Hannah Maria looked interested, and her fancy went galloping to the meeting between the two. “Now ain’t it purty,” she said after a pause, “to see a young fellow that ain’t backward; some of ’em is so shy. How’s Cynthy, Laura?”

“She’s well.”

“Polly Sanders’s baby any more fits?”

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

“Tom M’Gee got back?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Heerd any more about Manthy Lance?”

“No.”

“I reckon that’ll be a match,” said Hannah Maria dwelling upon the subject of Manthy and Tom. “Bud thinks they’ll be married before the year’s out. How’s Jim Steele, Laura?”

Laura hung her head and ceased to swing her bonnet. “I suppose he’s well,” she replied. “Have you heard any news from your brother, Christine?” she asked, turning the subject.

“Nothing very lately. I hoped he would be back by this time.”

“I certainly will be glad to see all them soldier boys,” said Hannah Maria, “but I’ll be sorry to lose you and Allie, Christine. It’s lucky how all them boys has escaped. I was afraid it would finish some of ’em. They say Monterey was a terrible battle and that we’d oughter be proud of our side. They’ve been laying out to take the place ever since May, but they say it’s a perfect Giberalter, and it’s a wonder anybody escaped. I should think by this time the Mexicans would see we can fight and that they’d give in, but Bud don’t believe they will till there’s more fightin’. For my part, I wish it was all over and done with and everybody back home. I reckon you’re glad Blythe didn’t go, Laura.”

“Indeed I am. I think they have enough without him. He’s the only son of a widow, you know, and he’s got a good excuse.”

“So he is, but your mother’s got your sister’s husband there, that’s just like a son to her. He looks after things real good, don’t he?”

“Yes, he does, or else Blythe would have to give up his idea of studying law. Mother is real well off with Ellen and Henry and three or four hands in the field.”

This was the kind of talk which failed to interest Alison, who by this time had reached the cabin where Pedro and Lolita lived, and was greeted with soft Spanish endearments by Lolita. Even the very modest abode of these despised Mexicans appeared more attractive in Alison’s eyes than the one occupied by the Haleys. Lolita was on her knees deftly rubbing the metate stone in order to prepare the corn for tortillas. Jumping from her horse Alison watched her and presently joined her in slapping the thin round cakes, winning praise for her skill from her little friend.

“Oh, I assure you,” said Alison, laughing, “I am mightily pleased to be eating tortillas with you to-day and I hope we are to have frijoles and tamales as well, for I am hungrier than you can imagine. I never can eat heartily of the breakfasts that Hannah Maria likes.”

Lolita promised her the frijoles and the tamales, and Alison sat contentedly slapping out tortillas while Lolita prepared the black beans and the meat compound, well seasoned with red pepper and onions and done up in corn husks, a savory dish to those who could stand the pepper.

Presently Lolita, who had been busy over her work, exclaimed: “Señor Van Dorn, cara mia.”

“Dear me,” Alison did not look up, “let him find me if he can. Is he coming this way, Lolita?”

“He look you all place. No is find.”

“It won’t hurt him to hunt awhile longer. He should know that I am here.” And, indeed, Blythe did soon become aware of the fact, for it was not long before he sauntered up to the two girls.

“Well, Miss Alison,” he said, “are you turning Mexican?”

“Yes, I am fain to come over here once in a while to earn my dinner or else die of ’og and ’ominy, as old British Tom calls it. Don’t you like tortillas?”

“When they are prepared by such fair hands as yours.”

“Nonsense, that has nothing to do with it,” said Alison, unresponsive to his sentimentality. “Lolita makes them far better than I do. Did you want to see Pedro? He is out by the hog-yard, or somewhere about.”

“You know I have no business with Pedro.”

“Have you business with anybody?” asked Alison saucily.

“If you would permit it.”

“I’ve nothing to do with business of any kind at present,—I am all for pleasure. That’s why I came over to help Lolita make tortillas.”

“May I stay and help you eat them?”

“You must ask Lolita.”

As Blythe was not yet very apt with Spanish he preferred his request in his own tongue and was surprised that Lolita answered him in perfectly correct English, telling him he was quite welcome. “She certainly is a beauty,” whispered the young man to Alison. “It is a pity she is a Mexican.”

“And why?” asked Alison.

“She might marry well; perhaps one of her American neighbors.”

“She has no taste for Americanos, except for our family.”

“Where did she learn English?”

“I am her teacher. She teaches me Spanish, so we can converse in either language.”

“I shouldn’t mind being her pupil.”

Alison gave her head a toss. “You will not be permitted to enter her class.”

“Ah, you misunderstand me. I meant that I should like the privilege of sharing the lessons with you.”

“I don’t believe you meant any such thing, but we will let that pass.”

“You know she is not the type I most admire.”

“How should I know?”

“Because she is your opposite.”

“That’s nonsense, too.”

“I wish I knew what style of man you admire.”

“I’ll tell you some time. I can’t now, because I am busy with these tortillas. Have you ever eaten a real Mexican meal?”

“No, you know we have not been long in the country, and I have not traveled through this section very much.”

Alison smiled in anticipated amusement and when the hour came for the noonday meal she watched the young man slyly. There was neither fork nor spoon with which to convey the frijoles to his mouth. He looked at them helplessly and both the girls laughed merrily. “You must roll up your tortillas so, and make a spoon,” Alison told him, and when he awkwardly tried to follow her directions she laughed at him the more. So the meal passed amid much merriment, for Blythe was good-nature itself and even Pedro’s gravity relaxed at the joyousness of the young people.

“Now you will take a walk with me, won’t you?” said Blythe to Alison when the meal was over and they had wandered to where a cottonwood afforded some shelter from the heat of noon. Pedro was taking his siesta, and Lolita, too, had curled herself up in the long grass, sleep already causing her long lashes to droop over the soft curve of her cheek.

“It is too hot for a walk, don’t you know that?” said Alison. “You’ve a lot to learn about this part of the country, Mr. Van Dorn of New York State. This is the time for rest. Not a Mexican but has sense enough to remain absolutely quiet after a full meal! Pedro thinks it a mortal sin to exercise after eating, and was just telling me the story of the man whom his master found lying under a tree, when his companions were working in the cane.”

“I have never heard the story.”

“His master came along and asked why he was not working, and the man made answer: ‘Empty sack can’t stand.’ His master sent him to the house for a good meal. An hour after the master came that way again and there was the man as before lying under the tree. ‘Why are you not at work?’ asked he. ‘An hour ago you gave as an excuse that you were empty. Have you not eaten as I told you to do?’ ‘Full sack can’t bend,’ said the man.”

Blythe laughed. “Then I will have mercy on you and we will rest here.”

“Not here, but over by that oak yonder where it is more shady; this cottonwood’s foliage is so light and thin it does not protect one near so well as the oak. I will walk that far, although it is against my principles.”

They established themselves comfortably, Alison leaning against the trunk of the tree and Blythe half reclining at her feet. “And now tell me what is your favorite type of man,” said the lad, pulling a blade of the dry grass and drawing it between his fingers.

“You tell me first what is your ideal of womanhood.”

“That is easy to do. She must be young and fair.”

“She couldn’t keep so, you know, in this climate.”

Blythe did not heed the interruption. “She must be rather tall, not too plump, with blue eyes that look right at you and do not droop or languish but are honest and fearless. She must have hair the color of ripe corn husks, a tinge of yellow in it. She must have courage and daring without being bold. She must be gentle yet not too meek; amiable, yet able to stand up for the right. She must have womanly tastes yet be ready to ride a horse, hit a mark and rope in a calf as well as she can cook a meal and sew a seam. She must not be ignorant of books, like too many of the women one meets about here, and she must have a care to the neatness of her dress, something also often overlooked by our good neighbors.”

“Dear me, I shall write that all down as soon as I get home,” said Alison. “You certainly require a paragon. I don’t know where you will find her.”

“I know only one who answers to my description.”

“Oh, you do know one?”

“Yes, and she is not a mile away, but is as hard to approach as a star.”

“My, but you are poetical. I wonder you left such an intellectual spot as New York for these wilds.”

“I came because my father did, and now he is gone I stay because my mother and sister do so. Since my eldest sister has married here it seems as if we may as well remain, for there is always a future for an enterprising young man in a new country. When I am judge you will see how well I have done for myself.”

“That seems a great many years to look ahead when one is not yet of age,” remarked Alison. “I am afraid you will get discouraged long before that.”

“Not if I have the proper incentive, if the girl I want will encourage me. Tell me now what you admire in a man.”

Alison tipped back her head upon her clasped hands and fixed her eyes upon the fleecy clouds drifting across the blue sky. “He must not be too young,” she began, “nor too wise in such things as I cannot understand, like Latin and—law. He must be tall and muscular and rather dark than fair. He must be brave and cheerful under difficulties and true as steel, loving the things that grow out of doors, and animals and skies and streams more than books. He must make me feel that wherever he is I have a sure protection, for he must be a ready fighter either for his country or for me, yet he must not be one who tries to pick a quarrel or is coarse and ignorant and shiftless. He must know how to make his way among men, but must be chivalrous towards women; not a dandy, though, nor one who makes pretty speeches and then lets a woman wait on him and do the things which it is his right to do. He must love his home, but be no loafer and idler. He must be witty and entertaining, but not silly. Of course he must ride and shoot and do all those things well and must have a reputation as an Indian fighter and all that.”

“You require a great deal,” said Blythe in a dejected tone.

“Not more than you.”

“But I have found my ideal.”

“And I have not, unless it be my brother John, for he is my pattern.”

Blythe turned from her, resting himself upon his two elbows: “It would take a great many years for a man to fit himself to that pattern,” he said.

“Yes, he’d have to begin young, as young even as you, I suppose,” said Alison nonchalantly.

“And by the time he had reached your ideal the girl he cared for would be married.”

“Very likely; if she were to marry at all. She might be like Hannah Maria and be fond of all love stories except her own.”

“The girl I mean could never be like Hannah Maria.”

Alison laughed merrily. “You don’t know what twenty years can do to a woman, especially down here where people grow careless.”

Blythe’s eyes roved over Alison’s neat dress, her soft hair, smooth and tidy except where the little curling tendrils were blown about her face by the breeze, and he shook his head. “She could never look like Hannah Maria,” he insisted.

“If she turns out to be half as good and unselfish, she may count herself lucky,” said Alison. “Hannah Maria may not be beautiful in face and figure, but she has a beautiful spirit, as our minister at home used to say. Do you ever get homesick, Blythe? I do.”

“Yes, I do sometimes, but never when I am with you.”

“You should not get homesick when you are not with me, for you have a home and a mother. I wish I had a mother.”

“You don’t know how good my mother is,” said Blythe eagerly. “She often says that when I bring home a wife she will love her as her own daughter.”

“How pleasant for your wife. I hope that in that long, long time to come, when you are judge and have found the right girl, your mother will still feel the same way. I shall probably have been married years by that time, and I will come to your wedding and say, ‘Law, I remember when Blythe Van Dorn was a snip of a boy and used to tell me what he meant to do when he was a man. He hasn’t married a girl a bit like what he thought he would.’”

At this final shot the boy of twenty grew suddenly moody, arose from his place in the oak tree’s cool shade and went to where his horse was picketed. “Good-bye,” he said.

“Going?” called Alison cheerily. “If you see Hannah Maria as you are passing, tell her I shall be home in time for supper.”

CHAPTER X
A RAFFLE

WHILE matters were going on quietly at home John and his friends had been in the thick of battle, and the desperate fighting at Monterey had left John with his arm in a sling, Ira with a bullet in his shoulder and Neal with a sabre cut across his forehead. The Texan Rangers, under Major Ben McCullough, having been discharged at this point, John and Ira made ready to return home while Neal reentered service under Colonel John Hay. “That’s what I call a soldier,” said Alison, when the news was brought that Neal would not return with the others, “for all that, I am glad enough that John is coming back, and Ira, too. They have won their discharge, for both are wounded.”

“I am glad to say not seriously,” said Christine, putting down the letter just received from her brother. “Now Alison, we must get back home and make ready for our hero.” There was some of Christine’s old brightness in her manner as she said this, and Alison gave her a hug.

“Won’t it be good to get back again? If we can get hold of some flour we’ll have some biscuits first thing, and if not I shall certainly go to making tortillas, for I am sick of soggy corn-bread.”

“We don’t have to have it soggy,” said Christine cheerfully. “We can make some good egg pone like we used to have at home, and if we can’t eat that we must be fastidious.”

They took their news to Hannah Maria, who voiced her regrets at their departure as she stood at the door watching Pedro pile their “tricks” into his queer little Mexican cart. “Now do be sociable,” was her parting word, “and come over often. I’ll be fa’r achin’ for news. I’ll let ye hev Dally ef ye want her to he’p,” she added as an afterthought. “Me an’ Bud kin git along without her fo’ awhile, till ye git fixed.”

“No indeed, we wouldn’t take her from you for the world,” said Alison, decidedly, visions of Daily’s greasy cooking rising before her. “We are going to look out for some one to do the kitchen work. Lon Davis knows of a girl some one wants to hire out, some new people who have just come down from Virginia.”

“Well, they do say them Ferginny cooks is good,” said Hannah Maria, “though fer my part I like plenty of sop for my wittles and they cook too dry fer me.”

“Too dry,” murmured Alison as she drew Chico alongside her sister, now mounted on Hero. “Lumps of meat swimming in grease don’t appeal to me.” This remark was not overheard by Hannah Maria, however, who smilingly waved her hand and called out to the departing girls that if their servant didn’t turn up they must remember they could have Dally.

“Poor dear old Hannah Maria,” said Alison, as they cantered off. “Isn’t she too good for anything? She would give us her head if she thought we could make use of it. But the fates forbid that we should ever have that dirty, slouchy old Dally in our kitchen. I am thankful we learned what cleanliness and good housekeeping meant before we came here.”

“Where ignorance is bliss,” said Christine. “Hannah Maria is perfectly satisfied. She likes greasy sop and heavy corn pone, so why should we pity her?”

“Such depraved taste, though,” sighed Alison.

Christine laughed. “Never mind, we don’t have to stand it any longer, though it does seem ungrateful to say so. Think how kind she has been to us.”

“She surely has been. I feel mean to say a word even against old Dally. Isn’t it a glorious morning, Tina? Do you know it is a year since we left home, a whole year? Can you realize it?”

“I can very readily realize it,” said Christine, her face becoming suddenly grave. “It is a very different year from what I expected. You are not sorry you came, are you, Alison? You are not ready to go back to Aunt Miranda, are you?”

“Not I. This life suits me exactly. I love the freedom of it, though some of the roughness grated upon me at first, and I sometimes wish we had some of our friends from home as neighbors. Still there are some nice people, the Van Dorns, for example. Blythe Van Dorn is one of the few educated men I have met, or else if they are educated they have lost their refinement in this rough association.”

“And who are the others, if Blythe is one?”

“John, of course, and Neal Jordan, though one doesn’t discover that at once. He is one of those who has lost his polish by mixing with all sorts and conditions.”

Christine looked at the girl quickly, but was answered by an innocent smile. “I believe that is true of Neal,” she said. “He is quite above the average.”

“And very different from—Pike Smith, for example, or even dear old Bud, or Ira.”

“Ira is pure gold, though in the rough,” returned Christine. “I wonder if he has Lou’s token and if he will get here in time to pull the poor girl out of her quagmire.”

“It is rather lucky that there are two whom Cy favors,” said Alison. “The last time Bud was over there he said Lou told him that her father was fair distracted between her two persistent suitors, that just as he’d think he had it fixed up with Jabe, Pike would come along and there would be a stormy scene. I really think Cy would rather not have Pike for a son-in-law, but is afraid not to show him favor. So what seemed a bad state of affairs is turning out rather luckily for Lou, since this sort of seesawing puts off the evil day. Bud says there’s more behind it all and that Lou has her reasons for not coming out flat foot and telling her father that she will not marry either of them. I shouldn’t wonder if there would be lively times when Ira comes.”

But in Lou’s direction matters had been hastening to a crisis more rapidly than any one supposed, and it looked as if, were Ira to delay his coming, his chances for obtaining the girl of his choice would be rather slim. Cyrus chafed more and more under the enforced conditions which his daughter’s presence made necessary. He was growing very tired of this respectability, and, moreover, his former relations with Pike Smith, which had been only too questionable, had really put him in Pike’s power. He must therefore, either renew these relations, silence Pike by giving him his daughter, or cut entirely loose from Pike, favor Jabez Manypenny and hide his own misdeeds behind that powerful influence. Besides there was the opinion of the neighbors to be considered. The “boys” had made it very plain to Cyrus that it was a free country for women as well as for men and any decided attempt to marry off Louisa against her will would be speedily resented and would not be allowed. Cyrus was therefore in a dilemma. How was he to please everybody and still go scot free? The question actually kept him awake nights, and one morning when he sat with his breakfast before him untouched, Louisa took alarm.

“You’re fretting, dad,” she said. “I hope it ain’t about me,” she added.

Cyrus lifted his cup and took a long draught of coffee before he answered. “What’s a man to do,” he said, “when half the boys in the neighborhood plague him to death fer his darter?”

Louisa gave her head a jerk. “Oh, is that all? I thought it was something particular.”

“Don’t you call that partickerlar?”

“No, I don’t. Half the men don’t mean any particular man.”

“To come down to facts, then, it is partickerlar. I saw Jabez Manypenny last night.”

“Oh, Jabez Manypenny,” Louisa broke in pettishly, “he’s old enough to be my father. I don’t want an old bag of bones like him.”

“He’s a much respected man, Louisy, and I take it as a great compliment fer him to ast me fer you,” said Cyrus gravely. “But if you must hev a young man, there’s Pike Smith.”

“Gracious! He’d want to boss us both, he’s that masterful.”

“There’s some others,” said Cyrus, doubtfully; “Tim Forbes, Matt Cochran. Yer a favorite, Lou, in spite of yer red head.”

Louisa made no comment. The old man sat in a brown study for some minutes, then he went on, “With all them good fellers I don’t see why you can’t take the best and thet’s Jabe.” He paused suddenly, threw back his head and with a chuckle, brought his hand down hard on the table. “I tell you, Lou, I’ve got it,” he cried. “No one can say I show partiality. I’ll make no enemies, that’s somethin’ I can’t afford to do—and I ain’t goin’ to force you to marry any one of ’em. It’s got to be settled somehow and I’ll—yes, I’ll be switched if I don’t raffle ye off.”

“Raffle me off?” Louisa’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Yes, miss, raffle you off. I reckon you’re as good as a doll at a church fair. I’ll raffle you off. Fifty chances at two dollars apiece will be so much in my pocket. If the men sparking you ain’t willin’ to go as high as two dollars fer the chanst of gittin’ ye they don’t vally you very high, thet’s all. It’ll be a good test, too; the more chances they take, the more they think of ye. What do ye say, miss? Ain’t it a good scheme?”

“It’s very queer—and——”

“Queer or not, it will be done. You won’t go back on your old dad, Lou? You’ll help him out of his troubles, won’t you? It’s a first-rate plan; gives you a chanst to see who vally you, yes it does. Give me a piece of paper. Here goes, one, two, three.” He laboriously set down the figures from one to fifty, folded the sheet of paper, put it in his pocket, picked up his hat and walked out, leaving Louisa wondering if it were all a joke.

She discovered that he was quite in earnest, when, at the end of the week, the paper showed every number taken, and Cyrus adding fifty more. Jabez Manypenny had not hesitated to stake twenty dollars on his chance; Pike Smith came next with ten; the others had risked from one to three chances according to the state of their pocketbooks and their hearts. Louisa felt that the time had come for her to be up and doing. She had scarcely believed that her father would carry out his plan, though every one had declared it was a fair way to settle matters, that it showed a good head for business on the part of Cyrus Sparks. Presenting itself as a game of chance it took the popular fancy and caused a real excitement for miles around.

Just what Louisa thought not every one stopped to inquire, but Louisa was doing a deal of thinking. If Ira did not appear to claim her little did she care who did. She wondered if Ira would be able to reach her before the crisis, and day by day looked for some word or sign from him. If all else failed her she determined that she would resort to strategy and meant to outwit chance if opportunity allowed. At all events her friends would be on hand to see fair play for there was bound to be a big gathering at this unusual frolic. Cyrus was in high good humor. He was making money, was setting himself in a favorable light before his neighbors, and was leaving to chance a matter which he had begun to find too great a responsibility. Pike carried himself with an amount of confidence which enraged Louisa, and she treated him with all the disdain of which she was capable. Jabez Manypenny chuckled over his prospects, for holding the largest number of chances he felt secure of carrying off the prize. And in this state did matters remain till the time came around for the raffle to take place.

It was on the afternoon of the fateful day that Alison, in a fever of expectation, saw two riders coming rapidly up the road. “They’re coming. Oh, Tina, they’re coming at last,” she called to her sister.

Christine came running out and the two stood watching the approach of the men. “It’s John. Oh, John, John,” cried Alison running down to meet her brother. He checked his horse, and the girl eagerly sprang up to kiss him, standing in the big Mexican stirrup and clinging to his arm till they reached the door.

“Back again, safe and sound,” cried John, as Tina ran to him. “Just a scar, sis, to show that we’ve been where there was fighting. All well, girls? What’s your news?”

“News enough,” returned Alison with an emphatic nod at Ira. “It’s well you’re here, Master Ira, or there would be no more Louisa Sparks.”

Ira fairly turned pale under his tan. “What—what do you mean?” he said, jumping from his horse and never heeding where the creature went.

“Oh, it’s an odd tale, and you must hear it at once. Come in, boys. I know you must be hungry, and while you are eating we will tell you of the scheme Cyrus Sparks has been getting up. It does him credit almost every one thinks, but how it is going to turn out no one knows.” Then she gave a rapid account of the situation, Ira listening intently.

“And all the chances taken, you say?” He brought his hand down hard on the table.

“Every one.” Alison rather enjoyed his dismay.

“And we’ve been riding night and day to get here,” said John. “What does Lou say to all this?”

“She isn’t saying very much. If she hadn’t agreed, there was Jabez on one side bound to have her and Pike on the other ready to carry her off like a Goth and Vandal.” Reminiscences of her lessons in history gave Alison the comparison.

“But Ira,” began Christine, in spite of Alison’s frowns and shakes of the head, “Bud has taken two chances and you are to have one or both.”

“What did you tell him for? I wanted to keep him on the rack for awhile longer,” said Alison. “It is true, Ira; Bud took a chance for you and one for himself. He says you shall have whichever one you choose. It was the best he could do.”

“Good for Bud,” said John. “He’s an old trump. I knew we could trust him to look out for our interests.”

“He’s been as true as steel,” Christine told them. “He and Hannah Maria could not have done more if they had been our own brother and sister. They will be along directly and we are all to go to the raffle together. The whole countryside will be there. My, what a sensation you two boys will make, just back from the wars.”

“And we were so afraid you might not get here in time. I really did not give up hope till to-day, and when it got later and later I did not know what we should do, for I know Louisa pins her faith on Ira. You must make yourself look your prettiest, young man, and if you can’t get Louisa any other way you’ll have to run off with her, and I’ll hold her father to keep him from running after you.”

Every one laughed, and Ira vowed he would follow Alison’s suggestion if there were no other way.

“She’s got to be saved from Pike Smith,” said John gravely. “Everything right about the place, girls? Pedro still here?”

“Yes, and he’s a dear old thing,” Alison told him. “Oh, me, John, there is so much to tell about and we’ve so many questions to ask that we shall never get through.”

“Time enough for them,” said John, settling down to the meal now spread before him. “The thing we’ve got to attend to now is this affair of Louisa’s. Comes off this evening, you say?”

“This very evening, and here come Hannah Maria and Bud this minute. We’ll go out and speak to them while you and Ira finish eating.” She ran out to meet her friends with the cry, “John’s come, John’s come, and Ira, too.”

“Why didn’t they stop by?” said Hannah Maria in an aggrieved tone.

“Oh, they were too anxious to get home. They have been traveling night and day.”

“Iry might hev come anyhow,” said Bud. “He inside?”

“Yes, they are eating. They are mighty hungry after their long ride.”

Bud strode into the house, while Hannah Maria occupied herself with Alison. “Ain’t it excitin’?” she said. “I declar’, it’s as good as goin’ to a play. What you reckon is goin’ to happen if Ira’s number don’t drawr?”

“He says he’ll carry Lou off rather than let Pike Smith have her.”

“Law, did you ever? Ain’t thet interestin’? You reckon he will? I wouldn’t blame him.”

“Well, he’s bound to do something or lose her.”

“So he is. Did he say he got the ha’r she sent?”

“No, but I think he did, for they have been coming just as hard as they could make it, and look worn out.”

“Too bad they’ve got to start right off agin, but then, bein’ soldiers I reckon they won’t mind it like we would. The Van Dorns ain’t a-comin’, at least the wimmin folks ain’t. Old Mis’ Van Dorn says she thinks it’s sinful to raffle off a human bein’.”

