"Well, I should think so! We were all in love with him at the Fort. Mrs. Sneath says he has given up medicine, and—I believe it's something of a secret, but it doesn't matter in this far-out corner of the world—he is something of a writer—a writer of fiction. The way I heard it was through the Captain, who used to know him at college. He says that the Stuart, as you call him, is most likely out here studying up material for some work—a novel, may be. Wouldn't you love to read it?"
"I can't say unless I have some idea of the class of work. What has he done?"
It was Rachel who was the questioner, and who, in the light of a reasonable cause for his presence in the Kootenai, felt herself all in a moment a bit of a fool for some of her old fancies.
"I don't know—wish I did," said Miss Fred promptly. "He writes under an assumed name. Mrs. Sneath wouldn't tell me, for fear I'd bother him about it, I suppose; but if he comes up here to camp, I'll find out before he leaves—see if I don't."
"He is not likely to pay a visit up here in this season of the year," remarked Rachel. "I thought he was going East from Owens."
"He did talk like that when he first went down there, and that's what made Captain Sneath decide he was studying up the country; for all at once he said he might stay out West all winter, and seemed to take quite an interest in the Indian question—made friends with all the scouts down there, and talked probabilities with even the few 'good' Indians about the place. He told me he might see me again, if I was coming up with the company. So he is studying up something out here—sure."
Nobody answering this speculation, she was silent a bit, looking at Rachel, who had picked up a book off the table; and then she began to laugh.
"Well—" and Rachel glanced over at her, noting that she looked both amused and hesitating—"well, what is it?"
"I was only thinking how—how funny it would be if you happened to be that 'something.'"
But Rachel's answering laugh, as she pushed the book away, signified that it was the least probable of all fancies.
"It is you who should write romances, instead of the Stuart," she replied—"you and Tillie here. She has a good deal of the same material in her—that of a match-maker. She has spied out life-partners for me in all sorts of characters out here, from Davy MacDougall down to Jim. They are wonderfully anxious to get rid of me."
Just outside the gate, the blue of military garb showed the coming of the usual afternoon callers from Camp Kootenai, among them the Major, commander of the company, the only occasional rebel being his petite non-commissioned officer in petticoats. A tall young fellow in lieutenant's uniform halted on his way out to exchange greeting; and if the daughter complained of the young soldier's lack of deference, the father had no reason to, for in his eyes, as he saluted, shone something nearer affection than mere duty—a feeling that he shared with every man in the command, for Major Dreyer was a universal favorite.
"No later news of that scout, Genesee?" asked the younger as they separated.
"No; but we can expect him soon now for that red shadow of his, Kalitan, just loped into camp. And, by the way," added the older officer, "he mentioned that he passed our friend Stuart back at the settlement. He is coming up this way again."
"Tell Miss Fred that, Major. When I saw her, an hour ago, she needed something to put her in a good humor."
"Ah! Good-evening, Lieutenant."
"Good-evening, Major."
The minute the subordinate's back was turned, Miss Fred, with a running jump that would have done Jim credit, landed almost on the Major's shoulder. He gave her a ferocious hug, and dropped her plump on her feet with a stern—
"Attention!"
Quick as light the little hand was raised in salute, and the little figure gathered together its scattered dignity to make a soldierly appearance.
"Private Dreyer, I have been met on the outposts with a message telling me of a disorganized temper that should belong to your command. What have you to say for yourself?"
Instantly the role of the soldier was dropped, and that of the girl with a temper took its place.
"Oh, he told you, did he?" she asked, with a wrathful glance at the figure retreating toward camp. "Well, just wait until I go riding with him again! He's called me a camp follower, and—and everything else that was uncivil."
"Ah! And what did you do?"
"I? Why nothing, of course."
"Nothing?"
"Well, I did threaten to go over and turn them out of the cabin that was built for me, but—"
"But that was a mere trifle in this tropical climate. I've no doubt it would do them good to sleep under the stars instead of a roof; and then it would give you an opportunity to do some wholesale nursing, if they caught colds all around."
