The night he had talked with her first in Akkomi’s tepee, and afterward in the morning by the river, he had promised to be satisfied with what she chose to tell him of herself, and ask no questions of her past. But since the insinuations of Harris and her own peculiar words and manner, he discovered that the promise was not easy to keep—especially when Lyster besieged him with questions; for ’Tana had spent the day utterly alone, but for the ministrations of Mrs. Huzzard. She would not see even the doctor, as she said she was not sick. She would not see Overton, Lyster, or any one else, because she said she did not want to talk; she was tired, and that reason must suffice. It did for Lyster, especially after he had received a nod, a smile, and a wave of her hand from her window—a circumstance he related hopefully to Overton, as it banished the lingering fear in his mind that her exile was one caused by absolute illness.
“I candidly believe, Dan, that she is simply ashamed of having fainted before us last evening—fancies it looks weak, I suppose; and she does pride herself so on her ungirlish strength. I’ve no doubt she will emerge from her seclusion to-morrow morning, and expect us to ignore her sentimental swoon. How is your other patient?”
“Better.”
“Much?”
“Well, just the difference of turning his eyes quickly toward a thing, instead of slowly, as at first. The doctor just told me he is able to move his head slightly, so I guess he is not to go under this trip. But he’ll never be a well man again.”
“Rather heavy on you, old fellow, that you feel bound to look after him. I can’t see the necessity of it. Why don’t you let the rest of the camp—”
But Overton had turned away and resumed his walk. Lyster stared at him in wonder for a moment and then laughed.
“All right, Rothschild,” he observed. “You know the depth of your own purse best. But, to tell the truth, you don’t act like your own responsible self to-day. You go moping around as though the other fellow’s stroke had touched you, too. You are a great fellow, Dan, to take other people’s loads on your shoulders; but it is a bad habit, and you’d better reform.”
“I will, when I have time,” returned Overton, with a grim smile. “Just now I have other things to think of. Don’t mind me.”
“I sha’n’t. I confess I don’t mind any of you very much since I saw the cheery vision of your protégée at the window—and waving her hand to me, too; the first bit of sunshine I’ve seen in camp to-day. For the average specimen I’ve run across has looked to me like you—glum.”
Receiving no reply whatever to this criticism, he strolled away after a smiling glance upward to ’Tana’s window. But no girlish hand waved greeting to him this time, and he comforted himself by humming, “My Love is but a Lassie Yet.” This was a mischievous endeavor to attract Overton’s attention and make him say something, even though the something should prove uncomplimentary to the warbler.
But it was a failure. Overton only thrust his hands a little deeper in his pockets as he stared after the handsome, light-hearted fellow. Of course, it would be Max to whom she would wave her hand; and he was glad somebody felt like singing, though he himself could not. His mind was too much tormented by the thoughts of those two who formed a nucleus for the hospital already contemptuously alluded to by the captain.
And those two?
One sat almost motionless, as he had been for the twenty-four hours. But as Mrs. Huzzard and the captain left his room, each spoke hopefully of his appearance. Mrs. Huzzard especially was very confident his face showed more animation than she had observed at her noonday visit; and the fact that he could move his head and nod in reply to questions certainly did seem to promise recovery.
In the adjoining room, close to the very thin partition, ’Tana lay with ears strained to catch each word of the conversation. But when her door was opened by Mrs. Huzzard, all semblance of interest was gone, and she lay on the little bed with closed eyes.
“I’m right glad she’s taking a nap at last,” said the good soul as she closed the door softly. “That child scarce slept a bit all night, and I know it. Curious how nervous she got over that man’s troubles. But, of course, he did look awful at first, and nigh about scared me.”
’Tana lay still till the steps died away on the stairs, and the voices were heard more faintly on the lower floor. All the day she had waited for the people to leave the stranger in the next room alone; and, for the first time, no voice of visitors broke the silence of the upper floor.
She slipped to the door and listened. Her movements were stealthy as that of some forest animal evading a hunter. She turned the knob softly, and with still swiftness was inside the stranger’s room, and the door closed behind her.
He certainly was more alert, for his eyes met hers instantly. His look was almost one of fear, and she was trembling visibly.
“I had to come,” she said, nervously, in a half whisper, “I heard the letters read, and I have to tell you something I’ve thought all night—all day—and I have to tell you. Do you understand? Try to understand. Nod your head if you do. Do you?”
Her speech was rapid and impatient, while she listened each moment lest a step sound on the stairs again. But in all her eagerness to hear she never looked away from his face, and she uttered a low exclamation of gladness when the man’s head bent slowly in assent.