“So it might be under some circumstances. I think Louisa is lying low so as to outwit her father some way. She’s equal to it if she’s pressed.”

Hannah Maria hugged herself in anticipation of the pleasures in store. “Ain’t it fun?” she said. “I wouldn’t miss it fer a purty. I reckon there’ll be a regular swarm thar. I don’t know whar Cy’ll put ’em all. He ain’t so much room.”

“Those that can’t get in can stay outside,” said Alison. “Louisa said she hoped there would be a big crowd. She said she was going to prepare plenty to eat. She asked me to bring Lolita and we are all going in the cart.”

“Ain’t it fun?” repeated Hannah Maria. “I’m gittin’ anxious to git thar. Ain’t them men most ready? Oh, Bud! You Bud!” she called.

Bud came to the door. “Don’t stand thar jawin’ all day,” said his sister. “Leave them men eat their wittles in peace. I want to git thar airly to see all thet’s goin’ on.” Only on such occasions was Hannah Maria known to be in a hurry, and Bud was scarcely more ready to be on time save when his curiosity was to be gratified—so, after a few more words, he came out.

“We’ll jog on and tell ’em you’re comin’,” he said to Alison. “I’ve a mind not to tell ’em that Iry has come. I suppose you’ll want to wait fer your men folks, and they’ll hev to hev fresh hosses.” Alison watched the two ride away and then went indoors to hasten matters for the others.

It was something more than an hour later that the Ross family drew up before Cyrus Sparks’s house. There was already a large gathering. Many horses were tied to the fence, men stood around in groups, women bustled in and out of the open door, children, escaped from their care-takers, toddled from this person to that.

“Looks like a barbecue or a meetin’ of the co’t,” said Ira, viewing the assemblage with interest.

“It is what you might call a co’t,” laughed Bud, who had stumped out to meet them. “I ain’t told Louisa you’ve come; wanted to give her a surprise. ’Pears to me like she was purty skeert, pore gal. Got them numbers all right?”

Ira nodded. He was off his horse in a twinkling, but made his way into the house with difficulty, being frequently intercepted by those ready to welcome him back and to ask questions. Entering the door, the first person he saw was Cyrus Sparks, who was in high good humor. Two hundred dollars in pocket, and ten chances out of a hundred that he would have a rich son-in-law! The old man stood before the fire beaming a welcome to the eager company. His jaw dropped as Ira elbowed his way to him, but, remembering that all the chances were taken, he recovered himself and made an attempt at playing his part of genial host. “Well, Iry,” he exclaimed, “didn’t expect to see you. I reckon you’ve got a right smart of soldiering stories to tell us, ain’t ye?”

But Ira did not do more than give him a brief greeting and immediately pushed through the crowd to where Louisa, with back turned to the room, stood surrounded by a covey of laughing girls. There was no hesitation in Ira’s manner now. He laid his heavy hand on the girl’s shoulder. She turned and went from white to red. “Ira!” she exclaimed. “You’ve come.”

“Yes, I’ve come. I got here quick as I could. I want a word with you.” He drew her through the door into the lean-to, and further, to the lot at the back of the house. “I got yer stran’ o’ ha’r,” he said. “It’s here,” he tapped the spot over his heart. “I want to know if there’s any way out of this. I’ll carry ye off if yer willin’; this minute, if ye say so. Yer mine, chanst or no chanst, it’s nothin’ but sure fer me. Will ye go with me, Lou? Ye know without my tellin’ ye that I ain’t never wanted to marry no other woman, an’ I’ll treat ye as good as I know how.”

“I believe that,” answered Louisa. “There is another way, I think, Ira. If it fails I’ll go with you. I’d rather have you than any man in the world. Bud said—he—did he tell you?”

“About the number? Yes, mine’s twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven, twenty-seven,” she repeated the number. “Write it down for me.”

“And his is twenty-nine.”

“I don’t care what his is. I only want yours. If I fail, Ira, I will give you a chance to speak to me and we’ll get away before any one suspects. Oh, I thought you would never come.” All her endurance of the long suspense was in her cry.

Ira gave a quick glance around. Too many were watching them; he did not dare follow out his inclination. “Pore little gal. Pore little Lou,” he murmured, his big hand clasping a fold of her frock. “I’ll try to make up to ye fer all this. God knows I’ll be good to ye. I ain’t so much of a saint, Lou, but I’ve love ye mortal hard all this time.”

“I have always believed in you, Ira,” whispered Louisa, “and I knew you’d come if you could, but it was coming so near the end and I was beginning to be afraid that something had happened.”

“Well, my little gal, I’m here now, and I’ll clean out the whole lay-out before anybody else shall have ye.” Louisa gave him a look which made his heart beat fast, and, in spite of the curious onlookers he grasped her hand and gave it a hearty squeeze. Then the two returned to the house.

“Where was ye at, Lou?” Cyrus asked as she came to his side.

“I was speaking to Ira Korner,” replied Louisa calmly. “He’s just back from the wars, you know.”

“And ye couldn’t wait till ye had the war news, I suppose,” said Cyrus with a sneer. “Well, he’s a day after the fair. His cake’s all dough. Whit Parmly took the last chanst a Monday. I reckon most everybody’s come and it’s time to begin, ain’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” returned Louisa, her heart beating fast. “You can call them in, dad. Where is the paper?”

“I let Bud Haley hev it fer a minute. He said he wanted to swop numbers with some one. He’d better not be playing any fool tricks.”

“He couldn’t,” said Louisa. “Every one must know his own number after picking it out.”

“That’s so,” returned her father. “Well, go git it.”

Louisa obeyed, and in a few minutes returned with the well thumbed, greasy piece of paper with its long list of names. She took occasion to glance down the page and made sure that opposite twenty-seven Bud had clumsily scratched out his own name and had written Ira’s in its stead.

Everybody now crowded into the room which was filled to its utmost capacity. Around the doorway and on the outside the men stood shoulder to shoulder, their rough faces full of expectation. Every one of them was anxious, not so much to secure the prize, as to see that neither Jabez nor Pike won it. Bud had done some lobbying and it began to be known how matters stood between Louisa and Ira.

“Who’s to do the drawing?” asked Pike Smith in his stentorian voice.

“I think I should be allowed to pick out my own husband,” said Louisa, a sudden light coming into her eyes. “Where’s your hat, dad? I want that.”

“Here, take mine, or mine,” said half a dozen.

“No, no, I must have dad’s, his old hat; I want that,” persisted the girl.

“Let her have her way,” said burly Timothy Forbes, “they all hev their notions.”

“That they have,” spoke up old Jabez with a smirk. “Might as well give ’em their own gait till you want to drive ’em double.” Ira frowned, but Pike Smith laughed loudly.

It was several minutes before Louisa returned with the hat. “Now blindfold her, Hannah Maria,” shouted John, “and see that there is no chance of her peeping.”

“I’ll cut off the slips first,” said Louisa quietly. “See, here, if anybody wants to look let ’em do it.” The numbers dropped from her scissors one by one into the old hat. Louisa tossed them lightly about. “I’ll mix them well,” she said carelessly. “How many times shall I draw?”

“Let the fifth drawing be the one,” said Jabez officiously.

No one objected, therefore Louisa took her place in a big rough chair by the fireside. “Now you can blindfold me, Hannah Maria,” she said, “and I’ll throw my handkerchief over the hat, too, so every one may be sure that I am not peeping.”

Then fell upon the company a great silence, broken only by the uneasy stir of a heel on the bare floor, by the snapping of the fire, by a dry cough from Jabez Manypenny. Louisa drew from under the handkerchief the first number and held it up.

“Fourteen,” called out Cyrus who took it from her. Timothy Forbes laughed sheepishly and moved to the back of the room. A second slip was produced. “Seven,” announced Cyrus. Pike Smith gave an impatient “Tchut!” but remembered that there were four more chances left for him and assumed his confident air.

Twenty-two was the next number, which had such an effect upon Matt Cochran that he strode out and would have slammed the door if he could. At seventy-eight Lew Phelps looked gloomily down at his boots.

Then there was a pause before the last drawing. Jabez moved so that his small spare figure was silhouetted against the dancing flames. Pike Smith drew himself up to the full height of his six feet two. Ira fixed his eyes on Louisa. Below the handkerchief which bound the girl’s eyes her cheeks glowed brilliantly. She lingered so long that some one laughed nervously and Cyrus said sharply, “Hurry up, Lou.” She caught her breath as her hand under the handkerchief found the little duplicate slip which she had taken the precaution to hide in the lining of her father’s old hat. She drew it forth slowly. It was withdrawn from her cold shaking fingers by her father who looked at it, paused, looked again, and then read out reluctantly: “Twenty-seven!”

In an instant Louisa sprang to her feet, pushed back the bandage from her eyes, turned to the fire and dashed the remaining slips into the flames. These leaped up and cast a bright glow upon the glad face of Ira Korner, who grasped the girl’s hands in his and triumphantly faced the room.

CHAPTER XI
LOU’S WEDDING

SUCH a cheer as went up, when, the suspense over, every one was aware of the result of the drawing. Hannah Maria was the first to rush up with congratulations to Ira. Never before had she been so closely concerned in a romance, and that it had turned out so well was beyond her dearest hopes. Alison and Christine were scarcely more pleased than fat, good-natured, sentimental Hannah Maria. Since the annexation of Texas to the United States the time had passed when the presence of a padre was necessary to legalize a marriage, and so it was hoped that there would be no delay in the wedding, as Judge Jackson had been notified by his friend Jabez Manypenny to be present, and was promptly on hand to perform the ceremony for Ira and Louisa, to Jabez’ discomfiture and Pike’s rage.

Though matters had turned out very differently from what Cyrus had expected he could say nothing, for there were too many witnesses to the transaction for him to attempt to back out of his agreement, and, moreover, he knew that a very determined set of men would permit nothing less than the carrying out of the scheme he himself had arranged. The fact that Ira held a number came as a surprise to him, and he began to bluster about it to Bud, claiming that it was not fair, and that the drawing should be done over again, but he was so fiercely turned upon by half a dozen big fellows that he perceived the wisdom of letting the matter rest. At first he hoped there would be some way of deferring the marriage, and that he could evolve some plan by which Ira could be sent out of the way. He knew Pike would hesitate at nothing, and, for a moment, in the sharpness of his disappointment, he had a wild notion of getting Pike’s help in abducting Louisa or Ira, but, to his credit be it said, he was reluctant to allow his daughter to marry such a scamp as he knew Pike to be, and when all insisted that there should be no delay in the ceremony he acquiesced with as good a grace as could be expected.

The old judge in long boots, flannel shirt, and with untrimmed beard, elbowed his way through the crowd of giggling girls clustered together in the middle of the room. Hannah Maria, in her element, whispered suggestions to the bridal party. The company lined up leaving a passageway for John and Christine, Alison and Blythe Van Dorn, acting as bridesmaids and groomsmen and preceding Ira and Louisa, the latter in gay calico gown. The old judge wasted no time, and in a remarkably short space of time Louisa was Mrs. Ira Korner. Then the witnesses pressed forward to offer congratulations. All but two had a hearty word to say. Jabez Manypenny did not tarry, but sneaked out the door before the ceremony was over and, mounting his horse, rode home, meditating upon the uncertainty of human hopes. Pike Smith, gnashing his teeth in rage, kept watch in the darkness of the pine woods near at hand.

“When we started out this morning you didn’t expect to be a married man before night, did you, Ira?” said John, giving his companion in arms a hearty slap on the shoulder.

“I didn’t exactly count on it,” said Ira.

“You’d better come home with us,” continued John. “You know that place of yours isn’t very handy to get to and it’s been shut up all these months, and I will venture to say it isn’t any too well fixed up at its best.”

Ira laughed. “Well, I reckon you’re right. It is pretty messy as I remember.”

“Then you just come to our house till you can fix up,” urged John. “Lou will feel at home there and the girls will be delighted to have her, and you, too, for that matter.”

“I take it real kind of you,” said Ira. “If Lou’s willin’ I sholy am.”

“Indeed I’d like nothing better,” said Louisa. “You don’t think I ought to stay here with dad for awhile, do you, Mr. John?”

“Not a bit of it,” was the reply. “He’s got along all these years without you and I reckon he’ll be able to stand it awhile longer. Where is he, anyhow, and where is Pike?” He looked around the room from which both of the men were missing.

It was not very many minutes before Cyrus reentered, but he seemed nervous and in no good humor. His schemes had gone awry and he was not happy. Especially was this true after a conversation he had had outside with Pike, for Pike was in his ugliest mood and Cyrus did not enjoy a contemplation of what might result from the day’s doings.

But now Hannah Maria and some of the older women were busying themselves in offering the refreshments which Louisa had carefully prepared; great pans of biscuits, boiled hams, sweet cakes and such dainties as her father would allow her to provide. “It’s your last fling,” he had said ungraciously. “I reckon I’ll hev to let ye cook up somethin’ to keep folks from talkin’, though I don’t much care what they do say.” And so Louisa had done her best.

The majority of the company was in high spirits; even those who had failed to secure such an admirable helpmeet as Louisa were pleased that Ira should have been the successful rival, for he was a great favorite and every one had a good word to say of him.

“I swow,” said Matt Cochran, “I’d rather see Iry git her than anybody as long as I didn’t git her myself.”

“Iry’s a good feller; he desarves his luck,” piped up old Billy Jones. “I had my eye on the gal, but Sally, my darter, told me I’d better be keerful of a red-headed woman.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ of her head,” said Lew Phelps. “I was thinkin’ what a powerful handy cook I’d git. I ain’t never struck more wholesome wittles than what these air,” he added, his mouth full of biscuits and ham.

And so the talk went on till night suddenly fell and the company broke up. Lanterns bobbed about the lot where men were untying their horses, hoisting damsels to their places on tough little mustangs, assisting stout dames to their seats in the family conveyance, or adjusting some young woman to her saddle in front of the cavalier with whom she had come. The shrill laughter of girls, the unrestrained guffaws of the men, the sleepy wail of some little child, the stamping horses, the creaking of wheels, all combined to show how large and popular an entertainment this had proven to be.

Louisa was the last to leave the house. At the parting moment she had gone to her father with tears in her eyes. “Good-bye, dad,” she said. “I’ll come over to see you soon. I know ye ain’t sorry to part from me or I’d feel worse about goin’. I wisht I could have married to suit ye, but I’ve got the man I love, if that’s any consolation to ye. An’ if it does ye any good to hear it, why I tell ye there ain’t a cloud upon my sky except that I ain’t pleased ye. Me an’ you ain’t been so terrible happy; maybe it’s because we knowed each other too late, but I’d like ye to kiss me good-bye, fer ye’re the only parent I got and this is my weddin’ day. I ain’t got no mother, and I’d like to part from ye without no hard feelin’s.”

Moved by her appeal, the man put his arm awkwardly around her and gave her a swift kiss, then, as if ashamed even of this exhibition of feeling, he pushed her from him. “I ain’t harborin’ no ill feelin’s to you, Louisy,” he said. “You done yer best. I’d rather ye’d married Jabez and bed that nice home, but what’s done’s done. I wish ye luck, yes, I do.” He pushed her further away and went abruptly into the house shutting the door after him.

His own horse being too used up for further travel without a day’s rest, Ira had ridden over on Hero, John driving the wagon in which were Christine, Alison, and Lolita, a slower way of proceeding, but one which accommodated the whole family. It was proposed that Louisa should occupy a place with the girls, but Ira, lover-like, insisted that she should be mounted in front of him.

“Then, if that’s the way you must go, you’d better take my horse,” said Blythe Van Dorn. “He’s heavier than yours, Ira, and will carry double weight; besides my saddle is better adapted for two.” And so Blythe mounted Hero and the bridal pair set off, escorted by their friends.

Over the miles of rough road they jogged along, making the night ring with laugh and song, and a fusilade once in a while to give vent to their feelings and to show in true Texan fashion that something especial called forth a use of pistols. As they neared the various ranches one after another dropped out of the procession and turned toward his own home, till, by the time the Rosses left the main road, there were not many to accompany them further. Blythe, who had stopped to say a word to a departing comrade, was somewhat in the rear, and singing softly to himself jogged along at a careless pace.

As the last clump of trees was passed, a man suddenly sprang out and seized Hero by the bridle. Two or three pistol shots followed in quick succession and Blythe fell to the ground, while the man sprang upon Hero and dashed off down the road as if pursued by furies.

In an instant every man had wheeled around and shot after shot rang out upon the still night air. “After him, boys,” shouted Bud.

“Down with ye, Lou,” said Ira shortly, and as, without a word, Louisa obeyed, he stooped and gave her a quick kiss, then putting spurs to his horse he dashed after those who were already giving chase.

“Here, girls, you’ll have to go on home alone,” said John as he jumped from the wagon and ran back to where Blythe lay.

Ira, Bud and two or three others put spurs to their horses and dashed after the men who had disappeared in the chaparral. This soon became too dense for them to penetrate except on foot, but they fired in all directions and before long, Ira, who was ahead, called out: “Here’s one of them. It looks like we’d done for him.” With difficulty the others made their way to where Ira bent over a prostrate figure. “He’s still breathing,” he told them. “We’d better carry him out to the road away from these thorns and briers.”

It was not easy to convey their burden through the thick underbrush, but they managed to do it, and when, under the starlit sky, they bent to discover the man’s features, Bud gave a sharp exclamation. “It’s old Cy Sparks,” he said.

Hearing his name spoken, the wounded man opened his eyes and recognized Bud. “Well, boys,” he said feebly, “I reckon I’m done for this time. Where’s Pike?”

“Pike? If I’d known it was that low down rascal I’d a hunted him further,” said Bud.

Cyrus closed his eyes and breathed heavily. After a moment he looked up again with a dazed expression and recognized Ira. “You’ve come back,” he said. “Where’s Lou? Is she safe?”

“She’s gone on with the Ross gals,” Bud told him. “What was ye up to, anyhow, Cy?” He must settle this mystery if possible while the opportunity was his.

“We were after the hoss,” said Cyrus with effort. “We got him once before—— Mebbe you don’t know that. Pike was bound to hev him—— We’ve hed dealin’s together oncet or twicet and Pike—he knew—he threatened to tell if I didn’t go with him to-night. I was to git the hoss and he meant to kidnap Iry if he could, but I saw him aim—to kill Iry, ridin’ that hoss of Steve’s.”

“I wasn’t ridin’ thet hoss; it was Blythe Van Dorn,” said Ira quickly.

“Pike said it was you,” Cyrus went on, “and that Lou was in the wagon. We always meant to git that hoss some day but—when I saw—Pike aim to kill Iry, I struck—up his arm and he—turned—on me and I—reckon he’s finished me.”

“It was Pike then. You hear that, boys,” said Ira. “I’m sorry, Cy, I’m sorry fer ye. Ye meant white by me if ye was on a bad business about the hoss. I ast yer pardon fer any hard feelin’s.”

“I desarve ’em,” said Cy. “I ain’t been—a good man—left my wife—and child—come here an’—done low down—tricks an’ was goin’ ter do—more of ’em.” He grew weaker and lay breathing painfully with closed eyes. After a time he whispered “Louisa.”

“Ole man,” said Ira, “I swar I’ll be good to yer gal, if that’s what you mean.”

“Don’t—tell—Lou—I was stealin’ the—hoss.”

“No, sir, I’ll not. You understand, boys. This here’s my wife’s father and I want to keep this here little transaction quiet.”

“We’ll not peep, Iry, not one of us,” his companions assured him.

Cyrus put out a feeble hand and Ira clasped it in his strong ones. “Tell Lou I didn’t mean——” the breath came shorter, then presently there was a new effort. “Pike knows—Steve——” And that was the last word.

It was a subdued and serious group that carried Cyrus Sparks, now dignified by death, to the nearest shelter. This happened to be Pedro’s cabin where Blythe Van Dorn lay wounded badly, but not dangerously it was hoped. Here John and his sisters, with Louisa, had attended to the young man’s wounds and he was fairly comfortable. Ira and his friends laid their lifeless burden outside on the grass and called John, telling him of what had happened. Then Ira faced his next duty. “I’d like to see Lou,” he said. “John, you send her out to me, and you boys go off fer a while.” He waited with folded arms till the girl appeared.

“You wanted me, Ira?” she said, coming up and slipping her hand in his.

“Yes, my gal. I’ve got a hard somethin’ to tell ye.” He drew her close to him. “It seems right mean that I’ve got such a thing to say on our weddin’ night, but, my gal, that there’s yer dad.” He looked down at the quiet figure, with face covered, lying there at their feet.

Louisa gave a startled scream and hid her head on his breast. Ira stroked her hair gently. “He was tryin’ to save my life, Lou. He kep’ Pike from shootin’ what he thought was me on Hero, Steve’s hoss, an’ Pike turned on him in a rage at bein’ interfered with. Your dad had time to say a few words to us. He thought about you an’ spoke your name at the very last. He knowed he was a-goin’ an’ he died with his hand in mine. Thar, gal, thar.” Louisa was shaking with sobs.

“Poor father, poor dad,” she murmured.

“Mebbe he wa’n’t a saint, Lou, but he died tryin’ to save another; I reckon the Marster up in heaven’ll understan’ thet. Thar’s somethin’ in the good book about a feller layin’ down his life fer a fren’, ain’t they? I reckin he’ll git leave to jine yer mother yit. Lou, my gal, my pore little gal.” And Louisa, with a sudden sense of a new and beautiful love enfolding and protecting her, received such comfort as never before had been hers.

The next day Cyrus was buried by those who strove to hide his faults from the world, and who turned from the lonely grave with reverence and sincere pity, but who sternly vowed vengeance against his slayer.

Those last words of Cyrus’ brought a gleam of hope to Christine, but there seemed little chance of there being more discovered, for, though the men scoured the country, there was no sign of either Pike or Hero.

Blythe improved slowly, but it was felt that he must not be moved for the present, therefore Mrs. Van Dorn was asked to take up her residence, for the time being, at the Rosses, that she might be near her boy. Louisa, too, at the urgent request of the girls remained till Ira should make his home more habitable; therefore it was a large household, and the days passed busily enough for all.

A certain question troubled Alison during these days, and at last she took it to her brother John. “Do you think all promises ought to be kept?” she asked. “If one makes a promise which seems right at the time, but which if broken might help justice, ought one to keep it a secret?”

“That’s a mighty tough problem,” returned John. “Can’t you give me a little more of a clue?”

Alison pondered upon the question. “It concerns Pike Smith,” she said. “I will tell you some things, John, for I half suspect you know about them. You know poor old Cyrus Sparks and Pike were the ones who tried to steal Hero that first time when you were away. Bud told me that Cyrus had confessed that.”

“Yes, so he did, but he didn’t want Lou to know it.”

“Lou did know, for he was the man we shot at and brought in the house, but he made her believe that he had bought Hero from Steve and that he was only taking his own. I never half believed that myself, and I think Louisa doubted it after she knew her father better. I think Cyrus was bent on getting Hero; he knew he was a very valuable horse and if he and Pike could get him they could sell him for a high figure. I think he and Pike went shares on such deals, and I shouldn’t wonder if they stole horses all the time. I don’t know that Cyrus was always with them when they went on their expeditions, but I think Pike was an out and out horse thief, and a very bad man.”

“No doubt of it,” said John.

“Do you think Pike’s only object was to get hold of Hero the night of the wedding?”

“Not altogether. I think he was crazed by jealousy, for one thing, and I think he wanted to get Ira out of the way and took that way to do it. He had been watching and evidently thought Ira was riding Hero and that Lou was in the wagon with us, as it was arranged that way at the first. Pike’s idea was to get Ira out of the way, if he could, grab the horse, and make way with it as he did. I have no doubt but that he thinks he has killed Ira as well as Cyrus, and though it is not doing him any good, he is satisfied that he has prevented Ira from winning Lou, so he has gratified his revenge, as he supposes. We’ve long thought that he has been working with a band of horse thieves, and he is no doubt hidden somewhere in the mountains and will make his way over the border. We have never been able to prove that he and Cyrus were doing crooked work but we have thought so.”

“You remember that Cyrus said Pike could tell about Steve; that is what makes it hard for me to keep my promise to him.”

“To Pike? You don’t mean to Pike?” John looked amazed.

“Yes, Pike. Oh, John, I must tell, for Tina’s sake. Pike followed me one day when I was coming from Louisa’s. He thought I had a note or something from her to Ira, and he wanted to get it away from me. I did have that lock of hair, but he didn’t find it out. As I said, he followed me and carried me off to a little old hut in the woods.”

John made a fierce exclamation.

“He didn’t hurt me,” said Alison. “There was an old woman there who searched me, but you know what an evil temper Pike has, and I made him angry so he did mean to keep me prisoner till I showed him I knew that he had been one of those who tried to steal Hero, and I told him that Bud and some of the boys were coming to meet me, and I knew they would track me to the place, so then I promised not to tell of his having carried me off and to say nothing of his being with Cyrus that night, and he let me go. He knew perfectly well he didn’t dare to keep me, for Bud would be hot on my tracks. I’ve never told any one anything except that a man followed me and that I lost my way in consequence.”