"Just as if I would!"
"Just as if you would not! And Lieutenant Murray would come in for the worse medicine and the biggest doses."
"If his constitution is equal to his impudence, it would take stupendous doses to have any effect. I wish he could be sent back to the Fort."
"Won't sending him up among the Indians do just as well?"
"Y-yes. Are you going to, papa?"
"Ah! now you grow inquisitive."
"I do think," said Tillie, "you all plague her a great deal."
"They just treat me as if I was a joke instead of a girl," complained Fred. "They began it before I was born by giving me a boy's name, and it's been kept up ever-since."
"Never mind, Baby," he said soothingly; "if I had not made a boy of you I could not have had you with me, so the cause was vital."
They both laughed, but it was easy to see that the cause was vital to them, and their companionship very much of a necessity. Its interruptions since her babyhood had been few and short, and her education, picked up on the frontier, had taught her that in the world there was just one place for her—in the saddle, and beside her father, just as her mother had ridden beside him before Fred was born.
* * *
CHAPTER VII.
"A WOMAN WHO WAS LOST—LONG AGO!"
The next morning, bright and early, Kalitan called at the ranch; and Miss Fred, accustomed as she was to the red men, grew rather enthusiastic over this haughty, graceful specimen, who gave her one glance at the door and walked past her into the house—as she afterward described it, "just as if she had been one of the wooden door-posts."
"Rashell Hardy?" was all he said; and without more ado Miss Fred betook herself up the stairs to do his implied bidding and hunt Miss Hardy.
"I rather think it's the grand mogul of all the Kootenais," she said, in announcing him. "No, he didn't give any card; but his personality is too striking to be mistaken, if one has ever seen him or heard him speak. He looked right over my head, and made me feel as if I was about two feet high."
"Young Indian?"
"Yes, but he looks like a young faun. That one never came from a scrub race."
"I'll ask him to stay to dinner," laughed Rachel; "if anything will cure one of a tendency to idealize an Indian, it is to see him satisfying the inner man. Come down and talk to him. It is Kalitan."
"Oh, it is Kalitan, is it? And pray what it is that—a chief rich in lineage and blooded stock? His assurance speaks of wealth and power, I should say, and his manner shows one a Fenimore Cooper spirit come to life. How am I as a guesser?"
"One of the worst in the world. Kalitan is really a handsome humbug in some ways. That superb manner of his is the only stock in trade he possesses beyond his swift feet; but the idea of importance he manages to convey speaks wonders for his strength of will. Come along!"
"Klahowya, Rashell Hardy?" he said; and stepping solemnly forward, shook her hand in a grave, ceremonious fashion. Rachel told him the other lady was her friend, by way of introduction, and he widened his mouth ever so little in a smile, but that was the only sign of acknowledgement he gave; and when Rachel spoke to him in English he would not answer, but sat stolidly looking into the fire until she saw what was wrong and addressed
him in Chinook. "Rashell Hardy need not so soon forget," he reminded her briefly; and then went on with his speech to her of where he had been; the wonders he had done in the way of a runner, and all else of self-glorification that had occurred in the past months. Many times the name of his chief was uttered in a way that impressed on a listener the idea that among the troops along the frontier there were two men who were really worthy of praise—a scout and a runner. "Kalitan tired now—pretty much," he wound up, as a finale; "come up Kootenai country to rest, may be, while spring comes. Genesee he rest, too, may be—may be not."
"Where, Kalitan?"
"S'pose camp—s'pose may be Tamahnous cabin; not here yet."
"Coming back?"
Kalitan nodded, and arose.
"Come see you, may be, sometime, often," he said as if conferring a special honor by promised visits; and then he stalked out as he had stalked in, only checking his gait at sight of Aunty Luce coming in from the kitchen with a dish of cold meat. She nearly dropped it in her fright, and closed her eyes in silent prayer and terror; when she opened them the enemy had left the porch.