“Oh, I am so glad—so glad! You will get well; you must! Listen! I know you now, and why you looked at me so. You think you saw me up at Revelstoke—I think I remember your face there—and you don’t trust me. You are looking for that man—the man that took her away from you. You think I could find a trail to him; but you are wrong. He is dead, and I know she is—I know! Your name was the last word she said—‘Joe.’ She wanted you to forgive her, and not cross his path. You don’t believe me, perhaps; but it is all true. I went to the camp with—with the boy she wrote of. She talked of you to me. I had word to give you if we ever met. But how was I to know that Jim Harris was the man—the same man? Do you hear—do you believe me?”
Those burning eyes—eyes in which all of life in him seemed concentrated—looked out on her from the pale, strange face; looked on her until her own cheeks grew colorless, for there was something awful in the searching regard of the man who was but half alive.
“See!” she said, and slipped from her belt a package in which paper rustled, “I’ve had that plan of the gold find ever since—since she died. She gave it to me, in case you should be—as you are, and no one to look after it for you. Or, if you should go under, she said, I was to look it up. And I started to look it up—yes, I did; but things were against me, and I let it go for a while. But now, listen! If you get well, it means money must do it. See? Dan hasn’t very much—not enough to float you long. Now, I’ve thought it all out. You give up the notion of looking for that man, who wasn’t worth a shot of powder when he was alive, and worth less now. It’s that notion that’s been eating the life out of you. Oh, I’ve thought it all out! Now you just turn honest prospector, like you was when that man Ingalls first spotted you. I’m only a girl, but I’ll try to help make amends for the wrongs he did you. I’ll go partners with you. Look! here is the plan; and I’m almost sure I know where the two little streams meet. I’ve thought of it a heap; but the face of—of that dead girl, kept me from doing anything till I had either found you or knew you were dead. No one knows I have the plan—though he would have cut throats for it. Now do you trust me?”
She held the plan up so he could see it—a queer puzzle of lines and dots; but a glance sufficed, and he turned his eyes again to the face of the girl. Her eagerness, her intensity, awakened him to trust and sympathy. He looked at her and nodded his head.
“Oh, I knew you would!” she breathed, thankfully. “And I’ll stand by you—you’ll see! I’ve wanted a chance like this—a chance to make up for some of the devilment he’s done to folks—and some he’s made me help at. You know who I am, but none of the rest do—and they sha’n’t. I’m a new girl now. I want to make up
for some of the badness that has been. It’s all over; but sometimes I hate the blood in my veins because—you know! And if I can only do some good—”
She paused, for the eyes of the paralyzed man had moved from her face, and were resting on something back of her.
It was Overton! He entered and closed the door, and stood looking doubtful and astonished, while ’Tana rose to her feet trembling and a little pale.
“How long—were you there?” she demanded, angrily.
He looked at her very steadily before making reply—such a curious, searching look that she moved uneasily because of it; but her face remained defiant.
“I just now opened the door,” he said at last, speaking in a slow, deliberate way. “I slipped here as quietly as I could, because they told me you were asleep, and I must not make a noise. I got here just as you were telling this man that no one but him should know who you were before you came among us—that is all, I guess.”
She had sat down on a seat close to Harris, and dropped her face in her hands.
Overton stood with his back against the door, looking down at her. In his eyes was a keen sorrow as she sat down in that despairing fashion, and crept close to the stranger as though for refuge from him.
“I might have avoided telling what I heard,” he continued; “but I don’t think that would be quite square among friends. Then, as I see you have found a new acquaintance here, I thought maybe you would have something to tell me if you knew what I heard you say to him.”
But, kindly as his words were, she seemed to shrink from them.
“No; I can’t. Oh, Mr. Dan, I can’t—I can’t,” she muttered, with her head still bowed on the arm of the chair occupied by Harris. “If you can’t trust me any more, I can’t blame you. But I can’t tell you—that’s all.”
“Then I’ll just go down stairs again,” he decided, “and you can finish your talk with Harris. I’ll keep the rest of the folks from interrupting you as I did. But if you want me, little girl, you know I’ll not be far away.”
The tears came in her eyes. His persistent kindness to her made her both ashamed and glad, and she reached out her hand.
“Wait,” she said, “maybe I have something to tell you,” and she unfolded the paper again and showed it to Harris.
“Shall I tell him? Would you rather he would be the man to do the business?” she asked. “You know I’m willing, but I don’t know enough myself. Do you want him to be the man?”
Harris nodded his head.
With a look of relief on her face, she turned to Overton, who watched them wonderingly.
“What sort of man is it you want? or what is it you want to tell me?”
“Only that I’ve found a plan of the ground where he made that rich find the letter told of,” she answered, with a bit of a tremble in her voice. “He’s never been able to look after it himself, and was afraid to trust any one. But now—”
“And you have the plan—you, ’Tana?”
“Yes, I have it. I think I even know where the place is located. But—don’t ask me anything about how I got the plan. He knows, and is satisfied—that is all.”
“But, ’Tana, I don’t understand. You are giving me surprises too thick this evening. If he has found a rich yield of ore, and has taken you into partnership, it means that you will be a rich woman. A streak of pay ore can do more for you than a ranger like myself; so I guess you can afford to drop me.”