“I’d have been fair wild if I had known it,” said John. “We have been to that hut, but there was not a sign of any one there.”

“Oh, dear.” Alison was disappointed.

“However,” John went on, “this is worth following up. I’ll not say a word of your share in the matter, and you were perfectly right to tell no one but me. If we can find that old woman we may be able to get something from her that will help us.”

“To find Steve?”

“I was thinking of finding Pike. Why do you say Steve?”

“I was wondering if Steve might not have been taken there at some time. I suppose you will say that is a wild kind of guess, and that it is like a silly girl to suggest such a thing, but it just came into my head.”

“There might be a clue worth following there,” said John. “You women folks often jump at a conclusion that turns out to be the right one, while we men will beat around the bush and never guess the right thing. Our best plan now is to hunt up that old woman. What did she look like?”

“She was old, very old, and I remember her name; it was Brigida.”

“Good! That’s something gained. You’re a smart little coot, Alison, and if you think of anything more you’d better come tell me.”

“I wonder if Pedro would know anything of the woman.”

“He might; that’s worth trying, too.”

“He’s perfectly devoted to us, and I know he would do all he could to find her out if we wanted her. That old Sofia that we had here might be looked up; she is pretty near as old.”

“I believe we’ll get hold of something yet by reason of your sharp wits,” said John. “I’ll go and pump old Pedro. I’ve been thinking of turning off the old fellow and getting two or three darkies on the place, but I don’t know but I may as well keep him too.”

“You couldn’t turn him off while Blythe is there.”

“That’s so.”

“And I am sure Pedro is much more faithful than any one you could find among the darkies.”

“There’s not much love shown for the greasers nowadays, you know.”

“Well, I don’t care. Pedro is not like a common greaser; he is a real gentleman.”

“Especially in his table manners,” returned John laughing.

“He’s no worse than Bud Haley, and I am sure Lolita is far above dear old Hannah Maria who looks down on her.”

“Lolita is something of an anomaly, I admit,” said John as he left the gallery where the two had been talking.

CHAPTER XII
A CLUE

THAT so large a family was quartered at the Ross ranch caused no special comment. It was the custom of the country, destitute of wayside inns, and sparsely settled, for any house to be opened to the passing traveler, and families often received for any length of time, those whose circumstances made it difficult for them to do otherwise than accept such hospitality as was offered them. In the case of those congregated at the Ross ranch all were acquainted; they were neighbors, and were as congenial a party as could be found in that much mixed country. Mrs. Van Dorn was a more than usually refined woman who had come to Texas because of her husband’s ill health, and after his death had remained because of her eldest daughter’s marriage to a young Englishman who had settled in the neighborhood. Both Christine and Alison enjoyed her gentle presence, and though she spent most of her time at the bedside of her son, they appreciated such half hours as she found time to give them. She was joined often by her daughter, Laura, a pleasant girl, devoted to Alison and glad of an excuse to see her often. Louisa, feeling that she was in some measure responsible for Blythe’s plight, took it upon herself to supply the invalid with dainties, and not a day passed that she did not bear some covered dish to the little cabin. The “likely darky from Ferginny” now reigning in the kitchen, rather resented Louisa’s claims to being the best cook in the land, but allowed her full sway in the matter of preparing dishes for the invalid.

The effort to hunt down Pike Smith proved unavailing, though an attempt was made to carry out Alison’s suggestions, and one day John beckoned to his younger sister and led her to a spot where they could be free from interruption. “Can you go with me for a ride?” he said. “We’ve unearthed the old Mexican woman, Brigida, thanks to Pedro.”

“Good! And have you learned anything from her?” asked Alison, eagerly.

“Not yet. She professes ignorance on all subjects connected with Pike Smith. That’s why I want you to go with me to interview her. One thing we have learned, though not from her, and that is her son has been concerned in some horse thieving, and we believe he belongs to the gang of which Pike was the leader.”

“That is a good point to know.”

“We think so, too, and though we have no proofs it will be as well to use our suspicions as facts.”

Alison did not delay in getting ready for her ride. She expected great results, was so sanguine and built up such possibilities all the way along, that her brother finally told her that she ran ahead of all reason. “I believe you expect her to produce Steve from a box or a bag,” he said, “as if he were a cat or a hen.”

“I shall not be surprised at anything,” declared Alison laughing. But when they reached the little adobe hut matters did not look so promising. At first the old woman declared that she had never seen Alison before, that she knew no Americanos and did not wish to know them. She wished to be left in peace and could not be disturbed by curious persons asking questions about what she could not tell.

“But surely you do remember me,” said Alison, bending down to look into the skinny yellow face and to catch the expression of the bleary old eyes. “Look at me well,” she insisted. “Don’t you remember the little hut where Pike Smith one day brought a young woman for you to search?”

“No, no.” The woman pushed her away and Alison looked at her, surprised and chagrined. “The old wretch,” she said in a whisper to her brother. “John, suppose you go out of hearing for a few minutes; but first give me a little money.”

“‘BUT SURELY YOU DO REMEMBER ME.’”

“You are right,” said John, “that is a salve that will often cure poor eyesight.” He slipped a dollar into her hand and walked away. Alison beckoned the old woman to one side, displaying the money as she did so, and was pleased to see that she followed eagerly. “You shall have this,” said the girl, in a low tone, “if you will answer my questions. It does not matter whether you remember me or not; one often forgets faces.” She found herself sufficiently fluent in the use of Spanish to be at no loss for words. “Now, good mother,” she went on, “please tell me if I was the only one Pike Smith ever brought to that hut in the woods. Did he ever bring there a young man about my brother’s age? My brother is over there, you see. This young man of whom I speak was darker than he, and his name was Stephen. It was about a year ago, a little more, perhaps.”

The woman shook her head, her eye on the money which Alison held conspicuously. “Tell me this, at least, was it your home or his?” Alison continued her questions.

“It was not mine,” Brigida ventured.

“Then it must have been his. Can you not tell me something of this man, Smith?”

Brigida would not inform upon him; he had been good to her.

“Then he must have had some reason for being so,” Alison said conclusively. “I have no doubt he spared that son of yours, and he probably threatened you to expose him if you did not keep silence about those doings of his.” She kept her eye upon the old woman and saw that the shot told. “Now we know all about that son of yours,” she added.

“Oh, no, no, señorita,” began Brigida, beginning to show signs of alarm.

“Do not be afraid,” said Alison soothingly. “Now, if Pike Smith threatened to expose your son in case you did not do his bidding, I can understand why you are not anxious to remember me. But, my good Brigida, if you are not willing to answer a few questions, which can do neither you nor your son harm, I am afraid it will be the worse for your son. My brother and his friends are very determined and they have discovered things which are not to the credit of those you are trying to shield. I happen to know who it was that was with Pike Smith when he came to our ranch last fall to steal our horses; it was the night that Cyrus Sparks was hurt, you may remember, and if I were to use that knowledge against your son it would go hard with him.” Alison jumped at her conclusions, but she saw that she was making an impression. “If I were to identify your son,” she went on, “and if my brother and his friends were to use the information they possess, I think you will be sorry that you did not answer the few harmless questions that I wish to ask you. Cannot you see that it would be much better if you were to tell me what I want to know and allow me to use my own discretion in repeating it? I promise to tell only so much as may be of benefit to us and will screen your son, so that his name shall not appear at all. You shall have this dollar, too. Pike Smith will never dare to show his face on this side the border, that you well know, and can do you no injury whatever you may say.”

Brigida twisted her knotty old hands together helplessly. She had sworn not to tell anything that went on in the small hut, and what would the padre say if she confessed to having broken her vow?

“But the padre will forgive you,” Alison went on. “If you show him that it was necessary for you to break your promise in order to shield your son, he will forgive you.

“Which would be better, Brigida, to protect your son or that wicked man? The padre will understand and because you are a mother he will forgive you; otherwise think what will be the fate of your son.”

Brigida groaned, but drew Alison further away from the blank adobe wall.

“It is true, señorita,” she said; “there were more than one brought to that place, not any other woman but yourself, though there were men, yes, some to be buried in the woods, some to be sent out of the country. I remember one Americano who may perhaps be the young man you seek. It was a little more than a year ago. They had tried to get his horse, but the creature escaped and Pike Smith was much angered, for the horse was a fine one; he was very anxious to get it. I heard them say that the horse got away, for that it had as much sense as a human being.”

Alison gave an eager exclamation. “Was it a coal black horse, young, and cleanly cut, with fine head and mettlesome spirit?”

“I cannot tell, señorita, for I did not see the beast, but the young man was brought to the hut much bruised. He lay there for a day and then he was taken away, I know not where.”

“It must have been Steve; I am sure it must have been,” said Alison with conviction. “Describe him to me, good Brigida and you shall have more than my thanks.”

“He was of your brother’s size, but dark, as you said. I did not learn his name, for I do not speak the language of the Americanos.”

“You have no idea where they took him?”

“I was not allowed to ask questions, and Señor Smith did not converse in my own language to my son, who knows the Americano well.”

“Oh, if I could but see your son. Would it not be possible?” asked Alison imploringly.

Brigida shook her head. “No, no, señorita, I can tell you nothing of him. I would not if I could, for even now I must warn him. It is only because I believe you are true and will not harm an old woman and her only child I have told you what I know about your friend. The rest would do you no good.”

“But have you no idea where they took him? That is all I shall ask you. I can see that anything more would be of no value to me. If you can but tell me where they took him, this dollar with two more shall be yours, and I will promise you on my honor to try to prevent them from seeking your son as they are intending to do. If you know where they took the young man, tell me, Brigida. He was to have married my sister, my dear sweet sister who has waited and mourned all these months, dreading to hear of his death yet hoping he may still be alive. You were once young yourself, Brigida, and if the young father of your son had been spirited away and you had not known whether he was dead or alive would not the world have been a dolorous place to you? Tell me where they have taken him for the sake of my sister of the breaking heart.”

“Ah, señorita, I wish I might give you good news, but I fear there is none for you. I heard them say that they would take him across the border when they carried their horses; and it was then war time. They may have left him to be taken by some band of Indians, or they may have given him to our own soldiers. I do not know; I only know they did not mean he should return.”

“But why spare him at all? I do not see why Pike Smith should stand at killing him outright. He had no conscience and did not hesitate to kill poor old Cyrus Sparks.”

“Ah yes, señorita, it was that old man who would not permit bloodshed. He was in company with Señor Smith in this expedition and demanded that the young man should not die here, but should be sent from the country.”

“That is a good word from poor old Cyrus,” said Alison. “Well, Brigida, there is hope, and there is not hope. I thank you very much for telling me this. I will go to my brother at once and get you the rest of the money. Take this.” She slipped her coin into the woman’s hand and returned to her brother, who was waiting impatiently.

“Well, what luck?” he asked eagerly.

“I have learned a great deal, but I must have two more dollars at once, and then I will come back and tell you. I think my information is worth the money.”

“Then I cheerfully give it,” said John diving down into his pocket and producing the silver which Alison promptly placed in the old woman’s hands, returning to mount her horse and to pour forth her tale into her brother’s attentive ears, though she allowed no reference to Brigida’s son to escape her.

“Well,” exclaimed John, when she had finished, “that is well worth knowing, though what I can’t see is why Pike didn’t get Steve out of the way for once and all instead of packing him over the border.”

“I suppose Cyrus had his say in the matter. You see they were in cohoots, and no doubt, each being in the other’s power, everything had to be agreed upon unanimously, or else the one who differed felt that he might be informed upon.”

“I think that is quite true. I suppose you didn’t learn anything of the Mexican, who it is believed was the third one of the gang.”

“No, I don’t know a thing about him. If he is Brigida’s son she took precious good care not to let me know his whereabouts. I had to scare her nearly to death before I could get a word out of her, and it was only by pretending to know much more than I did that I found out anything at all. Evidently the old woman had been made to take a solemn vow not to disclose anything that went on under her observation, and I think, even now, she is in deadly fear that something will happen to her; that was why I had to give her the extra money, so she could pay it to the priest. What do you think, John? Is there any hope of Steve’s being alive?”

“Of course there is hope. Now that we know he was taken over the border we may expect almost anything fortunate may have happened.”

“But why hasn’t he tried to come back, if he is safe, or why has he not written a single line? He should know that we, especially Christine, must be anxious.”

“I cannot say why. In war times communication is not easy. He may be in some out-of-the-way place from which it is impossible for him either to escape or to send a message. When the war is over we can begin to look for him.” Yet, in spite of this cheerful attitude, John felt that there was very little expectation of Stephen’s return, and in this opinion most of his friends concurred.

Christine, however, caught at this last straw of hope, saying, when Alison related her story, “And he was alive while I was mourning him as dead, so why should he not be living now? For the first time, Alison, I have a real hope that he will come back. Oh, why did we not know this when Cyrus Sparks was alive? I cannot forgive him for keeping silence when he knew how terrible it was for us to have found Steve missing.”

“You could not expect him to tell of a thing so much to his own discredit. You know what would have happened if it had been known that he belonged to a gang of horse thieves.”

“He might have found some way of letting us know without implicating himself.”

“I don’t see how he could, for if Steve had come back it would have been all up with Cyrus and Pike.”

“I see, I see,” sighed Christine. “Well, little sister, you have brought me some good news, anyhow, and I thank you for it. How did John happen to take you to see that old woman?”

“Because I can speak tolerable Spanish. You see what an immense advantage my acquaintance with Lolita has been,” said Alison, laughing.

“I am sure I never objected to it greatly. It is Ira and Neal and the Haleys who despise the Mexicans.”

“If they were all like Lolita I should think them very foolish, but those I have seen to-day are certainly not descended from blue-blood dons, or if they are they have deteriorated.”

“I wish I could see that old woman and could talk to her,” said Christine, striking her hands impatiently together. “I would ask her a thousand questions about Steve. Oh, Alison, to think that he was so near and we did not know it. I am fairly wild when I think of it. Now where is he? Ah, if I but knew, if I but knew.”

“Never mind, dear, it will come out well yet; mark my words. See, there comes Mrs. Van Dorn.”

“My bonny laddie is sleeping quietly,” said Blythe’s mother, as she came up to the gallery where the girls were sitting; “and as he does not need me I thought I would join you for a while,” she added. “I left Louisa in charge and she has promised to let me know when he wakens. What a dear, good, cheerful creature she is, and that big rough husband of hers is my delight. Isn’t it strange, girls, upon what a different plane one is willing to place oneself down here? Now at home, any one who murdered the king’s English and who lived as most of our neighbors do, would be considered impossible.”

“Alison and I have often spoken of that,” said Christine. “Look at dear old Hannah Maria Haley for example.”

“That is another peculiarity; every one here is old so and so. If it is a boy of eighteen who happens to be married, or a young woman of twenty-five who isn’t married, they are spoken of as old. Now Hannah Maria cannot be over thirty, yet everybody calls her ‘Old’ Hannah Maria.”

“I suppose it is because she is so fat and motherly,” suggested Alison. “She certainly is the best old soul.”

“There you go again,” laughed Mrs. Van Dorn. “It is a pity she has no children of her own to mother.”

“But what would the neighborhood do without her?” said Christine. “She is the dependence of everybody in trouble.”

“Yes, and after all, what a higgledy-piggledy house hers would be in which to rear children; chickens, hounds, cats, and sometimes even pigs, running in and out and no care at all for neatness and order.”

“It is so in lots of places,” Alison remarked.

“So it is. I thought when we first came down here that the household arrangements in the few places where we stopped must be the exception, but they are certainly the rule. I have seen as many as three beds in the main room where everything went on, cooking, sleeping and eating. It seemed perfectly dreadful to me then, but I found it was a matter of pride to set up as many beds as possible, the more beds, the more generous the accommodations, and I actually came to it myself when I found that I was expected to entertain any casual wayfarer who happened to want lodging.”

“I shall never forget what a delightful surprise your house was to us,” said Alison. “After staying at Hannah Maria’s it seemed a palace. I don’t see why so many want to live in such a lop-lolly way. John told us a great deal about it before we came and we stipulated for several things. We were determined to have our own milch cows, for one thing, so we could have good butter.”

“Such butter as they give you!” ejaculated Mrs. Van Dorn.

“Then we were bent upon having a good tight house. Half of them are open to the gallery, and when there comes a norther the way the wind sweeps through that great triangular space is a caution.”

“They complain that lumber is so scarce.”

“And three sawmills within ten miles. We inquired into that and John built our house accordingly. It is not a very showy affair but we think it fairly comfortable.”

“It is a mansion compared to the Haleys’, and is very comfortable.”

“Of course there must be a place provided for every Tom, Dick, and Harry to sleep, but they usually want no more than a corner of the gallery and a blanket, and since John has added the man’s room, even in winter we can accommodate a good many. For ourselves we have an unusual arrangement of two bedrooms up-stairs, though they are pretty hot in summer, and I think now it was a mistake not to have all the rooms on the first floor. It will come to a bed in the living-room yet, I think.”

“Another thing that we were quite set upon,” said Alison, “was good, wholesome food. I think I should die of indigestion if I were obliged to live on what they consider sufficient down here. They don’t live so in other parts of the South.”

“They certainly do in Arkansas and parts of Missouri,” said Mrs. Van Dorn; “I cannot speak from experience of the other states.”

“We can. At home we always had good light pone, and I don’t see why they shouldn’t have it here. Eggs are plentiful and so is milk, if one chooses to take a little trouble about it. Is it laziness or ignorance that is the trouble?”

“A little of both, I think. At first it was a hard life for the pioneers, as it must always be for them, so the easiest way was the best way and still continues to be, though the country is so rapidly filling up. Where is your brother, girls?”

“Gone to a negro hiring at the county house. He needs more hands on the place, for he is continually increasing his stock,” Christine told her friend. “We shall have quite a big rancho if we continue to extend our bounds. Ours has been only a hacienda till lately. I never used to know the difference between that and a rancho.”

“And what is the difference?”

“One is simply a country residence, a farm proper; the other is strictly a stock farm. By the way, have you heard that Louisa is to inherit her father’s property and that it is decided she and Ira will live on the nearer place instead of going to Ira’s claim which is twenty miles away? We are so pleased that we shall have them near. One of John’s errands to-day was to go with Ira to settle up Lou’s law matters. They think there will be no difficulty, although it is generally thought that old Cyrus obtained his money in rather a questionable way; but there are no proofs. It is certain that Louisa is his legal heiress and he acknowledged her as such. She wrote to my aunt for certain facts to prove her identity, so we think all will be settled without delay.”

“I am glad to hear it. There comes the young woman now. My boy must be awake,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, slipping her knitting into its bag and going forth.

“What a nice mother-in-law she will make,” said Christine, looking after her.

“Then why don’t you set your cap for Blythe?” asked Alison flippantly.

“You know why,” replied Christine, gravely. And Alison, at this reproof, ran down the path to join Louisa.

CHAPTER XIII
NEAL’S LETTER

BEFORE the middle of November the armistice of Monterey was ended and a little later General Worth took possession of Saltillo. By the 9th of March, General Scott, who was now in chief command of all the forces in Mexico, had conducted an expedition against Vera Cruz, and had landed an army of thirteen thousand men at a point near that place. In the meantime General Taylor had posted his army in a strong position at Buena Vista, and, after fierce fighting, had repulsed the enemy. Then began the memorable march upon the City of Mexico, during which the towns of Jalapa, and Perote with its fortress upon the summit of the Cordilleras, were surrendered, and Puebla, that ancient walled and fortified city, the third of importance in Mexico, was entered, in triumph.

From this place came a characteristic letter from Neal Jordan to his friends. “We have had some tall fighting,” he wrote, “and there promises to be more of the same variety before we get to Mexico.” He then gave them a short, graphic description of the battle in which he had lately taken part, and closed by saying: “I wish some of you-all would write to me. Tell one of the girls I’ll bring her something pretty from Mexico if she will sit down and write me a real good letter and tell me what you-all are doing these days. I’ve not heard a word since John left and that seems a long time ago. I’d be glad to-day to see even an old hound dog if he came from any of you, and I ain’t sure but what I’d hug him.”

“That sounds just like Neal,” said Alison. “Tina, you must write to him.”

“Why must I any more than you?”

“Oh, because you are the older.”

“Nonsense, you have less to do, and you never mind writing.”

“To be sure there is no lack of news,” said Alison, thoughtfully. “But I should think you would like to write to him when he is so eager to hear from us; it’s quite pathetic.”

“If you feel that way you’d better go right to work and send him a budget. I am in no humor for it.”

Therefore it was Alison who spent an entire afternoon in covering pages to send to Neal. A newsy, cheery letter it was, girlishly full of underscored words and enthusiastic accounts of what had happened in the past months since he left them. Details concerning home matters and certain favorite animals were not overlooked, and the frank, unstudied epistle warmed the heart of the young Texan Ranger, and made him so preoccupied as to bring upon him the mocking laughter of his comrades. More than once during the days which followed he took out the letter and read it over, lingering upon the last words: “Here’s love from us all. May you come back safe to John, Christine and Alison.”

“I might have said ‘your friends, John, Christine and Alison,’” said the girl as she read over the lines; “that might have sounded better, but I cannot rewrite it, so it will have to go as it is.”

“What, haven’t you finished that letter yet?” asked Christine, coming in as Alison was folding the sheet. “I wanted you to see about getting some milk for supper.”

“I have just finished, and my fingers fairly ache from holding a pen so long. I wonder if I shall be able to milk. I will get Lolita to help me, I think. You may read my letter if you like. I think I have made it a fairly interesting one. Don’t seal it yet; I want to put something in it.”

“What?”

“Oh, a funny picture Blythe drew of you and me going out to milk. It will amuse Neal.”

Blythe had long since departed to his own home, having been, during the last weeks of his convalescence, under the same roof with his mother and the Ross family. Many an hour the girls spent in amusing him, and they had all been on such intimate terms that Blythe, who had quite a gift for caricature, used many of his idle moments in making entertaining pictures of the different members of the family going about their various employments. It was one of these Alison enclosed to Neal. It was sufficiently like to bring the two girls very vividly before the young man, but his memory went beyond the suggestion and saw them as they really were, Christine with sensitive, delicate features, trim figure, and with bands of sleek hair parted above her smooth forehead; Alison tall, slender, girlishly young, her hair inclined to be rebellious, eyes honest and fearless, eyebrows a little darker than her hair, and raised a trifle at the inner corners, giving her a look of innocent surprise, mouth not too small, and often smiling. The casual observer would have called Christine, with her regular features, the prettier, but in Alison’s expressive face her friends found a greater charm.

Leaving Christine to read the letter she danced out of the door and called Lolita who, nothing loath, assisted in the milking which was by no means an ordinary process. Around the small pen, where a few calves were kept, gathered the anxious and eager mothers who lowed soft encouragement to their impatient babies, restlessly running up and down behind the rails. As Alison let down the bars one after another of the cows lumbered in, while the girl kept up a constant talk: “There now, Daffy, you are in too much of a hurry. So now, Bess, that’s not your calf. Look out, Brindle, you are not to treat me with such disrespect; if you don’t look out I shall be run over, you clumsy thing.” As soon as the calves had fairly commenced their evening meal, Alison, with a deft swing of a lasso, encircled the horns of one of the cows, and Lolita made the other end of the rope fast to the neck of the calf, who was thus drawn beyond reach of the source of supply. Alison then speedily milked about a pint into the earthen vessel she held, after which the yearning calf was allowed to wriggle back to its mother. This process was repeated till each cow had contributed her proper amount of milk for the needs of the family, each supply being separately conveyed to a bucket set outside the fence. This method, generally employed upon the ranchos, was one against which Alison constantly inveighed, so that her brother promised if possible he would have a cow specially “gentled” for her, although a Texas cow was not willing to stand until her calf had been allowed to receive a first share of her milk.

John’s stock had now greatly increased and his rancho was becoming one of the most prosperous ones in the county. To be sure, his neighbors complained that he was too energetic, and that he would never hold out at the rate he had begun. Moreover he was thought to be a trifle particular in his conduct, and his sisters were sometimes called “stuck up,” yet this was simply because they were not content to be shiftless, and despised the makeshifts which were considered good enough by most of their neighbors. “I cannot see,” said Christine, to whose ears some of these reports had come, “why we are considered to hold our heads so high simply because our gate is on its hinges and because we have light bread when we can get it. I suppose we ought to tie the gate together with a bit of rope and disdain flour.”

“One would think that with so old a civilization as Mexico’s,” said John, “this part of the country ought to be far ahead of the other states, but though we are spared many of the experiences of other pioneers who have gone into the actual wilderness, we have to overcome traditions and replace indolence with energy before we can develop as we should. Texas will be a rough country for many a year, but she will work out of that and into a greater refinement in time. She is too much the refuge for outlaws, and offers too great inducements to those who want to live an irresponsible life for her to attain to great heights at once; we must give her time, Tina.”