"Good Lawd, Miss Rache!" she gasped. "He's skeered me before bad enough, but this the fust time he evah stopped stock an' glare at me! I's gwine to complain to the milantary—I is, shuah."
"You are a great old goose!" said Rachel brusquely. "He wasn't looking at you, but at that cold meat."
There seemed a general gathering of the clans along the Kootenai valley that winter. With the coming north of Genesee had come the troops, then Kalitan, then their mercurial friend of the autumn—the Stuart; and down from Scot's Mountain came Davy MacDougall, one fair day, to join the circle that was a sort of reunion. And among the troops were found many good fellows who were so glad of an evening spent at the ranch that never a night went by without a party gathered there.
"The heft o' them does everything but sleep here," complained Aunty Luce; "an' all the other ones look jealous 'cause Mr. Stuart does that."
For Hardy and his wife had insisted on his stopping with them, as before, though much of his time was spent at the camp. There was something about him that made him a companion much desired by men; Rachel had more opportunity to observe this now than when their circle was so much smaller. That gay good-humor, with its touches of serious feeling, and the delicate sympathy that was always alive to earnest emotion—she found that those traits were keys to the hearts of men as well as women; and a smile here, a kind word there, or a clasp of the hand, were the only arts needed to insure him the unsought friendship of almost every man in the company.
"It's the gift that goes wi' the name," said MacDougall one day when someone spoke of the natural charm of the man's manner. "It's just that—no less. No, o' course he does na strive for it; it's but a bit o' nature. A blessin', say you, Miss? Well, mayhaps; but to the old stock it proved but a curse."
"It seems a rather fair life to connect the idea of a curse with," remarked the Major; "but I rather think he has seen trouble, too. Captain Sneath said something to that effect, I believe—some sudden death of wife and children in an epidemic down in Mexico."
"Married! That settles the romance," said Fred; "but he is interesting, anyway, and I am going immediately to find out what he has written and save up my money to buy copies."
"I may save you that expense in one instance," and Rachel handed her the book Stuart had sent her. Tillie looked at her in astonishment, and Fred seized it eagerly.
"Oh, but you are sly!" she said, with an accusing pout; "you've heard me puzzling about his work for days and never gave me a hint."
"I only guessed it was his, he never told me; but this morning I charged him with it, and he did not deny. I do not think there is any secret about it, only down at the Fort there were several ladies, I believe, and—and some of them curious—"
"You're right," laughed the Major; "they would have hounded him to death. Camp life is monotonous to most women, and a novelist, especially a young, handsome fellow, would have been a bonanza to them. As it was, they tried to spoil him; and look here!" he said suddenly, "see that you say nothing of his marriage to him, Babe. As he does not mention it himself, it may be that the trouble, or—well, just remember not to broach the subject."
"Just as if I would!" said his daughter after he had left. "Papa never realizes that I have at all neared the age of discretion. But doesn't it seem strange to think of Mr. Stuart being married? He doesn't look a bit like it."
"Does that state of existence impress itself so indelibly on one's physical self?" laughed Rachel.
"It does—mostly," affirmed Fred. "They get settled down and prosy, or else—well, dissipated."
"Good gracious! Is that the effect we are supposed to have on the character of our lords and masters?" asked Mrs. Hardy unbelievingly.
"Fred's experience is confined to barrack life and its attendant evils. I don't think she makes allowance for the semi-artistic temper of the Stuart. He strikes me as having just enough of it to keep his heart always young, and his affections too—on tap, as it were."
"What queer ideas you have about that man!" said Fred suddenly. "Don't you like him?"
"I would not dare say no with so many opposing me."
"Oh, you don't know Rachel. She is always attributing the highest of virtues or the worst of vices to the most unexpected people," said Tillie. "I don't believe she has any feeling in the question at all, except to get on the opposite side of the question from everyone else. If she would own up, I'll wager she likes him as well as the rest of us."