Her face fell forward in her hands again. The man in the chair looked at her and then turned his eyes pleadingly to the other man, who remained standing close to the door.
Overton recognized the pleading quality of the glance, and was filled with amazement by it. Witchery seemed to have touched the stranger when paralysis touched him, else he would not so quickly have changed from his suspicion of the girl into that mute pleading for her.
She was trying so hard to keep back the tears, and in the effort her jaws were set and her brows drawn together stormily. She looked to him as she had looked in the lodge of Akkomi.
“You don’t trust me,” she said at last; “that’s why you won’t help us. But you ought to, for I’ve never lied to you. If it’s because I’m in it that you won’t have anything to do with the mine, I’ll leave. I won’t bother you about that school. I won’t bother you about anything. I’ll help locate the place if—if Joe here is willing; and then you two can be partners, and I’ll be out of it, for I can trust you to take care of him, and see that the money does what it can for him. I can trust you if you can’t me. So you are the one to speak up. What is your answer?”
* * *
CHAPTER XII.
PARTNERS.
“Well, I’ve been a ’hoodoo’ all my, life; and if I only lead some one into luck now—good luck—oh, wouldn’t I learn a sun-dance, and dance it!”
The world was two weeks older, and it was ’Tana who spoke; not the troubled ’Tana who had crouched beside the paralytic and cowered under her fear of Overton’s distrust, but a girl grown lighter-hearted by the help of work to be done—work in which she was for once to stand side by side with Overton himself, for his decision about the prospecting had been in her favor. He had “spoken up,” as she had asked him to do, and a curious three-cornered partnership had been arranged the next day; a very mysterious partnership, of which no word was told to any one. Only ’Tana suddenly decided that the schooling must wait a little longer. Lyster would have to make the trip to Helena without her; she was not feeling like it just then, and so forth.
Therefore, despite the very earnest arguments of Mr. Lyster, he did have to go alone. During all the journey, he was conscious of a quite unreasonable disappointment, an impatience with even Overton, for not enforcing his authority as guardian, and insisting that she at once commence the many studies in which she was sadly deficient.
But Overton had stood back and said nothing. Lyster did not understand it, and could not succeed in making either of them communicative.
“You’ll be back here in less than a month,” said Overton. “We will send her then, if she feels equal to it. In the meantime, we’ll take the best care we can of her here at the Ferry. I find I will have time to look after her a little until then. I have only one short trip to make up the river; so don’t get uneasy about her. She’ll be ready to go next run you make, sure.”
So Lyster wondered, dissatisfied, and went away. He was even a little more dissatisfied with his last memory of the girl—a vision of her bending over that unknown, helpless miner. His sympathies were with the man. He was most willing to assist, in a financial way, toward taking care of one so unfortunate. But the thing he was not willing to do was to see ’Tana devote herself without restraint to the welfare of a stranger—a man they knew nothing of—a fellow who, of course, could have no appreciation of the great luck he was in to have her constantly beside him. It was a clean waste of exceptionable sympathy; and a squaw, or some miner out of work, would do as well in this case.
He even offered to pay for a squaw, or for any masculine nurse; but the girl had very promptly suggested that he busy himself with his own duties, if he had any. She stated further that he had no control whatever over her actions, and she could not understand—
“I know I have none,” he retorted, with some impatience, and yet a good deal of fondness in his handsome eyes. “That is why I’m complaining. I wish I had. And if I had, wouldn’t I whisk you away from this uncouth life! I wonder if you will ever let me do so, Tana?”
“I think you’d better be packing your plunder,” she remarked, coolly. “If you don’t, you’ll keep the whole outfit waiting.”
And that was how they let even Lyster go away. Not a hint was he given of the all-engrossing plan that bound both ’Tana and Overton to the interests of the passive stranger, who looked at them with intelligence, but who could not speak.
Their partnership was a curious affair, and the arrangement for interests in it was conducted on the one side by nods or shakes of the head, while
the other two offered suggestions, and asked questions, until a very clear understanding was arrived at.
Only one knotty discussion had arisen. Overton offered to give one month of time to the search, on condition that one half of the find, if there was any made, should belong to ’Tana, while the original finder should have the other half. He himself would give that much time to helping them out in a friendly way; but more than that he could not give, because of other duties.
To this the man Harris shook his head with all possible vigor, while ’Tana was quite as emphatic in an audible way. Harris desired that all shares be equal, and Overton count himself in for a third. ’Tana approved the plan, insisting that she would not accept an ounce of the dust if he did not. So Dan finally agreed and ended the discussion concerning the division of the gold they might never find.
“And don’t be so dead sure that the dirt will pan out well, even if we do find the place,” he said, warningly, to ’Tana. “Why, my girl, if the average of dust had been as high as my average of hope over strikes I’ve made myself, I would have been a billionaire long ago.”
That Girl Montana Page 13