“Oh, I’ll give her all the time she wants, so far as I am concerned, so long as I am not interfered with, but I must say I do not care to be criticised for maintaining mere respectability.”

John laughed. “Just jog along your own gait, child; that’s what I mean to do. Let them talk; who cares? Don’t you suppose we are respected if we are criticised? All I care for is to do my duty and to make the best of my opportunities.”

“And I am sure,” Alison put in, “it is something to be an example, and that we are to more than one. I am sure Ira takes you for a model and Lolita imitates us so far as she is able.”

“That’s the way to talk,” returned John.

Ira and Louisa were now happily settled in their home where Ira was dutifully “gittin’ broke in,” as he expressed it, and if he “bucked” once in a while it was because he wasn’t “used to being driven double.” He would get down to his paces in time, he promised, and in fact it was his best intention to take John as an example. He had so far succeeded as to make the old Sparks place look fairly well. To be sure the capable Louisa’s hand showed in the appearance of the house and its immediate surroundings, but, since Ira was inexperienced rather than lazy, it was supposed that in time he would respond to the expectations of so good a wife, whose favorite song of the chirping cricket he might hope to hear for many a day by his own fireside.

As a natural consequence of Blythe’s long illness when he was the object of their mutual concern, a greater intimacy had been formed between the Rosses and the Van Dorns. Nearly every day Blythe rode over to see his friends, and at least once a week the Rosses accompanied him home for an afternoon with his mother and sisters. Christine had found in Ellen Wilkinson a congenial companion, while John had taken a fancy to the straightforward young Englishman, her husband. As for Alison she was always ready to tease Blythe or to exchange girlish confidences with Laura.

One afternoon in May Alison and Christine started over to the Van Dorns’. It was warm, sunny weather and the girls rode slowly, Alison mounted upon Chico and Christine upon another little mustang which her brother had given her in place of Hero, whose loss she still mourned. “We may as well stop and have a word with Hannah Maria,” said Alison, as they drew near the line of worm fence which partly surrounded Bud’s property. “She never will forgive us if we pass her by, for you know she will be sure to see us.”

Christine agreed and they turned towards the house. Hannah Maria’s dun-colored sunbonnet was visible before they reached the gate, which hung by one hinge and had to be lifted and set back in place each time it was opened. It was a peculiarity of Hannah Maria’s that her every-day costume was always of an indefinite dust color, and that she blazed forth royally only on high days and holidays. An odd dun-colored calico always clothed her plump form, and her sunbonnet was of the same piece. Where she managed to secure just this shade of brown was always a mystery to the girls. It matched her hair which was invariably wisped up in a tight knot at the back of her head. As usual she was sitting on the door-step occupied with her snuff stick, for she shared the habit of many of her neighbors who were devoted to the practice known as rubbing snuff. In a weedy flower-bed under the window several hens had scratched hollows in which they were comfortably resting; three cats were curled up asleep on a bench; a couple of hounds stretched their lank lengths upon the gallery floor. Alison, with her whip, poked a curly-tailed piglet which lay across her path, and which went off with a resentful squeal at being thus ruthlessly routed.

Hannah Maria looked up from the shade of her sunbonnet as the girls came up. “Now I just knew somebody’d come this afternoon,” she said, giving a slap to the hound which, roused by the intruders, began to growl. “Quit that, Pete, don’t you know yer friends when ye see ’em?” she interjected. “Come up, gals. I reckon it’s cooler on the gallery, but I always set on the steps when I’m by myself; it seems as if it wasn’t so lonesome and then I don’t miss anybody goin’ by. You’ll stay an’ take supper, won’t ye?”

“We promised the Van Dorns that we would be there,” Christine told her as she sat down on the end of the bench unoccupied by the cats. “How are you all, Hannah Maria?” she asked.

“Tollable, Tiny, jest tollable. Bud had a misery in his haid this mornin’ an’ I got the indisgesting or somethin’. I wisht you’d stay; Bud’ll be real put out.”

“Where is Bud?”

“Oh, I don’t know; he’s round somewhars. Seems to me he said he was goin’ to Lon’s; mebbe he didn’t go. I’ll call him. Bud, oh, Bud!” she shrilled out, without moving from her place.

“Aren’t you warm in that sunbonnet, Hannah Maria?” asked Alison, taking off her hat and fanning herself with it.

“Law, I don’t know. It keeps the sun outen my eyes; that’s why I w’ar it so constant.” Certainly it was not to save her complexion, thought Alison, for that was of an unhealthy sallowness and Hannah Maria continually complained of “indisgesting.” “I suppose you-all ain’t got ary news,” said she, replacing her snuff stick in the corner of her mouth.

“No, except that we have had a letter from Neal,” Alison answered.

“Law, did you ever?”

“Hadn’t you heard that? I thought John would have told Bud.”

“Well, he didn’t, not that I’ve heard of. Ain’t thet jest like a man? What did Neal hev to say? I declar’ I’m glad you came. My nose been a-eetchin’ all day.” She put up her hand to that small snub member to give it a vigorous rubbing. “Did ye bring the letter along?”

“No, John has it. I can tell you what was in it,” said Alison, and she gave an outline of Neal’s news.

“He’s a real nice feller,” said Hannah Maria approvingly. “I wisht he’d pick out some good gal when he gits back. I wonder how Laury Van Dorn would suit him, but then I reckon he’d be cuttin’ out John if he took her. I was jest settin’ here a-thinkin’ how nice it would be fer Allie to take Blythe and Johnny to hev Laury so they could hev a double weddin’. We ain’t never had a double weddin’ about hyar. When John and Laury goin’ to fix it up?”

“Why, I am sure I don’t know that they ever will,” said Alison. “John likes Laura; so do we all, but I don’t think he has any idea of getting married.”

“Well, I certainly do like to see young folks git jined,” drawled Hannah Maria sentimentally. “I like to watch ’em smilin’ at each other like they was happy as turkle-doves. Now whar was it you tol’ me Neal was? I declar’ I fergit.”

“At Puebla,” replied Christine. “They seem to be taking a rest there, and John says the men deserve it after all they have done in two months. They have captured as large a number of prisoners as they have men in their own army, and have taken many of the most strongly fortified places on the continent. Next thing they will be in Mexico.”

“That they will,” broke in Alison, “and Neal will bring me something from there because I was the one who answered his letter.”

“Oh, that is why you wrote, was it?” said Christine. “Loaves and fishes, was it? I thought you did not seem averse to the task.”

Alison laughed. “That is where I got ahead of you.”

“He will bring me something, too,” said Christine. “See if he doesn’t.”

“Oh, of course,” pouted Alison; “you think that because you are the older.”

“You’re taller than Tiny, now,” said Hannah Maria. “You certainly have shot up mightily in the past year. It’s been that sence Neal lef’, ain’t it?”

“It is just about a year; he left with John.”

“So he did. Reub and Iry went ahead of ’em, I remember. Well, I’m sure I hope they’ll git back safe. You ain’t a-goin’?”

The girls insisted that they could not stay longer and in spite of Hannah Maria’s protests, took their departure, leaving the good soul still sitting on the step comfortably rubbing snuff, the hounds which had moved at the leave-taking again dropping down heavily on the floor, and the piglet complacently grunting in a mud-hole by the gate.

By contrast to the Haleys’ the Van Dorns’ neat house seemed doubly attractive. The gallery here was enclosed by slatted shutters which protected it from the sun, providing a cool and pleasant retreat. One of Blythe’s dogs lay outside, but after lifting his head and perceiving friends he simply thwacked his tail upon the step and went to sleep again. The fence here kept out all visiting hens, and the little garden smiled in its luxuriance of bloom. Vines clambered over the house, and a huge oak at a little distance rustled pleasantly and cast long shadows across the grass. From its thick foliage a mocking-bird sent forth a few liquid notes, for the day’s heat was over and the darkness, which in this latitude shut down suddenly, would soon invite the night bird’s song.

Mrs. Van Dorn and Laura were sitting in the gallery, work-baskets by their sides. Both looked restfully cool and content. Laura’s neat muslin gown was fresh and crisp; a tidy little apron protected it. Her brown hair was smoothly arranged and when she lifted her clear gray eyes to see who entered, a smile broke over her face which made her fairly pretty. Every one said that Laura’s smile was her greatest charm and indeed it did so light up an otherwise rather plain face that one forgot her nose was large, her complexion far from good and her chin sharp.

“You did get here,” she said, jumping up and coming forward. “I told Blythe you had promised. Where is he? Putting up the horses?”

“No; we staked them out ourselves.”

“Why, didn’t he meet you? He said he was going over for you.”

“We stopped at Hannah Maria’s for a few minutes, and that is how he must have missed us.”

“Too bad,” said Mrs. Van Dorn. “I am sorry you missed an escort. Come in, girls, and cool off. Ellen will be here in a minute, Christine. Isn’t it real summer weather to-day? I suppose at home the roses are only beginning to bloom, and see what an array of flowers we have for May. The prairie is fairly carpeted. Did Hannah Maria have any gossip for you?”

“No. She appeared to be in rather a pensive mood,” said Christine. “I often wonder what she thinks about as she sits there by the hour with her snuff stick.”

“Such an unpleasant habit,” remarked Mrs. Van Dorn. “I never knew any one addicted to it till I came down here, and as for the way men use tobacco it is simply beyond expression. Henry was actually forced to build a man’s room and a separate gallery, for we could not give up this one; it would not have been decent at the end of a week. How do you stand it?”

“We don’t have much trouble,” said Christine. “The men generally stay out of doors in summer and in winter they take themselves to the man’s room, so only our particular acquaintances expect to be received in the gallery. Ah, there comes Ellen. I want to see her chickens.” And Christine joined Mrs. Wilkinson in the yard. The lot surrounding the house was penned off into small and large enclosures, shaded by trees; a vegetable garden was in the height of its glory, and in the chicken yard clucked and cackled so large a number of hens as spoke well for the family supply of eggs and poultry.

“I can’t see why Blythe doesn’t come,” said Mrs. Van Dorn to Alison. “I am sure he has had time to go and come back.”

“Perhaps he, too, stopped at the Haleys’,” said Alison. “Hannah Maria would not let him go by if she could help it.”

“That is quite true.” So this was accepted as the excuse for Blythe’s absence, although supper was on the table and all were ready to sit down before the young man appeared with John.

“I met Blythe just as he was coming away from our place,” said John, “and he persuaded me to ride back with him.”

Blythe looked embarrassed and murmured something about its being too warm to ride very fast, but it was not till later in the evening that Alison discovered the cause of his tardy appearance.

CHAPTER XIV
WHY BLYTHE WAS LATE

WHEN Blythe started forth on that summer day it was with all good and dutiful intention to call for Christine and Alison and duly escort them to his home, and he took pleasure in the errand although of late his ardor had somewhat abated in Alison’s direction, a fact which he did not confess to himself and would have repudiated had he been charged with it. The young man was now twenty-one, entirely a marriageable age in that southern country where eighteen was none too young for a man to marry and where girls of fifteen were often wives. At twenty-five John Ross and Neal Jordan were considered quite old bachelors. Blythe had paid court to Alison from the time of his arrival in the neighborhood, but had been treated as a mere comrade by the girl. During the period of his enforced stay in Pedro’s little cabin when his mother was established under the Rosses’ roof, he began to weary a little of hearing Alison’s praises sung constantly by his mother and sisters, and finally, in that spirit of contradiction which is so very human, he wished that they could find her less desirable. What a young man’s family are eager for him to possess seldom seems attractive to him, however much he may have thought of the object in the first place. And so because every one said what an admirable wife Alison Boss would make for Blythe Van Dorn, he began to wonder if she would. Nevertheless he did not cease his attentions and always enjoyed being in her company, while she, never sentimentally inclined, had no disposition to alter their relation.

Blythe pondered over the situation as he rode slowly along. There was no other girl whom he had met who was so well suited to be his wife, he was obliged to admit, yet while he gravely considered the question of trying his fate, ever and anon in place of her merry face came a more serious one, Madonna-like in its beauty, a pair of wonderful dark eyes shaded by long lashes looked into his, and a gently anxious voice said in hesitating English: “You are better, señor?” He persistently put away the image and as persistently it recurred. He recalled days of dull pain when the only pleasures were his mother’s presence and the fleeting vision of that beautiful, serious face appearing once in a while at the door. Later on, when only the languor and weariness of convalescence possessed him, little Lolita sometimes sat an hour with him while his mother took her meals, and then he found pleasure in watching the fringe of eyelash droop over the clear pallor of the cheek, and the grave red lips curve into a smile at some word of his. The pretty hesitating English, too, amused him and at last became truly fascinating, more so than Alison’s direct speech.

Yet anything more than a passing interest in pretty Lolita never entered the lad’s mind, and when he finally returned to his own home it was with no regret, though up to the last he could not resist making pretty speeches for the sake of the drooping lids and the sudden smile. Therefore it was no great disappointment to him when, upon reaching the Rosses’ rancho, he found that Christine and Alison had departed. Without inquiring into his motive he turned his horse towards Pedro’s cabin; it was silent and deserted. In the fields beyond he saw Pedro with the negro hands John had lately employed.

Blythe looked up and down at the closed door, at the window, half open, in which stood a pot of flowers. “Lolita,” he called softly, hoping to see the lovely face appear at door or window. But the silence continued. The whir of insects in the grass, the note of a bird, the laugh of one of the negroes working in the corn-field, alone broke the stillness. The young man turned himself towards the flowery stretch of prairie, his eyes seeking for some moving object. Was it the flowers stirred by the wind or did he see afar off some one stooping then rising? He let his horse fall into a walk and followed the road till he came abreast of the bending figure. Then he perceived a dark head against the background of mottled red and pink and purple. A figure in the loose white costume worn by the Mexican women was moving towards the small bayou where the magnolia-trees were at the last of their bloom, sending forth a delicate odor from their large white blossoms. Lolita was making her way towards one tree in particular; her hands were already full of flowers, but these she laid down on a stone near by.

Blythe alighted from his horse and tethered him, then started on foot to the spot where the girl was standing on tiptoe reaching up for the white blooms. The simple garment she wore, low-necked and sleeveless, did not disguise the roundness of her arms, nor the graceful turn of her throat as she clasped the bough overhead to bring it within her grasp.

“Lolita!” called Blythe. She turned with a start, still holding the bough.

Her face broke into a smile as she saw who it was. “Señor!” she exclaimed. Then the bough flew up from her hand and she came forward.

“You look like a magnolia yourself,” said Blythe. “Now I know what it is you have always reminded me of, Lolita; you are like a magnolia.”

The eyes drooped and a smile parted the girl’s lips. “You always say me very pretty thing,” she murmured.

“Sit down here and tell me what you have been doing to-day,” Blythe went on.

The girl hesitated. “You have seen Aleeson?” she asked.

“No, I must have missed them.” He involuntarily used the plural. “They had gone when I reached the house. It is warm; I want my horse to rest a little before I go back. Sit down and tell me what you have been doing. Making tortillas, of course, and what else? Have you read from the book I brought you?”

For answer Lolita seated herself and gravely drew from her dress a small book. “I read a leetle,” she said.

Blythe sat down by her side and the two bent over the book together. The lad had discovered that Lolita was by no means as ignorant as many of her class, that her father had taught her to read her own language very well, and she was desirous of learning to read English. Very haltingly and with much mispronouncing she stumbled over the lines, taking Blythe’s corrections meekly and making patient efforts to improve. “I am wishful to surprise Aleeson,” she told him.

“And you will,” he encouraged her by saying. “You are getting on famously.”

She looked up gratefully. “Some days I am spik English very good, maybe?”

“You certainly will. You are a very industrious and patient little girl. I wish I could learn Spanish as readily. Now you must give me a Spanish lesson. What were those pretty words you taught me? Mi alma, mi vida, mi corazon del oszos.” He pronounced the words lingeringly and the dark lashes again drooped over the clear smooth cheek. Then for some reason neither spoke for a few minutes. The flowers stirred around them, the sluggish waters of the bayou plashed softly against the bank; there was a whisper, whisper in the trees overhead. Brightly-colored birds flashed out from the deep green of the live oaks making a vivid streak against the shining leaves. Occasionally there was a rustle in the grass as some small animal slipped to the bayou’s edge and glided into the water. Blythe was absorbed in gazing at the girl’s beauty, while she pulled from their centre the creamy petals of a magnolia blossom.

“Don’t hurt it,” said Blythe, breaking the silence, and placing his hand over hers to arrest the act of destruction.

The color flew to Lolita’s cheek and she sprang to her feet. “It comes late,” she said. “My father returns. I have not his supper prepare, and he will have an anger for me.” The ready tears started to her eyes.

“Oh, I hope not.” Blythe looked consciously around to see Pedro returning home across the field. “I should not have kept you so long. I, too, should have been at home by this time, but it was so pleasant, wasn’t it, Lolita? Good-bye.” He held out his hand but she did not respond to the gesture, instead she ran home with not a look behind, leaving her flowers neglected on the stone. Blythe watched her as she ran on without stopping, then he turned, gathered a flower from the forsaken bunch, looked at it for a moment thoughtfully and stuck it in his coat. He drew a long sigh and went to where he had picketed his horse.

As he rode thoughtfully towards home he realized that he was on dangerous ground. He was an honorable lad and had no idea of playing fast and loose with the pretty Lolita, though she moved him strangely. The daughter of a greaser, despised by Americans! Any nearer relation was out of the question. He had his own share of family pride; he valued public opinion; he was ambitious. His neighbors would consider the plainest, most shiftless of snuff-rubbing damsels his equal so long as she was an American, though she might be far more ignorant, and in every way inferior to Lolita. Clearly Alison was his only refuge. He must not repeat this dangerously fascinating experiment of teaching Lolita to read English. Then his heart swelled within him as he remembered the charm of her slow utterance, the sweet languor of her movements, the soft dovelike expression of her eyes when they were turned upon him for criticism. “No, it will not do,” he said to himself, suddenly urging on his horse. And then he came face to face with John.

But no one except Lolita knew why Blythe was late to supper that night, nor did any one suspect it till afterwards, not even Alison who greeted him with her usual unembarrassed friendliness of manner. He seemed more than usually grave and distrait, she thought, but did not wonder at that, a little later, when the others gathered in a corner of the gallery and she found herself alone with Blythe on a rustic seat in the garden where Laura pointedly left them.

“Your wits certainly are wool-gathering to-night,” she said, rallying him upon his silence. “I have asked you the same question twice and I am still waiting for an answer.”

“Oh, are you?” Blythe had picked up a stick and was making indefinite figures upon the ground. “I suppose I was thinking of a question I wanted to ask you. Will you marry me, Alison?”

“For pity’s sake!” Alison looked at him in surprise. “What in the world did you ask me that for?”

“Haven’t I been devoted to you long enough for you to expect it? My mother and sisters would be delighted if I could tell them you had accepted me.”

Alison gave her head a little toss. “I don’t purpose marrying any man’s sisters and mother. No, I will not marry you.”

“Why not, Alison?”

“One reason is because you are not in love with me, and another is because I am not in love with you. I think those two reasons are quite sufficient for the occasion.”

“Why do you say I am not in love with you? I protest——”

“No, don’t protest,” Alison raised her hand. “I think for a little while you thought you cared, but you are bravely over it, and I am very glad of it. When a man begins to tell a girl how pleased his mother and sisters will be before he has said a word of his own feelings, it is quite evident that he is not as much in love as he would have it believed he is. We have been good friends and we will continue so to the end of the chapter. I am devoted to your mother and the girls, and I know exactly how they feel towards me, for they have told me so. I know, too, that my sister and yours have hashed up some sort of scheme by which they think our future is to be arranged; but we are not puppets to be pulled by a string and I shall marry a man of my own selection if it happens to be Bud Haley or a Mexican greaser.”

“You wouldn’t marry a greaser, Alison; you couldn’t.”

“Why not? I would if I loved him.”

“Could you love one?”

“I don’t know. Like the boy who was asked if he could play the violin I can answer, ‘I don’t know; I never tried.’ Some of those Mexicans are very handsome. If Lolita had a brother as fascinating as she is, I am sure I could not resist him.”

By what fatality, thought Blythe, had the conversation turned upon that subject? “Oh, yes, Lolita,” he began lamely and then stopped. But something in his tone and in his embarrassed manner, a quick and suspicious look that he cast upon his companion, suddenly gave her an inspiration.

“Blythe Van Dorn,” she said, leaning towards him, “why were you late for supper?” There was mockery, a confidential sort of sympathy and amusement in her voice.

“Why do you ask?” he said, nervously digging holes with his stick. “I shouldn’t think you would be particularly interested after you have just refused me.”

Alison’s laugh rang out unaffectedly. “Now, look here, Blythe Van Dorn, don’t pretend any longer; you don’t have to. I am sure I don’t know why in the world you asked me that silly question a while ago, unless you had promised your mother you would, for you know perfectly well that you are not a bit cut up about my answer. Confess, are you?”

He remained silent for a minute. “You are the only girl about here that is worth having,” he remarked after the pause.

“That’s begging the question. I am not the only girl in the world. There’s—Lolita.”

Blythe threw away his stick. “That’s all nonsense. You know it is out of the question.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind. She is a dear sweet thing. She is not like those dreadful mixy people half Indians and half Spaniards or with a mixture of negro, Spanish and Indian, Mestizos, or Castigos or whatever they are. She is almost pure Spanish, she told me so. Her father’s people came from Spain, but being born in this country he is a Creole. Her mother’s father was a Mestizo, for his father was a Spaniard and his mother an Indian, though Lolita’s mother’s mother was a Mestizo who married a Spaniard, so you see except for that little drop of Indian blood she is Spanish, and who would hesitate to marry a Spaniard? She is so beautiful and has such a lovely disposition and such a good mind. Really, Blythe, I don’t wonder at you.”

“But consider how Mexicans are regarded by our countrymen,” said Blythe, denying nothing; “they are regarded almost as the negroes are.”

“That is because sometimes they intermarry with the negroes, but Lolita has no relatives but her father, not any at all, and you would not need to worry about that. I think it is very unusual and in this case very lucky, for she is proud and feels as we do about such things. You must have noticed how old Pedro, though he is on good terms with the ordinary greasers, holds himself a little aloof from them and never allows Lolita to go to fandangoes and such things. He is too poor to associate with the upper classes and too proud not to work at anything he can do. I think he is much pleased to live with us, for he is ambitious for Lolita and does not care to have her associate with those whose circumstances are similar. No, Blythe, you need have no reason to be ashamed of Lolita.”

For some minutes Blythe made no remark. He was surprised at Alison’s quick comprehension of the situation. How could this girl intuitively guess his attitude of mind? How could she so readily put into speech those vaguely formed arguments which he had scarcely made to himself? “Alison,” he said solemnly, “you are a wonderful girl.”

“And why, Judge Van Dorn?” she ask laughing. “Because I am good at guessing?”

“Yes. How did you know I saw Lolita to-day?”

“I didn’t know. I jumped at the conclusion. You were embarrassed and nervous when I happened to mention her. I assure you I didn’t suspect before that. Then I remembered that you had gone over quite early for Christine and me, and had come back late. You met John near our house; so, you see, judge, my legal mind immediately followed out the line of circumstantial evidence, and I drew my conclusions. You did see her then, and probably more than once you have met her in the same way. I am not sure what old Pedro would say, but as for myself, I cannot blame you. However, Blythe,” she dropped her bantering tone, “there is one thing of which I must warn you. If you make that dear child unhappy, I shall despise you.”

“I declare to you, Alison, I never dreamed of doing such a thing. I confess I admire her immensely. She is a bewitching little girl, but I never thought of marrying her.”

“But if you were also a Mexican, how would you feel about it then, Mr. Blythe? What then? Answer me that, if you please.”

“Alison, you are the most desperate cross-questioner I ever met. I am not a Mexican, so how can I tell? I am pleased to know she is of better stock than I feared, I confess that.”

“And you can confess more, if you will inquire of your own heart more closely. If Lolita were here instead of me, and you knew there was not the least obstacle in the way of your marrying her, what would you do?”

The young man arose and paced the walk. “Alison, Alison, you are a temptress. Why do you suggest such things? You know what my family would say.”

“True. I should have thought of that. I allowed my interest in the subject to carry me beyond bounds. Of course, as you say, it is out of the question. It is really impossible.”

“I didn’t say impossible.”

“Well, never mind what you said; we have settled the matter and I will give you a parting word. I will stand by you if you need me, and if you will stop pretending that you are in love with me. As I think of it, I suppose I should be feeling quite aggrieved that I am only second best and that you offered me less than half a heart. Still, as I did not take it, we are quits and we can still be the good friends we have always been.” She held out her hand and Blythe clasped it warmly.

“You are even finer than I thought you were, Alison,” he declared. “It will be a lucky man who wins you, and as for me I am your friend for life.”