"Do you, Rachel?" But her only answer was a laugh. "If you do, I can't see why you disparage him."
"I did not."
"Well, you said his affections were always on tap."
"That was because I envy him the exhaustless youth such a temperament gives one. Such people defy time and circumstances in a way we prosaic folks can never do. It is a gift imparted to an artist, to supply the lack of practical ingredients that are the prime ones to the rest of creation."
"How you talk! Why, Mr. Stuart is not an artist!"
"Isn't he? There are people who are artists though they never draw a line or mix a color; but don't you think we are devoting a great deal of time to this pill-peddler of literary leanings?"
"You are prejudiced," decided Fred. "Leanings indeed! He has done more than lean in that direction—witness that book."
"I like to hear him tell a story, if he is in the humor," remarked Tillie, with a memory of the cozy autumn evenings. "We used to enjoy that so much before we ever guessed he was a story-teller by profession."
"Well, you must have had a nice sort of a time up here," concluded Fred; "a sort of Tom Moore episode. He would do all right for the poet-prince—or was it a king? But you—well, Rachel, you are not just one's idea of a Lalla."
"You slangy little mortal! Go and read your book."
Which she did obediently and thoroughly, to the author's discomfiture, as he was besieged with questions that taxed his memory and ingenuity pretty thoroughly at times.
He found himself on a much better footing with Rachel than during his first visit. It may have been that her old fancy regarding his mission up there was disappearing; the fancy itself had always been a rather intangible affair—a fabrication wrought by the shuttle of a woman's instinct. Or, having warned Genesee—she had felt it was a warning—there might have fallen from her shoulders some of the responsibility she had so gratuitously assumed. Whatever it was, she was meeting him on freer ground, and found the association one of pleasure.
"I think Miss Fred or your enlarged social circle has had a most excellent influence on your temper," he said to her one day after a ride from camp together, and a long, pleasant chat. "You are now more like the girl I used to think you might be—the girl you debarred me from knowing."
"But think what an amount of time you had for work in those days that are forfeited now to dancing attendance on us women folk!"
"I do not dance."
"Well, you ride, and you walk, and you sing, and tell stories, and manage at least to waste lots of time when you should be working."
"You have a great deal of impatience with anyone who is not a worker, haven't you?"
"Yes," she said, looking up at him. "I grow very impatient myself often from the same cause."
"You always seem to me to be very busy," he answered half-vexedly; "too busy. You take on yourself responsibilities in all directions that do not belong to you; and you have such a way of doing as you please that no one about the place seems to realize how much of a general manager you are here, or how likely you are to overburden yourself."
"Nonsense!"
She spoke brusquely, but could not but feel the kindness in the penetration that had given her appreciation where the others, through habit, had grown to take her accomplishments as a matter of course. In the beginning they had taken them as a joke.
"Pardon me," he said finally. "I do not mean to be rude, but do you mind telling me if work is a necessity to you?"
"Certainly not. I have none of that sort of pride to contend with, I hope, and I have a little money—not much, but enough to live on; so, you see, I am provided for in a way."
"Then why do you always seem to be skirmishing around for work?" he asked, in a sort of impatience. "Women should be home-makers, not—"
"Not prospectors or adventurers," she finished up amiably. "But as I have excellent health, average strength and understanding, I feel they should be put to use in some direction. I have not found the direction yet, and am a prospector meanwhile; but a contented, empty life is a contemptible thing to me. I think there is some work intended for us all in the world; and," she added, with one of those quick changes that kept folks from taking Rachel's most serious meanings seriously—"and I think it's playing it pretty low down on Providence to bluff him on an empty hand."
He laughed. "Do you expect, then, to live your life out here helping to manage other people's ranches and accumulating that sort of Western logic in extenuation?"
She did not answer for a little; then she said:
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