“I may need your friendship when you are judge,” laughed Alison, rising. “We must be going, for it is growing late. Come over just as usual, Blythe, and we will talk over this difficult question whenever you are put to it to restrain your emotions, and until you set your affections upon some other girl. I will not vouch for your constancy.” And with a laugh she preceded him to the house.

CHAPTER XV
SIR KNIGHT

AMONG the few books which the Ross family had brought from their Kentucky home were two or three which Alison read and re-read whenever she was kept indoors by a norther or by any slight illness. Her favorite of these was Spenser’s “Faerie Queen.” This appealed to her by its quaintness of language no less than by its recitals of the adventures of knights and ladies, for while Alison possessed much practical good sense she was an imaginative girl and indulged in day-dreams of such a romantic character as few guessed who saw her roping in an obstreperous calf, or beheld her, paddle in hand, absorbed in working a lump of butter. Her romances, save the one in which Blythe figured, had been of such a nature as to win nothing but her contempt, for it was not to be supposed that either she or Christine would be unsought in a country where men were greatly in the majority. But Alison flouted all her lovers, made fun of them to her girl friends and seemed utterly devoid of sentiment, so her sister told her, for even she did not know of Alison’s air-castles. These day-dreams concerned a dashing young knight who for her sake would undertake some arduous quest and, wearing her colors, would go through weary adventures returning at last to claim her hand. She knew all this was rather foolish, but novels were few and romance she must have.

She was amusing herself one day with thoughts of her imaginary knight as she was riding home from a visit to Louisa. The summer had come and gone, bringing no great change. In spite of continued hope nothing more definite had been learned of Steve. Pike Smith had disappeared utterly, and there was no hope of ever seeing Hero again. Christine had refused more than one bluff suitor and into her brown eyes was creeping the patient look of one ever seeking, ever hoping against repeated disappointment. The friendship between John and Laura remained upon a comfortable basis, but it was believed by every one concerned that they would one day marry.

“A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine,” repeated Alison to herself as she rode along. “That could not have been my knight, for it was the Knight of the Red Cross. I don’t quite like that name, neither do I like Sir Scudamour. I think I like Sir Guyon or Sir Artegall the best. No, Steve would have to be Sir Guyon, because he lost his steed, that was stolen by Braggadochio; Pike Smith is more like the Blatant Beast, however. I think I am the Lady Florimell. My knight shall be Sir Artegall because of that magic sword Chrysaor. Well, here I am riding through the forest. Suppose I should meet the Blatant Beast or the Giant with the Flaming Eyes; I would call for help and my own true knight, Sir Artegall, would come pricking along ‘ycladde in mighty armes and silver shielde.’ I, on my snow-white palfrey would seem to him a vision of angelic loveliness. They always have flowing locks bound by a fillet of blue. Wait a minute, Chico.” She unfastened her fair hair and let it fall over her shoulders, binding it back with a blue ribbon from her neck. “My wanton palfrey should be overspread with ‘tinsell trappings,’ but we shall have to imagine those, Chico. On, on, my gentle steed, I fear the Blatant Beast. What, do my eyes deceive me, or is it a noble knight I see pricking this way?”

She suddenly checked Chico in his progress, for there was, indeed, some one riding towards her, a man in the dress of a Texan Ranger, buckskins, hunting shirt and broad-brimmed sombrero. Alison felt not a sign of fear, but drew Chico to the side of the road and waited the approach of the man. As he drew near she gave a glad little laugh. “It’s Neal, Neal, Chico,” she whispered; “now we will have some fun,” and raising her voice she shrilled out: “Help, help, Sir Knight. I am pursued by the Blatant Beast.”

Neal, for he it was, put spurs to his horse and galloped rapidly towards her. “Alison, Alison,” he cried, as he came up, “what is the matter? What is wrong?”

“The Blatant Beast, he is there in the chaparral. Dear me, I shouldn’t say chaparral, I should say thicket.” She altered her voice. “Why, Neal Jordan, where did you come from?”

“Never mind, tell me what is the matter. What frightened you?”

“Why nothing, except an imaginary something. I was only playing that I was a lovely lady as I came along, and you came in the nick of time to fall into my whim, so I just called out to fool you.”

“You are the same old Alison, I see,” said Neal, smiling.

“Yes, I believe I am. One would suppose that I might stop playing such childish things by this time, but I like to do it.”

Neal scrutinized her closely as she gathered her hair into place, dismounting in order to do so. “You are taller,” he said. “Why, I believe you are taller than your sister.”

“So I am, but that is not answering my question. Where did you come from?”

“Directly from Mexico. The war is practically over.”

“And did you bring me something pretty for writing you that long letter?”

“I brought you something if you will have it.”

“Where is it? I want to see it.”

“I have it safe. I will give it to you soon—I hope.”

“You might have brought it with you. How did you happen to be on this road?”

“I have been to your rancho and they told me where you had gone, so I came out to meet you.”

“Thanks, Sir Knight, and if I had really been a lady in distress you would have been on hand to rescue me.”

“Still acting that play?”

“Well, no, I am coming out of that. You are such a very evident reality that I cannot dream. My, but you are fine. I didn’t notice at first that you had such an elegant outfit, all that silver mounting on your saddle, and those spurs; I suppose you got those all in Mexico. If you had a silver shield and a spear you would be quite like a real knight. You have seen some hard fighting, I have no doubt, but you are back safe in spite of that sabre cut on your forehead. Tell me about the other boys, Reub, and Tom Andrews and the rest.”

“We buried poor old Reub down in Mexico,” said Neal gravely.

“Oh!” Alison’s bright face saddened. “I am so sorry. So many of the boys came safely through that I believed you all would. Poor old Reub,” she said sorrowfully. She scanned Neal’s face. It bore the marks of the two years’ experience; the eyes were less merry, the lines had become firmer, the don’t care expression had left it. “I am glad that you are here,” she said gently. “I cannot bear to think that you, too, might have been left by your friends, there in Mexico, as you left Reuben. I am so very glad you have come back.”

“Are you glad, little girl? Then I am glad, too.”

“But you are glad anyway, aren’t you?”

“Of course.”

“Did you see Christine?” asked Alison suddenly. “Did she tell you all the news?”

“She told me some of it. I learned that she still hopes against hope. She is very true.”

Alison looked at him as though she would read something in his face. His eyes met hers frankly. “Perhaps some day she may feel differently,” said the girl.

“Yes, she is young and one cannot wait forever,” said Neal thoughtfully. “Shall we go on, Alison?”

“Oh, yes, I forgot that we were standing here for no reason. I have a hundred questions to ask and you can answer them as we ride along. When did you leave Mexico?”

“A few days after we had entered the city. It has been a clean sweep for us straight through. There was some sharp fighting, but we’ve got all we tried for and Santa Anna has lit out.”

“Then there will be peace.”

“We think so. They are negotiating for it. We should have had it earlier if the Mexicans had known when they were beaten. We took everything in sight on our way down, but they didn’t seem to think that we meant anything by it. Must have thought we were killing ’em off for fun as we made a little pleasure trip through their country.”

“I don’t like to think of your killing off anybody.”

“Has to be done in war.”

“That is the truth, but I would rather some one else than my friends should do that part.”

“I thought you liked those fellows that used to go about slashin’ and killin’ right and left. From what I’ve read they used to be a pretty lively gang and didn’t have any special reason for their tempers sometimes.”

“Oh, but they did. They had to rescue lovely ladies.”

“Yes, and they had a way of ridin’ into town, like I would go into Denton and say, ‘If anybody in this town says Allie Ross ain’t a sight the best looking girl in the county I’ll put daylight through him.’ What would you think of my doing that, for instance? You’d call me some kind of fool, wouldn’t you?”

“Very likely I should. But they were not all that way. They went on quests and delivered prisoners from dungeons and slew wicked beasts and giants and things.”

“You think that’s a heap nicer than the way we-all do, don’t you?” said Neal with a smile and a side glance at her. “Ain’t any of us ever rescued our friends from the Injuns, and what worse beasts will you find than them? Ain’t any of this generation gone into mountain hiding-places after a gang of thieves? I call that just about as good as any of those book adventures.”

“But it doesn’t sound so romantic. You don’t do it for some fair lady’s sake who binds her colors on your shield and sends you forth. Perhaps if I didn’t know you all and if you were not named such plain names as Ira and Bud and Tom it wouldn’t seem so commonplace.”

“Maybe it doesn’t sound romantic, but if it was written up and somebody put in a lot about roses and posies and stuff they could make it sound pretty. Now there’s that about Iry and Lou; it strikes me that was pretty romantic, though they ain’t neither of them much for looks and they haven’t those sugar-plum names.”

“Yes, that was romantic,” said Alison. “Ira did deliver her from the Blatant Beast, Pike Smith, you know. I do think that was a truly romance. Neal, do you know your grammar has suffered very much by your having been so long away. You were getting to speak quite like a gentleman when you went away.”

“Laws, child, I forget. It is so easy to drop into the way the other boys talk.”

“But it isn’t as if you didn’t know better, for you say you never used to talk so before you came to Texas. I shall have to take you in hand again.”

“I’m perfectly willing. I always enjoyed your taking me in hand.” He smiled reminiscently. “But I set my face agen——”

“Not agen; against.”

“Against your making me talk book talk. You can play all your tricks and call me anything you choose, and can make believe all you want to, but I’ll not be made to say, ‘Hence, lady, hence,’ and such bosh as they do in plays.”

Alison’s merry laugh rang out. “I won’t make you say that, and you needn’t talk booky if you don’t like. I shall be perfectly satisfied with good plain English as we speak it. Oh, you haven’t told me yet what you have brought me from Mexico.”

“I don’t mean to tell you yet.”

“Did you bring Christine something? If you did and it is prettier than my present I shall never forgive you.”

“I brought her some sort of foolishness, embroidery, I believe they call it.”

“I think you might tell me what my present is.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Then you are very mean. You have given Christine hers and you make me wait.”

“Suppose I was one of those old-timers, what would you expect me to say?”

“I have brought thee an offering, lady fair. I prithee honor thy poor knight by thine acceptance.”

Neal threw back his head and laughed. “Did you ever hear such fool talk?”

“You shall not make fun of me.”

“I’m not making fun of you; I’m making fun of those old gumps. Now, suppose one of them—those knights came to you, what do you reckon you would want him to do?”

“Oh, I should want him to go on a quest.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, I’d want him to relieve some fair lady in distress, or to kill some ogre, just as I was telling you awhile ago.”

“I’m not talking about suppose you lived way back in that time; I’m supposing now. Suppose I wanted to be one of those fellows, what would you say to Neal Jordan, for example?”

Alison bent her brows.

“I suppose killin’ Injuns wouldn’t count.”

“Well, hardly. Any of the boys might do that.”

“It isn’t so easy when it comes down to nowadays, is it?” said Neal.

“No,” replied Alison, slowly, “but there is a quest I should like some one to undertake.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to send some one to find Steve.”

“And if he found him what would you do?”

“I would reward him with my hand, of course.”

“I’ll go,” said Neal, looking straight ahead.

Alison gazed at him in amazement. “What do you mean?” she asked, wonderingly.

“Just what I said. If you’ll keep your part of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

“Do you know where he is?” Alison asked a little suspiciously.

“Haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Then—— Oh, Neal, you are joking.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Do you mean—why—I thought——” she paused and looked down steadfastly at Chico’s ears.

“What was it you thought?”

“That—that——”

“Might as well tell me.”

“I thought you were in love with Christine.” Alison spoke very low.

“Why, you were ’way off, weren’t you?” said Neal without embarrassment.

“Was I?”

“I should think so. Laws, child, you don’t reckon I’d make love to Steve’s girl.”

“I don’t mean that I thought you did, but——”

“That I would like to? Well, I never had any such notion. There used to be a little foolish slip of a girl that I used to like to look at and knock around the place with, but she was only a child and, when I told her brother I’d give my two eyes for her, he said she’d not waked up yet, and that I’d better wait till I got back. That was just before we went off to jine the boys. I didn’t get but one letter from her, but it was a good one, especially the last words: ‘May you came back safe to Alison.’”

“I said John and Christine, too,” put in Alison, quickly.

“Yes, but I left them out when I wanted to feel good. I took a lot of comfort in that letter, and the picture, too, though it was a kind of comic, but I could supply what it hadn’t and it brought you before me and did me good. Now, you see I’ve got back and the little girl has grown up some, but she’s got funny notions, romantic ones. I’m perfectly willin’ she should have ’em, if it amuses her, and if she wants to take that way for me to show her how much I think of her I’ve no objections. She can talk to me any way she likes, too, so long as she doesn’t expect me to answer back in the same lingo. I’ll go hunt Steve and bring him back if he’s above ground, if she will do as she says, give me her hand; only I want her heart with it.”

Alison sat silent, still gazing at Chico’s ears. The effect of Neal’s speech was such as surprised her. She trembled violently; her heart beat fast; she could not speak; she wanted to cry; she wished she could run away and hide; she dared not look at her companion. They rode along in silence, Neal, once in a while stealing a glance at her.

At last he said gently: “Have I skeered you, little girl?”

“I—I don’t know,” said Alison helplessly, after a minute. “I think—I’m going to cry.” And she put her head down on Chico to hide her feelings.

Neal at once stopped his horse, dismounted and lifted the girl from her saddle. “That isn’t comfortable,” he said. “If you want to cry, why cry ahead, but do it right.” And she wept softly on his shoulder for a moment.

But presently she dashed the tears from her eyes and looked up with a smile. “Did you ever know such a silly thing?” she said. “What is there to cry about?”

“I’m sure I don’t know. Ask me something easy, but if you wanted to cry I wasn’t going to object.”

“Oh, Neal, Neal,” said the girl, “you have bewildered me. I don’t know where I stand.”

“Right here by me, where I hope your place will be while we both live,” he said with an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice.

“You see I’ve never thought of you in that way.”

“It isn’t too late to begin.”

“No,” she agreed faintly.

“You don’t mind my asking you one question, do you? You will answer me truly?”

“Yes, if I can.”

“Do you care for any other man? They told me Blythe Van Dorn has been trying mighty hard to wear down the road between his house and yours.”

“Blythe is a nice boy, but I never, never thought of him in that way.”

“And there’s no one else?”

“No one, except——”

“Except. Who is it?” He grasped her hands so closely as to make her draw in a little quick breath.

“Except Sir Artegall,” she said laughing. “I am the Lady Florimell and he is my knight.”

“Oh, if he is only one of those dream fellows I don’t mind him. I shall get him out of the way, and besides you have taken me for your knight.”

“If you are to be my knight you should call me Lady Florimell.”

“I don’t mind calling you lady, little lady; that’s all right, but I can’t go that other hot-house name.” Alison did not expect, and really did not desire acquiescence in this, and assured him she would not exact it.

“Shall we go on?” she said. “I think we ought.”

“As you say. I’ve nothing to do but follow you.” And they continued their way.

“Was that why you came to meet me?” asked Alison after a pause.

“Yes, I couldn’t wait, you see.”

“Did you tell Christine?”

“That I was coming? Yes.”

“No, not that.”

“What then?”

“What you told John.”

“No.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Laws, yes, please do. I’d feel mightily cut up if you didn’t.”

“Neal, why will you always make me laugh?”

“I don’t always; sometimes I make you cry.”

Alison chose to ignore this. “You’ll have to go on that search for Steve.”

“I said I would.”

“We will keep it a secret. I think that will be fine. And when you come back with Steve——”

“That is where I shall take all the tricks. But suppose I don’t come back with him, what then?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ll have to tell you that later. I am not going to think that you will come without him.”

Neal gave her a quick look, but her innocent expression failed to imply that she meant to give him encouragement by the speech, and he realized that it was as John had said; she was not yet wakened.

“If you should come across the Blatant Beast,” she said, turning a mischievous face towards him, “I hope you will not kill him yourself, but will get one of your squires to do it.”

“What squire? Old Jackson?”

“You are so literal,” said Alison, laughing. “I didn’t mean him. I think I must stipulate that you read some of my favorite books so as to understand me better.”

“Can’t you just tell me what those things mean without my reading about them?” asked Neal anxiously. And Alison could but laugh at his anxiety to escape from this evident infliction.

CHAPTER XVI
A NORTHER

THE two, man and girl, had traveled along with so little speed that they were still several miles from home. They were now leaving the woods and were about to ascend a hill, after having crossed a small bayou. Along the border of the woodland, which they would soon skirt for a short distance, the prairie opened before them, their trail leading directly across it. In a sky which an hour before had been of purest blue, great gusty clouds were gathering. At the top of the hill a sudden puff of cool wind struck through the sultriness of the air. Before they had reached the prairie a second cold blast made Alison shiver.

“We’re going to get a norther,” said Neal. “We’d better be traveling, little lady, or you will feel it. You are rather thinly dressed.”

“It was warm when I started,” said Alison with another shiver.

“It will be a cold ride across the prairie,” said Neal. “If there were a house between here and home I’d leave you there and ride on for something to wrap around you. Foolishly I left my blanket when I started out to meet you, and that’s something a Texan ought never to do, part from his blanket.”

“I should have had better sense myself than to have gone so far from home with nothing for an emergency. I didn’t bring a blanket even for Chico.”

“Well, all of us are foolish sometimes,” remarked Neal. “We’ll just have to make the best of it and hurry on as fast as we can.”

The gale increased and the grass of the prairie bent in long waves like those of the sea; they seemed to be riding between its rolling billows. Rain began to descend and the cold steadily increased till Alison’s teeth fairly chattered. Neal viewed her anxiously and tried to think of some way to alleviate the situation. “There used to be a little cabin somewhere in these woods,” he said. “I wonder if I could find it without going much out of the way.”

“Pike Smith’s cabin, do you mean?”

“Yes, but what do you know about it?” asked Neal quickly.

Alison hesitated before she decided to make a clean breast of it. “If you are going to undertake a search for Steve,” she began, “I may as well tell you what I do know about it, for you will want all the information you can get. I don’t feel any compunctions now.” And she told him the story of her adventure with its consequences in giving them a clue to the cause of Steve’s disappearance.

Neal listened with grave attention, making no comment for some moments after she had finished what she had to tell. Then he said: “That was a pretty close shave for you, Alison, and I can’t promise that I’ll keep my hands off that man if I ever get within sight of him.”

Alison looked troubled, and gave a timid glance at Neal’s stern face so different in expression from an hour before. Here was a man who could be as relentless as he could be tender, and whose virile strength she had scarcely realized in her association with him, for the softer side had been that shown her. She had known him only as a good comrade, a man full of merry humors, though often, under certain influences, of gentle speech and delicate courtesy. She felt a sudden leaping of heart as she acknowledged her appreciation of those knightly qualities which permitted the existence of no dragon which might interfere with justice and right. “Even if he should really kill the Blatant Beast,” said Alison to herself, “I do not think I could blame him.” But she said aloud: “You remember I told you that you must allow somebody else to do any killing that may be necessary.”

Neal smiled grimly. “I’m making no rash promises. I shan’t play any Injun tricks, but in a fair fight I am not saying what I’ll do. It wouldn’t be in reason for me to play baby where Pike Smith might happen to be. I think we’d better get out of the open, little lady, and see what shelter we can find in the woods. You’re fair blue with cold, and it makes me unhappy to see you that way while I haven’t even a big neckerchief for you.” He turned off into the woods, Alison following, and before long they had reached the hut which was so well remembered by the girl. Now the place was deserted; no smoke came from its chimney, no sound came from within. The door, sagging on its hinges, was easily pushed open; as Neal set foot inside some wild creature which had taken refuge there, dashed out and into the shelter of the underbrush.

“What was it?” said Alison startled.

“It wasn’t a ha’nt,” said Neal; “nothin’ but a jack-rabbit. I thought I wasn’t out of my calculations,” he went on. “I reckoned the place was about here. Now, you go in out of the wind and I’ll have a fire started in a jiffy.” The girl was stiff with cold and was glad to be lifted from her horse. The forsaken cabin furnished a shelter, but that was about all. A wooden bench was its sole furniture, though pinned on the wall was a strange uncanny woodcut of some dead and gone saint who seemed a fitting guardian of the retreat. Windowless, and with earthen floor, gaping chinks between logs and a general air of cheerlessness, the place was none too good for Chico and Neal’s horse, which were led in and placed amicably side by side in a dark corner.

It was not long before Neal had hunted up some fire-wood and soon the licking flames shot up the chimney, providing the warmth Alison felt sorely in need of. Even this appearance of comfort did not add much to the looks of the room, nor did the fire do much more than remove the chill, for the wind howled through the crevices and swept keenly through the door, which would not stay closed until Neal placed a heavy log against it.

“Now,” said Neal, looking with satisfaction at the fire, “if we only had a good cup of coffee and something sociable to eat, we could be as comfortable as I would want to be.”

“I’m sure I am thankful enough for the fire,” said Alison, “but I think I can wait till I get home for something to eat.”

“Many’s the time in the last two years I’d given a heap for a place like this,” said Neal.

“You’ve slept on the ground with nothing but your saddle for a pillow, and a blanket to cover you. I know all about it, for John has told me. I am glad, very glad you will not have to do that any more.” She was silent a moment, then she asked, “If you go searching for Steve, do you think it will mean sleeping out nights and going through all those hardships like a soldier has?”

“ALISON LEANED FORWARD AND HELD OUT HER HANDS TO THE BLAZE.”

“Don’t know, but if I do have that sort of thing, it won’t be any more than I’m used to, and no more than those fellows you’re so fond of had all the time.”

“That’s the truth,” returned Alison, but she gave a little sigh.

“Are you good and warm, little lady?” asked Neal.

“Oh, yes.” Alison from her seat on the bench before the fire, leaned forward and held out her hands to the blaze.

Neal, who was squatting on the ground in the attitude affected by the Texan in general, arose to his feet. “It seems to me the best plan would be for me to leave you here for a little while and ride on to the house for something to wrap around you. My horse is a pretty good traveler, and will take me there in no time. Do you mind staying here for an hour? I have been thinking it over and there doesn’t seem to be any other way. No one is likely to come this way; the house is too well hidden and it’s too far off the road to be seen by any passing traveler. Shall you be afraid, little lady?”

“No, not if you can shut the door. I shall have Chico for company.”

“I’ll make the door fast on the outside, and you’d better not open it to any one. I will knock three times when I come, and whistle ‘Hail Columbia.’”

Alison laughed. Blythe would have selected a more sentimental tune, but somehow she liked the idea of “Hail Columbia.” “I will listen for your whistle and then I can peep out between the chinks to see that no one else has stolen your tune.”

So Neal left her and she watched his departure from a crevice between the logs. He dashed off in desperate haste and when the sound of the rapid hoof-beats had died away she felt a great sense of loneliness. But she drew the bench nearer the fire, and sat there, elbows on knees, and chin resting on her hands. Very quietly she sat gazing into the blazing fire and thinking, thinking, her early fancies driven from her mind by later absorbing realities. Her world of dreams had been invaded by a familiar figure which suddenly assumed the character of a knight. It was hard to fit Neal Jordan to the pattern of Sir Artegall, and yet—and yet—— He would not call her Lady Florimell, but it came upon her as a great surprise that he answered in more particulars than one to the description she had given to Blythe Van Dorn of the man she could most admire. Like many another she had looked far afield when her knight was near at hand. She reviewed her acquaintance with him, remembered how content she had always been in his society, and how ready he had always been to provide pleasures for her, to teach her such things as it seemed well that she should know, had—why, she had been blind; of course it was never Christine who had received his first greeting, his last farewell; it was never she whom Neal had deliberately chosen to ride with, to walk with, on such occasions as there was a question of choice. “And I never discovered you at all, Sir Artegall,” she said, nodding to the red castle falling to pieces in the midst of the glowing embers. “Your Florimell had a spell put upon her, and she did not know you were her knight.” She laughed softly and Chico from his corner turned his head and gave a little whinney. “Oh, yes, Chico,” she went on, “I am glad you appreciate the situation. We were very foolish, but I shall not tell him so. Let him go on the quest, and if he finds Steve then I shall feel that I have a right to be happy without giving my dear Christine a pang by parading a joy which she must be denied. I have faith in my knight and I believe he will be successful. How delighted I shall be to hear of his adventures and to know they were undertaken for my sake. Christine would call me a romantic, silly thing to send him off in this way, so she shall not know, and when he comes back she will be so glad that she will have only praise for my romantic notion. Hark! what is that!”

There was a sound of the sharp crackle of sticks under an approaching tread. Was it Neal returning so soon? Hardly, the girl decided. She went to the front of the cabin and peered between the logs. A man was limping towards the door. Alison tiptoed back to her place by the fire, determined to make no response to any summons. Presently there came a knock, then some one with lips close to the door said in a low voice: “Mi madre, soy Carlos.”

Alison held her breath not daring to move towards the door, but afraid not to do so. She was spared any decision, however, for a heavy shoulder pushed it open sufficiently for a man to enter. He looked wild and unkempt, and his face was distorted with pain. At sight of the girl he made as if to leave the place, but decided otherwise, for he turned and said imploringly in English, “You will no betray me, señorita?”

“Why should I betray you?” said Alison. “Who are you, and why do you come here?”

“I am seeing the smoke, and I think my mother is here.”

“Your mother? Brigida? Then you are her son.” Alison’s mind was working rapidly. She looked at the man searchingly. Many possibilities arose before her. She perceived that it might be advantageous to detain him. “I will not betray you,” she told the man. “I know your mother; she loves you and I would not make her unhappy.”

“You are alone?” The man looked around.

“Just at this moment I am, but my friends will be here in a minute. You will have to hide somewhere. Are you hurt?”

“I am hurt.” He limped to the bench and sat down in evident pain.

Alison viewed him compassionately. “I wish I could do something to relieve you,” she said. “What is the matter?”

“I am pursued. I go with much hurry. I fall. I think I break the leg at the foot.”

“Oh, dear, that is bad. It should be set at once.” She saw difficulties to be overcome in getting relief for this man. “Perhaps it may be only badly sprained,” she said. “Who was it pursuing you, and why did they do it?”

The man remained silent and Alison, remembering that he was an outlaw, did not doubt but that some of her own friends were in pursuit, for it was he who was concerned in the thefts which Pike Smith had conducted. He knew where Steve was. At that thought her heart gave a sudden bound. “You are Carlos,” she said. “I remember about you. The time is very short before my friends will be here. I must hide you, for you cannot get very far away with that hurt. I promise not to tell where you are if you in return will do something for me.” She looked around the bare room but a possibility occurred to her.

“Ah, señorita,” murmured the man, “what can a poor wounded, as I, do for you?”

“A great deal, and perhaps I can do you a good turn.” She listened for a moment to the howling wind shrieking around the little hut. It was the only sound she heard. There was no whistle of Hail Columbia. “I can perhaps help you by getting word to your mother,” she continued, “but first I must make you safe here.”

“Ah, señorita, an angel you are.” The man’s dark eyes lost some of their fierceness as he gazed at her from under his matted locks.

“I will tell you why I wish to do this,” said Alison. “I once promised your mother that so far as I had power to prevent it no harm should befall you. I did not foresee this situation, but I will not inform upon you if you will tell me where Steve Hayward is.”

The man looked around startled, as if to see if escape were possible.

“No, no,” said Alison, “don’t think of that. You would be taken. Quick, tell me. Would you have me give you up?”

She spoke impatiently and the man staggered to his feet, but dropped back again upon the bench with an expression of pain. “I was foolish to come back,” he muttered to himself in Spanish.

“Then why did you do it?” asked Alison.

He looked at her surprised. “You know my language, señorita?”

“Yes, and I can be well understood by your mother. Now I will hide you. Lie down there.” She pointed to the dark corner by the chimney. The man obeyed her and she gathered up the armfuls of brush which Neal had brought in and scattered them over Carlos till he was fairly hidden. “That will do very well,” said Alison. “Now, I am waiting for you to tell me what I asked. Otherwise, you understand, you are in my power.”

She bent her ear close to the pile of brush and the man said, “I perceebe, señorita, and I can do no less. I am grateful that you help me and I will also help you, but I know not where Stephen Hayward is.”

“Where did you take him?” asked Alison eagerly. “You see that I know of his having been taken away by Pike Smith and his men.”

“We took him westward, señorita, into the mountains. There we left him.”

“Why did you leave him? What was your object?”

“There were signs of Indians. We have fear of attack. We must escape. One horse is go lame, therefore we must leave him.”

“What Indians were they?”

“We are told the Apaches.”

“The Apaches!” Alison spoke the name with horror; she well knew the bloodthirsty record of this tribe. “It was cruel, cruel,” she said. “It would have been better to kill him at once.”

“No one is wish to do that. It is promise Cy Sparks not to do so, but only to take him away to a place not return, where Mexicano is keep prisoner; but is come the Indian, we cannot.”

“Did he have arms? Was there a possibility of escape for him? had he food?”

“Food, yes; a pistol, also. He may perhap make to escape.”

“Oh, I have hope, I have hope,” cried Alison. “Tell me exactly where it was that you left him.”

“In the valley of Night Creek; near mountains Guadalupe.”

“Thank you, thank you, Carlos. I believe you tell me the truth.”

“I speak truth.”

“Hush!” Alison sprang to her feet. “Keep very quiet. Some one is coming.”

It was not Neal’s whistle that she heard, but the approach of horses. She ran to the door, forgetting Neal’s charge to keep out of sight. Two men had dismounted and were examining the trail of the man who lay hidden. Unheeding the chill wind and the beating rain, Alison stood in the doorway, but retreated a little as the men approached. They both stopped short at sight of her, and she saw Bud and Ira.

“Alison Ross, what under canopy are you doin’ here?” exclaimed Ira.

She laughed nervously. “I came in out of the rain. What are you doing here?”

“We are huntin’ the worst kind of cattle, one of Pike Smith’s gang. Caught sight of him in the road ahead of us, got after him but he slipped us somehow and we thought we had struck his trail here.” He stepped into the room. To all appearances it was empty, save for the presence of Chico.

“Them footprints certainly must ha’ been his’n,” said Ira, as he fell to examining the tracks.

“Whose? Neal’s?” asked Alison innocently. “It was he who brought me here, you see, and he has gone home for some warm things.”

“You don’t mean Neal Jordan? He got back?”

“Yes, he came this morning and rode out to meet me. Neither of us had even a blanket, so I am waiting for him to come back with something I can wear home. I didn’t prepare for a norther.”

“That so?” Bud had been listening attentively. “Well, you had precious little sense, the two of ye, to come away without ary blanket.”

“You are right, but it was so pleasant when I left I had no idea we should have such weather before I could get home.”

“Got a fire in there, hev ye?” said Ira. “Well, you need it to-day. We was caught same as you. We was making for home when we see that blamed Mexican.”

“Yes, and we’ll lose him sure, though he was footin’ it,” said Bud. “I move we go on and don’t waste no more time jawin’ about it.”

“You’re surely not going to face this norther. I don’t think he can be worth that,” said Alison.

“We ain’t sugar nor salt, and I reckon we’ve faced northers before,” said Bud. “It’s the first time we’ve come on one of them fellows and we mean to git somethin’ out of him. Sorry we can’t keep you company, but I reckon you’re safe till Neal comes.”

“We was on the wrong trail, Bud,” said Ira. “I reckon we’ll strike it further along.” And to Alison’s relief they rode away.

They were scarce out of sight before Neal’s cheery whistle was heard above the howl of the wind and the drip of the rain. Alison was at the door to meet the young man.

“All right?” he said, as he came forward, blankets and wraps over his arm.

“All right,” she replied. “I’ve let the fire die down and, unless you are very cold, I think we’d better ride on. I shall be well wrapped up, thanks to you, Sir Knight.” She hastily slipped on the warm jacket and hood he had brought her, and pinned a blanket around her. “There, I think I can stand any storm,” she said. “I look like a mummy.” And they started forth, leaving the man hidden under the pile of brush. “He will be dry and safe, even if he is suffering,” thought Alison, and then she cudgeled her brains for an excuse to get word to Brigida without exciting suspicion. She was absorbed in her thoughts for a long time, but Neal did not interrupt her brown study.

After they had again passed from the woods and had entered the way across the prairie, she turned to him and said, “Neal, would you think me a crazy lunatic if I asked you to go with me to the little Mexican village on the other side of the bayou?”

“Now? In this norther?”

“Yes, now.”

“What for? Can’t wait, I suppose.”

“Not very well. The worst of it is that I don’t want any one to know about it, and I cannot even tell you why I must go. Can you trust me enough to go and ask no questions? I will tell you before you go away again, but I can’t to-day. I want to see that woman Brigida.”

“And you are afraid she will die before to-morrow? Couldn’t I go for you? Ain’t it one of those errands those jays used to do for their young ladies?”

“Oh, don’t say young ladies,” laughed Alison; “it does sound so commonplace. Say lady-loves.”

“All right, little lady—love.” He paused between the two words and Alison felt the color coming to her cheeks. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable any longer than need be,” continued Neal, “and that’s why I want to get you home.”

“I am comfortable, and I shall be better satisfied to go, if I can go to-day.”

“All right. Have it your own way. As long as you don’t take cold I am willing to do anything that suits you.”

“It is very mean of me to make you go when you have been riding all this time in the cold.”

“That’s nothing. I’ve been out in worse weather than this, and in company I liked less.”

“It isn’t so very far out of the way,” continued Alison, “and it is much more sheltered. We shall not have the wind in our faces at any rate.” So they turned off and followed the edge of the woods in another direction till the village of adobe huts was before them.

CHAPTER XVII
ALISON AWAKES

AN hour later the little Mexican settlement was left behind. Alison had seen Brigida, had given her warning and had received tearful thanks and repeated blessings. “You must get him away from there at once,” Alison had told her, “or he may be discovered.” And Brigida had assured her that there were friends and relatives who would go to the assistance of Carlos. So the girl came out of the stuffy adobe house where chickens roosted on the chairs, a game-cock, tied by the leg, occupied one corner, and where a huge bed took up most of the space. She wore so happy a face that Neal could but smile in return, and in spite of the rain and the piercingly cold wind they made a joyous journey the rest of the way.

“Neal,” whispered the girl, as he lifted her down before her own door, “you are my own true knight. I don’t know another who would have let me have my way without a word, who would have trusted me as you have done.” And at the look she gave him as she passed into the house he felt that her hour of waking was at hand.

Christine was ready with a roaring fire, hot coffee and dry clothes for her sister. “Bad, naughty child,” she exclaimed, “why did you stay so long, and why did you go off no better protected? You might have perished with cold if you had been alone. Come in and get warm and then I will show you what Neal has brought me.”

“I am not so very cold,” declared Alison. “We had a good fire at the cabin and I was well wrapped up when we started, and then we came around the longer way so we did not face the wind.”

“The longest way round is the shortest way home,” sang Christine, who seemed in a merry mood. “Isn’t it good to see Neal again? John is so glad he is back. For all one can say, no one else is quite so companionable to John. He says that though Neal is always ready for a frolic and is no prig, he never forgets that he is a gentleman and he never disgraces himself by using bad language and by carousing in the dreadful way some of his comrades-in-arms did. Yet he always had their respect and confidence.”

“I know all that,” replied Alison, her eyes shining.

“Come up and I will show you my present,” said Christine, “such a rare piece as it is. I’ll wager mine is the best. Has Neal told what he has brought you?”

Alison was obliged to confess that he had not, but declared that she knew it was finer than her sister’s.

The two men were out putting up the horses while the girls were up-stairs. The girls could see them as they tramped back through the slashing rain. Alison watched their approach from the little window of her room. “When you were my age did you know you were in love with Steve?” she asked her sister suddenly.

“I always knew it,” said Christine quietly. “I can’t remember the time when I didn’t. Here, Allie, put on this dry skirt; you will take cold if you wear that wet one any longer.”

“What time did Neal get here?” asked Alison, mechanically taking the skirt.

“Quite early. He stayed to dinner and then nothing would do but he must go in search of you. Where did he overtake you?”

“Not very far this side of Louisa’s. Just as we reached that long stretch across the prairie the norther came up and we turned off into the woods.”

“It’s lucky you did. See, here is the beautiful thing he brought.” She spread out a piece of gorgeous embroidery for Alison to admire.

“It would make a magnificent apron,” she said.

“Too magnificent. Where would I wear such a thing? To spend the afternoon with Hannah Maria? No, I shall keep it for the front of a gown to wear to your wedding.” And Alison blushed.

“Let us go down now,” she said hastily. “The boys have come in.”

They found not only John and Neal before the blazing fire, but two travelers driven in by the storm to seek shelter, and the four were discussing Texas customs and the political situation.

“I was asked yesterday when I gave my name to a man,” said one of the travelers, “what my name was in the States. Rather a sharp comment upon the character of the immigration to Texas, I thought.”

“It is too bad that so good a country should receive so large an overflow of shady individuals from the States,” returned John. “We do have a great many refugees from the law, but there are some decent men among us, who do not feel it necessary to take a different name in order to hide an unenviable identity. As I think of it, very few, if any, of our immediate neighbors rest under the shadow of any crime, though there have been a few desperadoes in our midst. Pike Smith, you know him, Neal,” he turned to his friend, “he is said to have worn another name before he came to Texas. Old Cy Sparks was pretty crooked, but he was born Cy Sparks and was buried under the same name. I think most of us, sir, in this vicinity can produce our family Bibles.”

“I am glad to receive so good a report,” said the traveler addressed. “When a respectable man is attracted to a locality and is thinking of settling there he would rather that his neighbors were not all escaped criminals.”

“We cannot boast of many intellectual spirits about here,” said John, “but further west we have some German emigrants of the better class, who are building up a most promising settlement and who have some scholarly men among them. They had a very hard experience at first, and had more difficulties to overcome than is usually the lot of pioneers, but now their village of New Braunfels is quite a model. Then there is Castro’s settlement, and others which have brought a good class of people, so, sir, you see we are not all cut-throats and horse thieves.”

“I should have denied any such report, sir, after my own experiences,” returned the gentleman politely, “for I have met with no finer hospitality than has been shown me here and, though I have encountered some roughness, I have been offered nothing but kindly intentions. What do you think, sir, of the situation in Mexico? Will it be Anaya or Almonte who will be the next president? The rapidity with which they change their presidents is only equaled by that with which our own army wins its victories over them.”

“We certainly have been giving it to them good and hot,” said Neal. “I never saw harder fighting than at Mexico.”

“You were with the army, sir?” spoke up the second traveler. “I should like to hear some of your experiences.”

“I have but just returned,” Neal told him.

“Mr. Jordan was with McCullough and afterwards with Jack Hays,” John remarked. “I think, gentlemen, he can entertain you with some very good adventures.”

And so the talk went on. Alison, sitting by her brother’s side, listened eagerly to Neal’s tales of scouting parties, of raids, of hair-breadth escapes, and in her interest in the Texas Ranger forgot that there ever existed in her imagination such a person as Sir Artegall, so did the present drive out the past. Outside the norther still raged. It shook the windows and sent gusts of wind through every crack and cranny, but inside, before the cheerful fire, the company did not mind the gale, and the strangers, glad enough of such comfort and of such excellent companionship, were rather pleased that they were compelled to defer their journey till better weather.

It was the third day before the storm passed over and then it grew suddenly mild and summerlike. The guests remained until the sun came out and then with many courteous speeches went upon their way. During the time of their stay Alison had not had much opportunity of seeing Neal alone, nor had any news of the outside world reached her. She wondered if Carlos had escaped. The weather surely was in his favor, and she believed there was now no longer any danger in his direction. She determined, however, to tell Neal nothing till he should be ready to depart upon his quest.

Upon the afternoon of the day that the norther ended, Bud Haley made his appearance. As might be supposed, he was not going to omit taking advantage of the first opportunity of seeing Neal. His good-natured face smiled upon the family assembled in the gallery. “Been a-wonderin’ how you-alls was a-gittin’ along,” he said. “I wanted to start out two or three times, but Hannah Mari’ wouldn’t hear to my doin’ nothing but hug the fire. Well, Neal, back safe, ain’t ye? Had right smart luck, I think, not losin’ no limb. Hallo, Allie, we didn’t git our man arter all. It come on so blamed cold, an’ we give it up after we beat around for an hour or more. It looked like we’d ought to got him.”

“What man?” asked John quickly.

“One o’ Pike’s gang. Thought we spotted him sure. He was footin’ it along the road ahead of us. Soon as Iry seen him he give a yell and let out his rope, but the feller jumped a leetle beyond the limit and got into the bushes. We struck right in after him, but somehow he got off.”

“Which man was it?” asked John.

“That greaser, Carlos. It did look for one while like he’d made straight for Pike’s cabin, but we was out on our calculations. The tracks we saw turned out to be Neal’s. The greaser must have got picked up by the wind, it looks to me like, for there was two or three sets of tracks by the door, and what we thought his’n we followed straight from the road.”

Alison was bending forward eagerly listening. She breathed a sigh of relief. Carlos had escaped.

“You are sure he wasn’t there,” said John.

“There wasn’t nobody there but Allie when we come by. I reckon she’d hollered if she’d seen him. He got off somehow, but we’ll have him yet. How’s things, Neal?”

“Things” being matters in general which would interest the three men they betook themselves to the outside, where the sun was shining warm and where they squatted down comfortably for a good talk till Bud was ready to take his leave, having loaded himself with all the news he could obtain from the family collectively and individually.

Alison stood on the step watching him depart. John was keeping pace with the horse till he should be ready to pass through the gate. Christine was moving about the inner room. Neal leaned against the side of the house. “Little lady,” he said presently, “got anything to tell me? I reckon I’ll be starting off in the morning.”

“So soon?” the words came with unrestrained tones of regret.

“Yes, don’t you think I’d better be hitchin’ along? The sooner I get started the sooner I’ll get back, and the more likely I’ll be to find Steve.”

“That is true, I suppose. Do you know you haven’t given me my present yet?” she added reproachfully.

“I’ll show it to you.”

Alison stepped down to his side. He took her hand and laid it in his firm brown palm. Then he looked down into her eyes and smiled. She did not withdraw her hand, but glanced away, afraid to meet his gaze. “It’s a young little hand,” he said, “all pink and white and dimply. It oughtn’t to work too hard.”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” said Alison, laughing. “I do no more than I should, though now there is more to look after; the negroes to see to and my own sewing to do. I don’t want my hands to be idle ones, for Satan finds some mischief still; you know the rest.”

Neal did not answer, but lifted the hand and touched his lips to the rosy palm. Then still holding it in his firm clasp he said, “Come, let’s take a walk. Where’s that little place you used to call your castle in the chaparral? Is it all overgrown?”

“No, for I have had Pedro keep it cleared. Lolita and I are very fond of going there. I think the sun will have dried it up enough for us to go if you want to see it. Wilt come to my castle, Sir Knight? I have matters of grave import to discuss with you.”

Neal chuckled, but became grave before they reached the place. “This is the moat,” said Alison, when they reached the tree, “and this limb is the drawbridge. Now I’m over.” She dropped down lightly and they stood side by side in the circle. “Now,” said Alison, “look up into the tree, or the sky somewhere, till I tell you something.”

“Why not look at you?”

“Because.”

“After such an excellent reason I will look anywhere but at you. All right. Fire ahead, Alison.”

And Alison told him of her meeting with Carlos, of the information he had given her, of her promise to his mother, concluding with: “And that was why I had to see Brigida that day.”

“I see.” Neal was silent for a moment.

“Do you think I did wrong?” asked Alison, anxiously.

“No, not from your standpoint. I reckon anyhow you did right. The fellow is ignorant, and from what I have gathered, was only a tool in Pike Smith’s hands. He’ll have to leave the country, though, if he wants to save his neck.”

“I warned Brigida of that. Do you know where that Night Creek is?”

“Just about.”

“Is it far?”

“Right smart of a ways. You’ve got me some lines to go on.”

“You haven’t told anybody about your going, have you?”

“No. I told John I was going off on some business, but I did not say where. I am glad you can start me on the right track.” He did not say that even this was vague enough information, and that the journey presented more dangers than she knew.

“Now where is my present?” said the girl, holding out her hand.

Neal fumbled in his pocket and brought forth a small packet which he gave her. Alison opened it eagerly. “Oh, how beautiful,” she exclaimed as she disclosed a hoop of yellow gold set with a single fine emerald. “I never had a ring before,” she said slipping it on her finger and viewing it admiringly. Then she took it off and looked up at him. “I don’t believe I will wear it—just yet,” she said hesitatingly.

“But when I come back?”

“Yes, I think so. Thank you very, very much, Neal. It is a very beautiful present, much too good for me.”

“I thought you were a princess or a lady somebody or other.”

“Yes, so I like to imagine, but I’d rather not wear the ring if you don’t mind.”

“Wear it when you please, little lady.”

“I ought to give you my colors to wear. Here, let me have your hat.” She took the broad-brimmed sombrero and twisted in with its gilt cord a blue ribbon she wore. “There,” she said, “you are fairly decked. You haven’t a shield, and I haven’t a sleeve embroidered with pearls, but those are my colors. I wish I could give you something better to remember me by when you have brought me such a beautiful thing as this.” She gazed down at the ring which she held in her hand.

“Do you think I am likely to forget you?”

“Oh, no. I am too conceited for that.”

“There is one thing I should like. You know, it is possible—anything is possible—I might not come back.”

“Don’t, don’t say that!” Alison looked at him in alarm. “Is it going to be very, very dangerous?”

“Not more so than any other undertaking. Not as much so as going to war or as heaps of Injun fights.”

“Oh, then, I don’t feel so badly as if it were something worse. And what is it I can give you?”

He took both her hands, the ring clasped between them. “You can give me one kiss to remember,” he said very gravely, very tenderly.

She dropped her eyes to the strong muscular hands enfolding hers. Over her came a partial realization of what he was about to do for her sake, of what he might have to endure before she should see him again. She lifted her face as a child might and he kissed her gently. Then he released her hands and stood looking at her. The red blood rushed to her cheeks. She seemed so young, so innocent, that he felt a reverence for her as truly as did any knight for his lady.

At this moment Christine’s voice was heard calling:

“Alison, Alison, where are you?”

“Oh, I must go,” murmured the girl. And still clasping her ring she caught the limb of the tree, found her foothold and reached the road, leaving Neal to follow.

She held out the ring in her palm when she came up to her sister standing on the step. “See, see, my present,” she said exultantly. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Christine took the ring and examined it carefully. Then she looked at the girl searchingly, but Alison’s eager face showed no consciousness.

“It is beautiful,” said Christine. “Are you going to wear it?”

A soft color swept over Alison’s face. “No, not yet,” she said. And, passing her sister, she went into the house. Christine looked after her and sighed gently.

The next morning Neal took his departure, his last smile and hand clasp for Alison. “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” he said.

“And you will write?” she asked.

“If I can. If I have anything to tell.” And he rode away.

“My knight goes forth,” whispered Alison to herself. She watched him between the waving sweep of prairie till he was lost to view. Then she turned to her sister and said wistfully, “Oh, Christine, I shall miss him so, I shall miss him so.”

“Why, my dear, my dear,” Christine looked with tender concern at the eyes full of tears, “does it matter so much to you?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” replied Alison rushing up to her room.

All day long she thought of him who had ridden towards the west. In the evening she got out her copy of the “Faerie Queen” and pored over it till her mind was full of the terrors of the forest, of hidden foes, of wounded knights, of desperate combats, and she dreamed of them and, waking in the middle of the night, started up imagining she saw Neal in the hands of fierce Indians. “The Apaches! The Apaches!” she cried out, and sank down on her pillow sobbing convulsively.

Her cry awoke her sister who turned to soothe her, patting her as she would a child. “Why, Alison, dear child, you must have had a horrid dream,” she said. “Go to sleep. There are no Indians.”

But Alison did not go to sleep. In the fastnesses of the mountains she knew there were Indians. She had sent her knight into their midst. What folly! what folly! Why had she not considered the danger? She clasped the ribbon by which she had swung her ring around her neck and feeling for the circlet she softly kissed it. “Oh, Neal, Neal,” she whispered, “if I could call you back, I would. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.” She lay very still listening to Christine’s quiet breathing, and it came over her that now for the first time, she comprehended the meaning and the misery of hope deferred. “I was thinking of you, and not of him, Christine,” she murmured, “and you have not given up hope in all this long while, then why should I so soon? They will come back together.” And seeking her sister’s hand she held it till she slept.

But the next morning she took the ring from its ribbon and wore it proudly on her hand. Christine looked at it questioningly.

“When Neal comes back I want him to see it there,” said Alison, but she would discuss the subject no further.

“I believe Alison is very fond of Neal,” Christine said to her brother later in the day.

“I’m glad of it,” returned John. “She’s all the world to him. He told me so two years ago, but I reminded him that she was but a child; that she had not waked up yet.”

“She has waked up now,” said Christine.

CHAPTER XVIII
LOLITA

ALL winter long Alison hoped for news from Neal, but not so much as a word had come when spring was fairly arrived, and many were the fears which possessed the girl as time went by and she dwelt upon the possibilities of that adventure into which her knight had gone. But the events of every day occupied her, and with Christine’s patience as a model she did not give way to any actual despair.

During this time it is not to be supposed that she saw nothing of Lolita, though, be the fact known, Lolita was much concerned in her own affairs and had room for little else in her thoughts. Blythe no longer made a secret of his devotion, and his family for some time had suspected that his visits to the Rosses’ rancho were not on Alison’s account, this especially after Alison began to wear her ring openly, and had confided to Laura that Neal had given it to her.

“Dear, dear, and I hoped you would be my sister,” said Laura.

“Well, so I shall be,” replied Alison, “for surely, miss, you will not play the coquette with my brother.”

As no one before had ever hinted that Laura possessed any of the qualities of a coquette, she was covered with confusion and indignantly repudiated any such charge. “You know better than to say such a thing as that, Alison Ross,” she said.

“How was I to know better after your speech, Laura Ross that is to be,” laughed Alison. “You are in a box, and may as well own up. When is it to be? Come, tell me.”

“Oh, why—Alison, I don’t know.”

“But some day, truly?”

“Yes, I suppose I may acknowledge that it will be some day, but now we are all troubled about Blythe. I did think that when he married and brought his wife home I might be satisfied to leave my mother.”

“Then why not have it so?”

“Because she whom I hoped he would marry, has thoughts of another.”

“If you mean me,” returned Alison frankly, “John might have told you it would not be so.”

“How did he know?”

“He knew before I did,” said Alison, but would not explain this enigmatical speech.

After this it was an accepted fact that Laura would one day go to live at the Ross rancho, and the intimacy between the two families was even greater than before. Therefore it was no surprise to Alison when Laura one day hunted her up as she was busy with a brood of young chicks.

“Hallo,” said Laura, looking over the fence of the chicken yard. “A new brood, Alison?”

“Yes, these are just out to-day. Did you come over alone, Laura?”

“No, mother came with me. She is so worried about Blythe and wants to talk over the trouble with Christine, and see if nothing can be done to cure the boy of his infatuation for that wretched Mexican girl. Mother says she will never, never consent to the match.”

“But why? Isn’t Lolita pretty enough for a daughter in-law?” asked Alison, as she put the last chick under its clucking mother.

“What a flippant answer,” said Laura.

“Then is it because Blythe is the first American who has wanted to marry a Mexican?”

Laura was silent and Alison rising from her stooping posture shook out her skirts, and picked up the basket in which she had kept the chicks. “I am sure Lolita is a good, modest, beautiful, sweet-tempered, capable girl, much better in every way than most you meet. What possible objection is there to her?”

“She is not of our religion in the first place.”

“I don’t think that her own is so serious a matter to her that she would not be perfectly willing to accept her husband’s. What does she know of the faith of her fathers? Once a year, maybe, she sees the old padre; she says her prayers dutifully every day as she was taught; she believes only what she has been told she ought to believe. She has never thought for herself, and she is so obedient that she would be a tractable subject for your efforts at conversion.”

“But her father, would he not make trouble if we tried to change her beliefs?”

“It wouldn’t make a particle of difference to him. Old Pedro has no special belief; he told me so. Lolita’s happiness has always been, and will always be, his first consideration. He has many American friends, and is not the bigoted old man you would think. Pedro is really a very superior person, if he is only a greaser. If you knew Lolita as well as I do you would see what a lovable girl she is and would be glad to welcome her as a sister.”

“Perhaps you would like to have had her for your sister,” said Laura, who had always been a little jealous of Alison’s love for Lolita.

“If I had another brother I shouldn’t in the least mind, but as it is, I am perfectly well satisfied with John’s choice,” returned Alison, which oil-upon-the-waters speech caused Laura a pang of repentance after her tart remark.

“Come,” she said, “use your arguments with mother. I confess you do make the matter seem less dreadful.” And the two went to the house, where Mrs. Van Dorn was in close converse with Christine.

She held out her hand to Alison. “I came over to escape a sudden and dreadful fit of cleaning which has possessed our old Hitty,” she explained. “She cannot be made to endure a systematic weekly scrubbing of the floors, but once in a while she undertakes the whole place, souses and swashes and flings water all over the rooms and ends by lifting up a board and sweeping all the overflow into the cavity. She persistently refuses to get down on her hands and knees to scrub, as my servants at home used to do.”

Alison laughed. “Oh, we have become quite used to that method. You see, the houses at home are not built on piles as these are down here. Consider how much easier it is to lift a board, which is always left loose for that purpose, and to swash the water down on the ground where it will run off, instead of laboriously carrying it outside and emptying it.”

“I must confess the plan has the advantage of saving muscle,” said Mrs. Van Dorn, “but I cannot get used to thinking it as clean a process as ours. Come here, dear, and sit down. Christine and I have been talking over a matter much more serious to me than house-cleaning. I want you to assure me that this is but a youthful madness of Blythe’s and that I really am to welcome to my home a daughter much more to my taste than a wretched little Mexican.”

“But my dear Mrs. Van Dorn, if you mean Lolita, she is not the wretched little Mexican you think. I assure you she is of good Spanish stock, and except for the prejudice against Mexicans, which Texans hold, I don’t see why she shouldn’t be as acceptable as any other girl. Have you met her? Have you talked to her? She is not uneducated and has the sweetest manners.”

“I have seen her, but I have held no conversation with her.”

“Don’t you think her very beautiful?”

“She is very pretty, I am obliged to confess, though I always prefer a fairer style of beauty,—however that is but a matter of taste,—but to think of my only son’s marrying one of her class is something I cannot endure.”

“Would you rather he would marry Eliza Jane Binney, or Annamela Stuckett?”

“Oh, my dear, why need he marry either of them? Ah, Alison, why cannot you save him and us from an unfortunate alliance? He is very young, barely of age. If you would but encourage him he would probably get over this fancy.”

“I couldn’t encourage him for two reasons,” replied Alison. “One is that I could never be so disloyal to a friend as to try to steal away her lover. Lolita’s friendship is dear to me and I want to be worthy of it, because I love her. The other reason is,” she looked down at the sparkling jewel on her hand, “that there is some one else whom I would not give up for any man living.”

Mrs. Van Dorn looked the disappointment she felt, and released Alison’s hand which she had been holding. “In that case,” she said, after a moment’s silence, “I suppose I must give up the hope I have indulged in this year past. My only chance is to appeal to the girl. I suppose I can see her?” She turned to Christine.

“Please don’t say anything to hurt her feelings,” said Alison impulsively.

“My dear,” replied Mrs. Van Dorn, with dignity, “I hope I know enough not to wilfully injure any one. If the girl has the good sense and the refinement you invest her with, she will understand what I wish to convey without many words of mine. Christine, will you go with me to her house? and then, if you do not mind, I should like to see her privately.”

Christine had no alternative but to consent, and the two started for the small cabin just outside the door of which Lolita was busy with her tortillas. She was singing a little song:

“Baila preciosa niña,

Baila sin mas tardar.”

It had a sweet and spring-like melody, though a minor cadence ran through it, in spite of the joyous movement it suggested. Mrs. Van Dorn could but admire the picture the girl made against the background of spring green, her arms moving with youthful grace as she slapped her tortillas from hand to hand keeping time to her song.

As she saw who accompanied Christine she looked up with a startled expression, and the tortilla fell to the ground unnoticed. She stepped back as if to retreat, and then with eyes downcast, came forward and stood the pattern of girlish confusion.

“Lolita, this is Mrs. Van Dorn who has come to see you,” said Christine, and Lolita made a timid obeisance. It was a moment fraught with terror for her, and she would willingly have escaped.

But her courtesy did not forsake her. “My father’s house is yours, señora,” she said. “Will you enter?”

“Is it not more pleasant outside?” said Mrs. Van Dorn. “I will sit here, if you will allow. Christine, are not those magnolias nearly in bloom? I wonder if you would get me a bud. They are the first I have seen.” And Christine, thus dismissed, left Lolita to face the situation alone.

For a moment Mrs. Van Dorn said nothing, but sat looking at the girl standing before her, eyes downcast and hands clasped. It was useless to deny that she was a beautiful creature. Surely one would needs go far to find a maiden so near perfection. Her face in repose was very serious. The casual observer might have called it cold unless he saw the expression of her eyes.

“My son has been visiting you, I believe,” Mrs. Van Dorn began. “He is a very good friend of yours, is he not?”

“Si, señora. Yes, madam, I am have the honor to call him so.”

“Do not stand,” said her visitor. And Lolita gravely seated herself upon the grass, leaving the bench for her guest’s sole occupancy. “I wish to know——” Mrs. Van Dorn felt that it was brutal for a stranger to try to probe the girl’s secrets, but she remembered her son and steeled herself to go on. “I wish to know if my son is more than a friend; if he has said things to you such as young men will say and to which girls like to listen.”

Lolita raised her solemn eyes. “He has said many beautiful thing to me,” she answered.

“He has asked you to marry him, perhaps, and you have answered—what?”

“He has my heart,” said Lolita simply. One who thought her cold should have seen the light of deep emotion which overspread her face.

Mrs. Van Dorn hesitated. It was difficult to go on. This was no worldly-wise damsel ready to assert her rights, to defy interference, to claim her own. What could a mother say to such a girl as this?

“My son is very ambitious,” she continued. “We are ambitious for him. My husband wished him to study law and some day he might rise to be a judge. It is my wish also. He is my only son. I have great hopes in him. I think he is too young to marry.” This subterfuge came suddenly; it was not what she had meant to say, but with those soulful eyes upon her she could not come to her point at once. She turned her gaze away to where Christine was dutifully gathering flowers.

Lolita made no answer. It was not her place to take the initiative, and consequently the difficulties for the mother increased. “I do not mean,” she went on, “that I never wish him to marry, but that it may be later on when he knows his own mind better,” and then she paused. “His sisters, his family, I, myself, would like to see him marry a young woman who could win him friends, who could help him in his career and gain him popularity. A man’s wife can be either a great help or a great hindrance to him.” She spoke as if impersonally, but Lolita understood. Her dark eyelashes swept her cheek. She was very pale. “Don’t you think so?” Mrs. Van Dorn went on, feeling the girl’s silence a reproach.

“I think yes. I think who loves should not wish to harm her beloved.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Van Dorn breathed with satisfaction. “I felt sure that you would be sensible and that you would understand that this boy and girl affair is merely youthful folly, and that you will soon outgrow it. You are too fair a blossom not to be gathered by some brave young Mexican, and you will soon forget that you ever thought of doing a thing so foolish as to marry an Americano.”

“I shall not forget—no. What is it that you wish for him? that you wish me to do for him? I do not quite understand.”

To tell her exactly what she did wish seemed the height of cruelty, but Mrs. Van Dorn had gone too far to retreat. “My dear little girl,” she said, “I hope I am thinking of your own happiness as well as my son’s when I say that I wish to be assured that you have no thought of marrying Blythe, that you will tell him so and ask him not to see you again.”

A quiver of pain passed over the girl’s face and the clasp of her hands tightened.

“It will really make but little difference to you in a few months,” said the mother, trying to be jocular. “You will forget and I shall hear of your wedding before long, I am sure.”

Lolita bowed her head, her attitude one of resigned grief. In a very low voice she said, “He has my heart but I will not marry him to make him sorry some days. I will not marry to keep him from to be what you are wishing. No, no. You are the mother; you have the right to say obey, and I obey, but I think I am die; I think I am die.”

She lifted her face marble-like in its pallor; but suddenly she sprang to her feet with a scream. At the same instant Mrs. Van Dorn who had moved her arm to rest it upon the low window ledge heard a whirring sound, then felt a sharp, agonizing pain. Lolita sprang towards her, grasped her wrist and applied her lips to the burning spot, unheeding the fact that the rattlesnake which had been disturbed in his exit from the house, had also attacked her as she thrust him aside.

Her scream brought Christine running to find Mrs. Van Dorn in an agony of fright and Lolita on her knees drawing the poison from the wound. “What is it? What is it?” cried Christine.

“A snake, a dreadful rattler,” said Mrs. Van Dorn. “Oh, child, child!” the tears began to course down her cheeks.

“Where is the snake? Did it strike you, Lolita?” asked Christine.

“I do not know. Yes, I think. There, madam, I do not believe you are to suffer,” she added.

“But you, you,” said Christine.

“It does not matter,” said Lolita dully. “It is only my father who will care. For me it does not matter.”

“Hush, hush, such talk will never do. Come with me, both of you,” ordered Christine. And fairly dragging Lolita, Mrs. Van Dorn running by her side, she hurried to the house. “Quick, quick, Alison,” she called when she was within hearing. “Get the rattlesnake cure. Mrs. Van Dorn and Lolita have been struck by a rattler.”

Alison was not long in bringing a piece of the root which every Texan provided himself with. It was poisonous of itself, but was considered a sure antidote for the bite of the rattlesnake, if taken in time. In Mrs. Van Dorn’s case it was quite positive that Lolita’s prompt measures had been effective, but the girl’s condition was doubtful, and among those who tended her Mrs. Van Dorn was the most devoted, her tears never ceasing to flow as she did so.

Laura was completely unnerved, even after she knew that her mother was out of danger. Mrs. Van Dorn drew her to one side. “I cannot leave while that child is in the least danger,” she said, “but you had better go home, Laura. Tell them I am detained and send Blythe to me as soon as you can.”

In the course of an hour it was decided that the antidote had proved efficacious and that Lolita was in no danger, though this fact seemed to bring her little satisfaction. Alison, who hovered over her and spoke caressing words to her, did not marvel at her drooping appearance, though it gave Mrs. Van Dorn a sharp pang. Pedro had gone to the village and therefore was not on hand to share the general anxiety, a fact of which all were glad.

Not even when Blythe entered did Lolita’s demeanor change. She sat with head drooped on her breast and made no movement to speak to any one.

Mrs. Van Dorn hurried out with the others to meet him. “My son, my son,” she cried, “we have had a great escape. Your mother was struck by a rattler and might have died but for that dear child Lolita Garcia.” The tears came again to her eyes. “And what had I done? Struck her as cruel a blow as it was possible for woman to strike. And she received it with meekness and obedience, rewarding me a moment after by utterly forgetting herself and trying to save me. Oh, Blythe, Blythe, I give up. I have no word to say against your choice.” She put her head down on her son’s shoulder and wept softly. Then she led him to the room where Lolita sat as motionless as a statue. Dropping on her knees by the girl’s side and touching her lips to the dull purple spot on the round smooth arm she said: “Dear little girl, here is my son. Will you tell him that he has a very cruel mother, but that you forgive her and will be her daughter some day, for she has suddenly realized that a true heart and an unselfish spirit are worth more than honors or fame can bring. Lolita, dear little Lolita, I want you to call me mother.”

“The light that never was on land or sea” glorified Lolita’s face as Blythe, forgetting all else, even his mother, thought only that he had come near to losing Lolita, and taking her in his arms he murmured the words she loved to hear: “Mi corazon, mi vida, mi alma.”

“I have but one request to make,” said Mrs. Van Dorn after the three had settled down happily side by side. “You will not marry for a year or so yet, will you, my son?”

Blythe looked down at the girl beside him. “It shall be as Lolita says.”

“You must always do as your mother wish,” she said softly. And at this continued evidence of her sweetness, the mother’s last regret vanished.

Going to the door she called the others. “Come in, girls, congratulations are in order. I wish to announce the engagement of my son, Blythe Van Dorn, to Miss Lolita Garcia.”

She could not have chosen a moment more fortunate if she had wished the matter quickly to be noised abroad, for Hannah Maria had seen Laura riding by, had stopped and had learned of the disaster. So, gathering together her most notable remedies, she started forth at once, appearing in her dun-colored costume just in time to hear the announcement.

“Well, now,” she exclaimed, “ain’t I lucky? I started out to nurse the sick and I git in jest in time for a love story. Ain’t it jest my good luck? My, my! I certainly am glad I come.” She beamed happily on Blythe, offered him her snuffy fingers, and kissed Lolita with expansive affection. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “how love gits its way. I reckon that’s for why the Marster made rattlers,” for Mrs. Van Dorn had not hesitated to confess that she had attempted the rôle of cruel parent and that she had failed in the face of Lolita’s lovely behavior.

“I’ll jest hev to hurry back an’ tell Bud,” Hannah Maria went on. “Come over soon, gals, an’ you bring Loliter, Blythe. You hear me, gals, your time’s a-comin’. Jest look how love is a workin’ out. Thar’s John and Laury, and Lou and Iry, and now these two. Jest keep on a-lookin’ fur your Mr. Right, Allie; he’s comin’ along. An’ you, too, Tina, don’t give up a-hopin’. Folks has come back after twenty year.” And she rode away on her old white mule, enveloped in an atmosphere of romance.

CHAPTER XIX
THE RETURN OF SIR ARTEGALL

SPRING had expanded into summer, the magnolias had given place to gaudier blooms, and still came no word from Alison’s knight. She had kept the secret of his quest well, but because of his long absence and the continued silence Christine began to fear that he, like many another, had been ready to love and ride away, and she noted the sober moods of her sister with the sympathy born of her own experience. Christine was listless, this hot summer weather, her usual alertness of manner had left her, and there were days when she rested a great deal, when a sharp headache would send her to a darkened room’s seclusion and quiet.

It was one of these times when Alison left her sister to procure possible sleep, and stole softly down-stairs. The day’s greatest heat was over, for the sun had set. Alison walked slowly down the path to the gate and stood there looking westward. Many, many times had she turned her eyes in that direction to see but the waving grass of the prairie against a line of cloudless sky. This evening the west was gorgeous with piled up masses of purple and red. Along the horizon a flaming yellow burned. “It is like a fire,” thought Alison, “a fiery furnace.”

Presently against the yellow streak appeared two moving specks. Alison watched them idly; two birds, perhaps. But as they grew larger and larger she perceived that they were men riding leisurely towards her. She watched to see if they would turn off where the road diverged and went on past the wood towards Louisa’s house, but they kept on, coming nearer, nearer, till what at first was but idle curiosity on the part of the girl became intense interest. Surely there was something familiar in the square shoulders, the set of the head, the easy carriage of the man upon the right. Her heart beat tumultuously, her eager eyes never took themselves from those advancing figures. Now they had passed the woods and were turning up by the chaparral at the angle where Pedro’s cabin stood. They halted here a moment, then came steadily on. Alison clutched the fence hard; there was a buzzing in her ears; her pulses were flying. Nearer and nearer they came till she saw that they were indeed no chance travelers, but Neal Jordan, and could it be Stephen? That slight, gaunt man swaying in his saddle?

The world was now bathed in a golden glory; purple and red had changed to rose and gray overhead; the yellow flame had crept up like a mounting fire till it overspread all the west, illumining tree and shrub and prairie grass. Its gleams struck the silver mountings on the horsemen’s saddles, ran along the barrels of their rifles laid across their knees, and stole under the shadows of their sombreros to light up their faces.

The girl uttered a smothered cry, a sob of joy, and, turning, rushed to the house and up to the darkened room where her sister lay. She ran to the bed and bent over the quiet figure. “Oh, Christine, Christine,” she cried, “he is coming! They are coming!”

Christine raised herself on her elbow. “Who? Who?” she asked in a shaking voice. “What do you mean, Alison?”

“They are coming. At last they are coming. You didn’t know that Neal went, that I sent him, to find Steve, and oh, Christine, he has found him. They are coming.”

“Thank God! Thank God!” Christine tottered to her feet, and the two fell into each other’s arms, weeping hysterically.

Below stairs there was the sound of feet moving across the gallery slowly, as if supporting a burden. “Come, come,” said Alison grasping her sister’s hand. And they went down to find that John, too, had seen the approach of his friends, and with Neal’s assistance was helping Steve into the house. He lay exhausted upon the couch. Christine dropped on her knees beside him. He raised a feeble hand and laid it on her head. “I’ve got here at last, Tina,” he said; “I thought I’d peg out before I did, but Neal kept me up, God bless him.”

Christine had no words; she could only kneel there sobbing. All the pent-up grief of the past years found vent at last. He had come, and although pale and thin and worn, he was safe.

Under a mask of lightness Alison hid her real feelings. She looked at Neal and laughed. “Well, little lady,” he said, “I did it.”

“So I see,” she returned. “Right glad am I to welcome you back again, Sir Artegall.” She backed away towards the door between the rooms.

“And my reward,” said Neal following her up.

“I promised you my hand, didn’t I?” She slipped through the door and swung it together, holding it fast. Presently she opened it a crack, and her hand wearing its ring, appeared. “Here it is,” she said. With a quick movement Neal flung the door open and caught her. Then the door swung to and they passed out into the open air. The soft dusk had settled down suddenly. The jar of night insects was beginning to be heard; dim-winged moths fluttered out from their retreats; from the vine over the porch a mocking-bird sent forth its song. The yellow glory had faded to a tender line of palest light along the west. Alison stood facing it.

“You have given me your hand,” said Neal, “but you know I said I wanted your heart with it.”

Alison, suddenly subdued, and with a memory of those months of long waiting, dropped her flippant manner. “You have it, Neal,” she said very seriously.

“Then you think your knight has won his spurs?”

“All that knight ever won is not too much for you. I don’t care anything more for Sir Artegall. I am perfectly satisfied with Neal Jordan.”

“He is no such hero as you pretend,” said Neal, looking down at her and holding her hands in his. “There’s a good many kinds of sense I haven’t got, Alison, my darling, and I reckon I shall make you mad pretty often on account of what I lack, but I reckon even a smart lawyer couldn’t work out more ways of loving you.”

“As if you needed to tell me that,” she replied. “Is there another man in the world would have had sense enough to find Steve? Come, I want to speak to him, I have had no chance; and we want to hear the story of your adventures before you entirely give up your knightly character.”

“Just a minute longer,” begged Neal.

“No; we shall have a lifetime in most of which we shall have no society but each other’s; let’s be generous now and give some one else a share while we can,” and she ran into the house leaving him to follow.

Christine was sitting quietly by Steve’s side, her hand in his. John was pacing the floor. He stopped his walk as Alison entered, with Neal behind her. “Well, well,” he said, “I am the happiest man alive, to-night.”

“No,” said Neal, putting his arm around Alison. “I am the happiest man.”

“You can’t out-class me,” came from Steve’s corner.

John laughed. “Then it seems we are a jovial crowd all around. I see it’s all right, Neal? The little girl has waked up.”

“She is very wide awake,” answered Alison, “and has been this long time, though she didn’t tell you, you dear old John.”

John held out his hand to his old comrade. “I repeat, that I am the happiest man alive, with the prospect of calling my two best friends my brothers. I’ve been waiting for you to come in, old fellow, so as to hear your story, and Steve’s. I don’t know how these girls feel; they may be satisfied to wait, but I confess I have an attack of curiosity that would do credit to Hannah Maria Haley, and I want to hear your stories.”

“They are pretty much of a oneness,” said Neal, “from the time I struck Steve’s trail. If he isn’t too tuckered out with this day’s journey, let him start in and I’ll come up at the finish.”

“Oh, I can talk now,” said Steve. “I’ve got the rest of time to rest in.”

“Begin back there with the day you left these parts,” said John. “We’ve been waiting three years to know why you didn’t meet us at Denton the day we came in from the States.”

“Then I’ll begin right there,” said Steve. “I was starting home across the prairie that day, when first thing I knew, whiz, came a rope through the air and I was jerked off my horse to the ground. At first I thought it was Injuns, but presently I saw three men, two white men and a Mexican. One swung his rope and made after my horse, Hero, who galloped off at such a pretty pace that he got away. All three men put after him, and I was dragged along the ground till I got pretty sick of it and was as battered as an old cocked hat. Well, as I said, Hero up with his heels and streaked it like the wind, and the fellows didn’t get him. After they had bumped me around till I felt as if my bones had all shifted place, they picked me up and carried me off to a little old cabin in the woods. Then I saw that the three men were Pike Smith, old Cy Sparks and a greaser. It was Pike that had roped me. He had a grudge against me because he had his eye on Hero when I bought him, and I got ahead of him in the deal. He swore then that he’d get even with me, and I ought to have been looking out for trouble. Cy had been so keen for the horse he hadn’t noticed that Pike was amusing himself with playing I was a dog at the end of a string, and he was right smart put out about it; said they weren’t after men, and swore he’d inform on Pike if he tried to get rid of me. Pike told him he reckoned there was information to be given on both sides, and he could send Cy to kingdom come if he chose. They had it hot and heavy for awhile. Pike had a nasty temper and vowed he’d rid the world of me, but Cy finally said he could get Pike’s neck in a halter without implicating himself, and he would do it pretty quick if Pike offered to do me harm. So after a while Pike compromised by saying he was sick of seeing me around anyhow, and he meant to get me out of the country for one while. So they settled on that. An old Mexican woman nursed me like a mother and in two or three days I was packed on a mule and taken along by Pike, and the man, Carlos, with a lot of horses over the border. Cy didn’t go along. I believe his department was the home office. He managed that end of the business, as I understood. We struck out west, keeping out of the way of settlements as much as we could, and seeing nobody to speak to till we got up into the mountains. Most of the horses had been disposed of before then, and the rest were handed over to the pards who were waiting in the mountain camp. They were to take them on further and sell them, Pike waiting there till they got back. It never has been quite clear to me just what Pike’s intentions were towards me, but I think he meant to get rid of me as accidentally as he could. Anyway, we started off again after a few days and hadn’t gone far before one of the men came piling back like he had been shot out of a cannon. He said the gang had been set on by Injuns and every one but himself had been killed, and the horses taken. They were right after him and we’d best get out of the way as quick as we could. His horse was about done for and there wasn’t enough to go around, so as each wanted to save his own neck and I was in Pike’s way anyhow, I was left behind with a pistol, a blanket, and some food that Carlos had the decency to leave me.”

“Ah, but I’m glad I saved him,” said Alison.

“What’s that?” asked Steve.

“Never mind; it is a tame story compared to yours,” replied Alison. “Go on, Steve, unless you are tired.”

“I’ll go on and get through with it. Well, it looked scary for a man who hadn’t anything better’n his own legs to carry him over that country where it was overrun with Injuns, but I jogged along the best I could, dodging the redskins, climbing mountains, swimming streams, killing game for food, and living as it happened. Fortunately I was something of a woodsman and knew some tricks that were of service to me. The Injuns were pretty likely to be skulking about, and once or twice I came on their camp-fires, hardly cold, but I managed to get off scot free. Once I was shot at from the bushes, and once I came near drowning. I reckon nobody ever saw a wilder country, rocks and precipices, cañons, ravines and mountain streams; and all sorts of cattle in the woods: bears, wolves and wild-cats. I wonder I got through alone and with no better weapon than a pistol, and a bowie-knife that one of the men left behind him, there in the camp.”

“My prayers for you were answered,” said Christine, lifting his hand and laying her cheek against it.

“I reckon that was it,” returned Steve simply. “Well, sirs, after a time I happened on a town or two, and learned that if I struck out north I’d reach Santa Fé. I hadn’t gone far before I fell in with some American troops on their way to California. I learned what was going on in that direction and made up my mind to join them. It seemed about the best thing I could do at that time. After a while we met Kit Carson on his way to Washington with despatches from Colonel Stockton, and General Kearney persuaded him to hand over his despatches and said he would have them delivered by a safe hand if Carson would pilot us to California. I was so far from home by this time that I thought I might as well go further and see something of service. I’d made up my mind anyhow to go if the war broke out and one division of the army was as good as another, so I did my best till I was taken prisoner and lay in a nasty Indian village for months. I was rescued just when I thought I had come to the end of my limit, taken to Santa Fé, more dead than alive, and there Neal found me. That’s the story. I reckon I’ll let some one else do the talking now.” He lay back exhausted, and Alison slipped from the room, returning with a glass of fresh milk which he drank eagerly.

“They’re going to spoil me, Neal,” he said; “I can see that.”

“You’ll take right smart of spoiling,” said John, “before you’re where you ought to be.”

“I’m better than I look,” Steve declared. “All I want is a little strength. Suppose you let ’em hear from you, Neal.”

“Well, you know when I started out I hadn’t much to go on,” began Neal. “But I knew one thing; that the last seen of Steve was in the valley of the Guadalupe, not far from Night Creek, and I made for that place as straight as I could, following a trail I found. I got along as well as could be expected, had a good horse, and packed what I could. I didn’t meet any ogres or such creeturs, which wasn’t surprising to me, whatever it may be to some others.” He looked at Alison and laughed.

“Quit your foolishness,” she said. “Go on.”

“I went on. I’ve been going on ever since I left here. Well, sirs, after a time, didn’t I stumble on that very camp of Pike’s? and there he was as large as life and twice as natural, with a gang of about six others. He was as surprised a scamp as ever you did see when I called him by name, but I saw at once that I might as well have struck an Injun camp, and that I’d better get out as quick as I could, so I ponied out between dark and daylight, and came near running full tilt into a band of Injuns, but they weren’t looking for me any more than I was for them, so I lay low and sort of circled around till I came bump upon the camp again. It was a good thing I had the gumption to light out when I did, for if those blamed redskins hadn’t ferreted out that camp and there was every man scalped and as dead as a door-nail.”

“And so the Blatant Beast was killed after all and by another hand than yours,” said Alison.

“I can’t say that I was overcome with grief,” said Neal, “though it wasn’t a pretty company to stay with. Still, when I looked at ’em and thought their mothers would like them to have Christian burial, whatever sort of beasts they were, I concluded it wouldn’t hurt me to stay long enough to get them underground decently. Then I packed the few things the Injuns had left and came on. I knew if Steve had got away at all, he was likely to travel towards Santa Fé and so I set my face in that direction. But if I thought I had left danger behind me I was mistaken, for the mountains are full of the savagest kinds of Indians and that I got through with a whole skin was more by good luck than good management. I was glad enough to get out of the mountains and down into the valley where it was easier traveling. In one of the little towns I got my first clue to Steve. Not many white people had visited them until the Americanos had come with an army to take possession of the country, but there had been one man not long before the big army came; he had no horse, and from what I could learn it seemed possible that it might be Steve. He had traveled towards Santa Fé, so I went on in that direction. After a time I learned that the army had gone towards California, and it seemed to my mind that my best plan was to follow its tracks, for I argued if Steve had reached Santa Fé he would have been home before that, so I turned west again. Pretty soon I got into a detestable piece of country, all sand up-hill one way and sand down-hill the other way; no water anywhere. My horse and I were about done for when we got over it. Then I struck another desert; about the worst piece of country I ever did come on. One spell I thought my poor horse had given out entirely, and that I’d have to call the search off, but I thought of two girls waiting down here in Texas and of Steve somewhere, perhaps, and I got the pluck to go on again.”

“Oh, you dear boy!” exclaimed Christine.

“Whose prayers were at work that time?” came lazily from Steve; and if Alison did not answer in words she did by going over to Neal and taking her place by his side. He put his arm around her with a satisfied sigh.

“This makes up for all,” he said. “Well, sirs, when I reached the California frontier and came to Warner’s rancho I was about as tickled as a mule after he’s got through a day’s packing. There I got information that made me think I’d find Steve, if he had reached California alive, and somehow I couldn’t get it out of my head that he had fallen in with the United States troops and had followed their fortunes; it seemed the most sensible thing. I kept on a moving till I came across a man who had been with the army on that trip. He remembered distinctly the day they had picked up a man traveling afoot; they had all thought it such an unusual occurrence and we made up our minds between us that it was Steve. He would hardly believe I had come all the way from Texas by my lone; said I was some kind of a fool for trying such a journey, and there were times when I could have agreed with him without a question. Well, sirs, there was nothing to be done, that I could see, but to go back to Santa Fé where most of Kearney’s troops were garrisoned, for my military friend assured me that I wouldn’t be likely to find Steve anywhere else. It was right smart of a journey and I wasn’t particularly set on going back alone, but I managed to strike in with a party going that way, and it wasn’t so bad, though it wasn’t specially funny. After I reached Santa Fé I went right to headquarters where I learned that, sure enough, Steve had been one of their scouts and had been captured during one of those uprisings they got up there in New Mexico, and, although the war was over and peace declared, they had only located him recently in one of the little Indian villages, where there were some prisoners that had been kept over. They weren’t certain whether he was alive or not, but said perhaps I could find out from a Captain Owens who had gone out with a company to bring in these prisoners. I wasn’t very long in finding out, though they said at first he wasn’t there, that he had died on the way. I made up my mind I wouldn’t believe that till I had proofs, and at last I found him.”

“Oh, weren’t you glad? Weren’t you glad?” exclaimed Alison.

“If you mean me,” said Steve from his couch, “use some stronger word.”

“If you mean me,” said Neal, “suppose you ask if I didn’t dance a breakdown, if I didn’t let out a yell that scared the town; if I didn’t pop off a dozen good rounds to let ’em see how glad I was. Well, sirs, I had found my man, about as poor, peaked, skinny, yaller, feeble looking a creetur as you’d care to see.”

“Yes, and what do you suppose was the first thing he said to me?” said Steve. “He said, ‘If I had known what a poor miserable cuss I was lookin’ for, I’d have taken a shorter cut, round by a graveyard.’”

“Oh, Neal,” said Alison reproachfully.

Neal laughed, and Steve said: “Bless his old bones, why Allie that was his way of keeping me from knowing just how he did feel. I might have been in that graveyard by this time if it hadn’t been for him. I stood in pretty good need of attention. Neal got leave to take me under his special care, and nursed me day and night. I came near keeling under two or three times, but he finally brought me up standing, and as soon as we thought I could undertake the journey we started. We have had to travel slowly, and I gave out once or twice, but I pulled through. We had set our hearts on getting here to-day, so I rather overdid it, and that is why I am a little the worse for wear now, but I’ll be as peart as a lizard before long.”

“There’s nothing like real unadulterated, triple X happiness as a medicine,” said Neal, “and that’s why I wanted to get you home as quick as I could.”

“But why did we never hear from either of you?” asked Alison.

“That was what worried me more than anything,” said Steve. “I asked old Cy Sparks to let you-all know about me, but he was a slick old party and wasn’t going to tell anything to his own discredit, as I might have known. He said I could get back soon and there would be some way of circumventing Pike. I could see that he had to let Pike have his way to a certain extent, and at that time I didn’t believe but that I would get back in the course of a few weeks at the most. There wasn’t much communication with the States after the war was on, and although I wrote from Los Angeles, I hadn’t much hope that you would get the letter. Of course after I was captured I might as well have been on an island in the Pacific, for all the news I could get to the outside world.”

“And as for me,” said Neal, “there wasn’t much to tell till I actually found Steve, and then he was such a poor triflin’ creetur he didn’t seem worth writin’ about.” By which they understood that so long as Steve’s life hung in the balance, Neal felt it would be poor kindness to raise hopes which, ultimately, might be proved false.

A silence fell upon the little group. From outside came the monotonous chirr of the insects, interrupted at intervals by the song of the mocking-bird thrilling from the vine over the door. “Well, you two have had experiences that would fill a book,” said John, breaking the pause. “I think I must go over and tell Laura. If two are company and three a crowd, what are double two and the odd one?”

“You can answer that conundrum for yourself,” replied Neal. “We’ll take the hint, Alison. Come out and leave that long-legged skeleton to Christine.” But the two they left indoors were scarcely happier than the two who sought the garden and paced love’s way to the music of the mockingbird’s song.

CHAPTER XX
NEW HOMES

THE deserted cabin in the woods was falling into dilapidation; the door, sagging on its hinges, creaked at every gust; wild beasts had stolen within to make it their haunt; and from under the broken roof chittering bats arose as night came on. Yet it was an interesting spot to a little party of riders who cantering through the woods under the swaying mosses which draped the forest trees, paused before the hut one afternoon. Stephen Hayward looked at it with curiosity; Christine turned from it with a shiver. “It is a dreadful place,” she said. “It brings up to me all that dreary time; all your terrible experiences; all the long waiting. Let us ride on.”

“Do you remember this little old place?” Neal was saying.

“Yes, and I really have an affection for it,” answered Alison. “It brings back so vividly that day when you came from the war and when you told me—things.”

“We’ll have to fix it up,” said Neal. “It will be about on the edge of our land, you see; the boundary line comes just to the woods beyond.”

“I am rather glad of it,” she returned, “for all this is familiar ground, and the scene of my adventures. Some of them were not so very pleasant, though, for here I was set upon by the Blatant Beast,” she sighed.

“You needn’t remember him any more.”

“No, for I have a pleasanter recollection. It was just beyond here that I met my knight pricking along. This whole place is full of the material from which I made my dreams, and although I don’t live in dreamland nowadays, it all comes back to me when I come this way. The others are away ahead of us. We must catch up with them. What do you suppose Louisa will name her baby, Neal? I really am quite curious on the subject.”

“Laws, child, I can’t tell. What do you reckon I know about naming babies? If it was a horse, now, I might give a guess.”

Alison laughed. “We’ll soon find out,” she said, “but we must hurry or Christine will get ahead of me.”

They hastened their gait, and before long arrived at Louisa’s door. The place was neat and orderly; a border of flowers bloomed each side the walk; an open gallery had been added to the house, and there they found Louisa already welcoming Steve and Christine. In her arms she held her little baby with its fuzzy red head and blinking blue eyes. It was the first time Alison and Christine had seen the little one since Hannah Maria had brought it in her arms to show them when it was but a few days old.

“We thought we should never get here, to see you, Lou,” said Alison. “Since the boys got back we have been so popular that we have had no time for anything but company. I have been just dying to get hold of that baby. Do let me take her? What shall you call her? Louisa, I suppose.”

“No, Ira says he’s not going to have another Louisa in the family. I’m first and last with him, he says.”

“Now, is that a compliment or isn’t it?” said Alison, taking the baby and looking down at it with interest.

“I reckon he meant it for one,” said Louisa smiling.

“But what do you call her?” asked Christine. “Let me take her, Alison.”

“Oh, let me have her a little while,” returned Alison, sitting down with the child.

“Well,” said Louisa, “I thought it over and I remember that Mis’ Brown was real good to me, though I don’t believe I appreciated it at the time, and I thought it would please her if I give her name to my baby. I always intended to give her yours, Miss Tina, so we’ve called her Miranda Christine, and Ira thinks it’s a fine name.” She spoke proudly and the girls could but agree that it was a fine name.

“Give her straight to me,” said Christine. “She is my namesake.” And Alison reluctantly gave up her charge.

“How is the new house getting on?” asked Louisa. “Ira says they had a big time at the raising.”

“We did have a big time,” said Alison; “I never had more fun in my life. The house is as nice as can be. You must bring the baby and come over to spend the day as soon as you can. We have heaps to tell you. Doesn’t Steve look well? Would you ever believe he was the same man who came back looking so miserable?”

“He does look well,” agreed Louisa. “When is the wedding to be? I have heard we may expect it soon.”

“That’s just what we came over for to-day; to invite you and Ira.”

“What’s that about a wedding?” said a voice at the door.

“Why Hannah Maria, we didn’t know you were here,” said Alison.

“I come over this mornin’,” Hannah Maria told her. “Bud said he’d drap in about supper-time, and I’ve been seein’ to things a little for Lou. I was that sot upon holdin’ the young un to-day I couldn’t res’ till I got over. I think they’ve picked up a real purty name for her. Now, do tell me what about that thar weddin’. Ain’t it goin’ to be a double?” she asked eagerly. “I always did want to see a double, and I’ve been hopin’ you-alls would have one.”

“Well, you are to have your wish,” Christine told her.

“Then I suppose it will be at the Van Dorns’.”

“Yes, it seemed better that way, as we have no parents and Mrs. Van Dorn is so anxious to fill a mother’s place to us. Then, too, it saves us a great deal of trouble and we can have our own house all in order for Laura.”

“An’ Steve’s is all done?”

“Yes, or will be in a few days.”

“And which is goin’ to choose Allie, you or John?” asked Hannah Maria, taking out her snuff stick.

“They won’t either one have her very long,” spoke up Neal, “if I have anything to say. There’ll be another house going up before many days.”

“Did you ever?” exclaimed Hannah Maria, dropping her snuff stick. “Ain’t that interestin’? I declar you-alls fa’r makes my head swim with so much marryin’ an’ givin’ in marriage. Whar you goin’ to build, Neal?”

“Well, I was lucky enough to make an exchange with a man, or rather I had a chance of selling out my claim, and I have taken enough land for a rancho between here and John’s, and when all these wedding doings are over Alison and I are going to pick out a site for our home. I don’t know what sort of a ranchero I shall make, but I see what Ira has accomplished and it gives me courage.”

“I reckon you won’t fail,” said Hannah Maria. “Any man that has the perseverance to go as many hundred miles as you did to find Steve and was as perseverin’ as you was, I ain’t believin’ is goin’ to set down and let his neighbors get ahead of him.”

“Isn’t it fine to think they will be so near?” said Christine. “I don’t think I could forgive Neal, if he were to take our little sister away off where we couldn’t see her.”

“Bud says Texas will fill up real rapid now the war is over,” said Hannah Maria, “and thet it won’t be no time before we’ll be havin’ railroads all about, but I tell him I don’t expect to live to see that.”

“It will come in your day, Hannah Maria,” said Steve.

“I don’t expect it. But now, ain’t all this wonderful? Things does turn out good after all, don’t they? Here we never thought Neal would be Allie’s beau, and it looked one spell like Steve would never be Tina’s. I ain’t got over my gladness an’ surprise about his comin back yet.”

“I told you I should expect you to make my wedding cake, Hannah Maria,” said Steve.

“You shorely did, and I promised I would, so I’ve got to get to work. I’ll see that you get it, Steve. My, but you’ve fleshed up sence you got back,” she exclaimed, looking at him critically. “I never thought you’d pick up so quick when I first saw you. I reckon feastin’ your eyes on Tina done you as much good as feastin’ yer body on wittles. I shouldn’t wonder but you’d get real pusly by the time you’re middle-aged.”

“How about your wedding, Hannah Maria?” asked Steve, turning her remarks from such personalities. “When is that coming off?”

“Laws-a-me, boy, don’t talk about no weddin’ for me. I ain’t see that Bud has picked out his gal yet, and tell he does I ain’t goin’ to think of no bonds of matermony.” She looked at Alison as she spoke and gave a little sigh. No one but herself suspected that it had been a blow to poor Bud to hear that Alison had given her heart to Neal Jordan. Alison never dreamed of Bud’s sentiments towards her. He had never ceased to serve her, to watch out for her interests, to give her a faithful, doglike devotion, and she had been the light of his eyes. Those weeks under his roof had embraced the rosiest hours of his life; all of romance was held within that period, but it never had occurred to him that he could expect her to care for him, and so he had never put the question to a test. She was and always would be the object of his sincerest devotion, but he would never tell it, and only the loving eyes of Hannah Maria observed the truth: that this joyous young creature had won the abiding love of lame Bud Haley.

“And when is Lolita going to take Laura’s place?” asked Hannah Maria, rousing herself after a few minutes devoted to thought and snuff rubbing.

“There is some talk of that,” Alison told her, “though Lolita is perfectly happy as matters are, except for the fact that her father is not well. The old man has failed of late. John says he doesn’t think Pedro is long for this world.”

“That’s what Bud was a-sayin’. Well, it will be a consolation to the old man to know Lolita is provided for.”

“She will not leave him while he needs her,” said Alison.

“The poor old man won’t be needing her long, Ira thinks,” said Louisa. “I always did like old Pedro.”

“He was always as polite as a dancing-master,” said Hannah Maria, “and Bud says he’s real honest, if he is a Mexican.”

“I believe there is some talk of Blythe’s going to New York to study law,” said Alison.

“Laws, now ain’t that just what I say?” remarked Hannah Maria. “I was tellin’ Bud the other day that if Blythe would take a purty wife like Lolita to some other place where they didn’t look down on greasers he’d git along. She’s sprunted up wonderful this last year. You don’t see her always lookin’ like one of them meechin’ pictures the Mexicans pins on their walls. She’s real smiling and lively and she’ll be a credit to him yet.”

“That is what Mrs. Van Dorn thinks. She does hate to give up Blythe, but she thinks he would do better to go somewhere else till he has made a career for himself.”

“And will he git married before he goes?” asked Hannah Maria, eager for all the details.

“It would depend upon whether Lolita could leave her father or whether he would be willing to go with them. Blythe has some money and would not have to think altogether of his profession as his support. All this is only talk as yet, Hannah Maria, so don’t tell it.”

“Oh, I’ll keep it secret,” said Hannah Maria, though she inwardly regretted that she must do so. However, there were exciting events enough on hand to occupy her mind, and she might well spare Blythe’s affairs.

Her desire to behold a double wedding was granted some ten days later when from over the hills, across prairies, along the bayous, gathered guests to witness the ceremony. All was astir in the Van Dorns’ roomy house. Good little Laura looked her best in her white gown specially imported from New York, and Christine, to Steve’s eyes, seemed like some pure sweet angel crowned with pale gold hair and clothed in fleecy white.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” said Alison to Hannah Maria.

“Purty as a pictur,” answered she, “and you ain’t fur from one yourself, Allie. White becomes you mighty well. I reckon Neal will want to step up whilst the preacher’s here without waitin’ till his house is built. Thar comes Lou an’ the baby: I’ve got to go and git ’em a good place.” And she hurried away.

In a few minutes the bridal party was ready to appear before the minister, who was waiting for them at the end of the long room,—John and Laura, Steve and Christine with their attendants, Alison and Neal, Blythe and Lolita. Just at the last moment there was a little bustle outside and Mrs. Van Dorn hastened to receive two guests who were quickly given places of honor, and the ceremony went on. Alison was the first to discover these new arrivals as she turned from giving Christine a kiss. With a little cry of surprise and pleasure she grasped her sister’s arm. “Look, look,” she cried, “there are Aunt Miranda and Uncle Brown!”

It was indeed these two who pressed forward to offer their good wishes. “We have been wanting to make the trip for a long time,” said Aunt Miranda, “and this seemed the right occasion, but we came very near being a day after the fair.”

“It is so good, so very good to have some of our own relations here,” said Christine. “You remember Stephen, Aunt Miranda?”

“I remember him very well, but he was a little boy when I saw him last. Where has your uncle gone, Alison?”

“He is talking to Louisa. She has something she wants to show you, I know, Aunt Miranda.” And Mrs. Brown went with Alison to join her husband, who was looking curiously down into the little puckered face of Louisa’s first-born.

He turned to his wife. “Here is Louisa,” he said. “What do you think she has called this babe?”

“She’s named Miranda Christine, after you and Miss Tina,” said Louisa with pride, “and the preacher is going to christen her after a while.”

Aunt Miranda held out her arms. “It is the first baby ever named after me,” she said in a gratified voice. And Louisa felt that her infant was a person of importance to others beside herself.

Mrs. Van Dorn begged to entertain these lately arrived guests and to have the first week from them, and here began a series of visits which ended only after Alison’s marriage, for Neal was diplomatic enough to get upon the good side of Aunt Miranda, so, at her earnest request, the wedding took place before the good couple returned to their own home. Aunt Miranda so far loosened her purse strings as to offer to furnish the new house for her younger niece, and sent to New Orleans for such things as were required, taking a great interest in them. The house was a good substantial one with two rooms each side a wide gallery, which opened on another running along the back of the house. It overlooked the broad prairie on one side, but was sheltered from the north winds by the woods on the other.

True to her promise, Christine wore the gorgeous piece of embroidery, set in a gown, at her sister’s wedding, which took place in her brother’s house. It was a simpler affair than the other, but no one who saw the bride doubted that she was as happy a one as her sister.

It was on a lovely autumn day that Alison Jordan went forth to her new home. Out of her dreams had passed visions of knights and ladies, of moated castles and milk-white palfreys. She was entering a different world, the centre of which was that home to which she was going. There was to be a house-warming that evening, but she and Neal had started out alone to spend their first free hours under their own roof, and to make ready for those who should come later; first the helpers, Christine, Laura and Louisa, and then the company. This would be a somewhat mixed one, it is true, but all would bear good-will, rough though many might appear, inelegant of speech and astonishingly arrayed. Texan rangers and rancheros, loud of voice and ready for any sort of horse play; matrons and maids with the inevitable snuff stick; but not one among them who would not go to any lengths to do a neighborly service. Annamela Stuckett, bedizened beyond all conscience, Eliza Jane Binney, with hair curled on a hot poker, Hannah Maria in the gayest of calicoes and with her flashy breastpin fastening a collar much awry and none too clean, all these would be there, but Bud would be absent, as he had been from the wedding. Alison wondered a little when Hannah Maria told her that Bud had gone to a distant rancho on business, for when before had Bud missed an opportunity for a frolic? But she was too happy to waste many moments in regretting her friend’s absence. In contrast to these neighbors would be Mrs. Van Dorn in her quiet black silk, Aunt Maria similarly attired, and dignified Uncle Brown. Alison named them all over as she stood upon the step before her own door and waited for Neal to return from turning out the horses. One and all would have nothing in their hearts but love for her, and above all was the love of him whose home she had promised herself to make a happy one. Not her home alone, but his also, his harbor and refuge from the storms of the outside world. It was for her to keep the light of this home burning very brightly that his steps might be guided aright. It was not only her own happiness that she must look for, but his. His sorrows must be her sorrows, his cares hers. It must be share and share alike if she would fulfil the promise made to herself and to him. She watched him coming towards her, a smile of complete content upon his face. “We will go in together,” she said as she gave him her hand.

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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

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Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- A FRONTIER KNIGHT
- CONTENTS
- CHAPTER I THE OLD KENTUCKY HOME
- CHAPTER II FIDGETTY LOU
- CHAPTER III THE CHASE
- CHAPTER IV OFF TO THE WAR
- CHAPTER V IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT
- CHAPTER VI FIDGETTY LOU MAKES A DISCOVERY
- CHAPTER VII WHEN IRA WAS “SKEERED”
- CHAPTER VIII ANOTHER ADVENTURE FOR ALISON
- CHAPTER IX WITH HANNAH MARIA
- CHAPTER X A RAFFLE
- CHAPTER XI LOU’S WEDDING
- CHAPTER XII A CLUE
- CHAPTER XIII NEAL’S LETTER
- CHAPTER XIV WHY BLYTHE WAS LATE
- CHAPTER XV SIR KNIGHT
- CHAPTER XVI A NORTHER
- CHAPTER XVII ALISON AWAKES
- CHAPTER XVIII LOLITA
- CHAPTER XIX THE RETURN OF SIR ARTEGALL
- CHAPTER XX NEW HOMES
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE