That Girl Montana
it--than it is to send a soul out of the world, to meet heaven, if it
deserves it. There are times when murder is justifiable, but there are
certain other crimes that nothing could ever justify."
"Why, 'Tana!" and Mrs. Huzzard looked at her helplessly. But Miss Slocum
gave the girl a more understanding regard.
"You speak very bitterly for a young girl; as if you had thought a great
deal on this question."
"I have," she acknowledged, promptly; "you think it is not a very nice
question for girls to study about, don't you? Well, it isn't nice, but
it's true. I happen to be one of the souls dragged into life by people who
didn't think they had responsibilities. Miss Slocum, maybe that is why I
am extra bitter on the subject."
"But not--not against your parents, 'Tana?" said Mrs. Huzzard, in dismay.
The girl's mouth drew hard and unlovely at the question.
"I don't know much about religion," she said, after a little, "and I don't
know that it matters much--now don't faint, Mrs. Huzzard! but I'm pretty
certain old married men who had families were the ones who laid down the
law about children in the Bible. They say 'spare the rod and spoil the
child,' and then say 'honor your father and mother.' They seem to think it
a settled thing that all fathers and mothers are honorable--but they
ain't; and that all children need beating--and they don't."
"Oh, 'Tana!"
"And I think it is that one-sided commandment that makes folks think that
all the duty must go from children to the parents, and not a word is said
of the duty people owe to the souls they bring into the world. I don't
think it's a square deal."
"A square deal! Why, 'Tana!"
"Isn't it so?" she asked, moodily. "You think a girl is a pretty hard case
if she doesn't give proper respect and duty to her parents, don't you? But
suppose they are the sort of people no one can respect--what then? Seems
to me the first duty is from the parent to the children--the duty of
caring for them, loving them, and teaching them right. A child can't owe a
debt of duty when it never received the duties it should have first. Oh, I
may not say this clearly as I feel it."
"But you know, 'Tana," said Miss Slocum, "that if there is no commandment
as to parents giving care to their children, it is only because it is so
plainly a natural thing to do that it was unnecessary to command it."
"No more natural than for a child to honor any person who is honorable, or
to love the parent who loves him, and teaches him rightly. Huh! If a child
is not able to love and respect a parent, it is the child who loses the
most."
Miss Slocum looked at her sadly.
"I can't scold you as I would try to scold many a one in your place," she
said, "for I feel as if you must have traveled over some long, hard path
of troubles, before you could reach this feeling you have. But, 'Tana,
think of brighter things; young girls should never drift into those
perplexing questions. They will make you melancholy if you brood on such
things."
"Melancholy? Well, I think not," and she smiled and shrugged her
shoulders. "Seems to me I'm the least gloomy person in camp this morning.
All the rest of you look as though Mr. Holly had been your bosom friend."
She talked recklessly--they thought heartlessly--of the murder, and the
two women were strongly inclined to think the shock of the affair had
touched her brain, for she showed no concern whatever as to her own
position, but treated it as a joke. And when she realized that she was to
a certain extent under guard, she seemed to find amusement in that, too.
Her expressions, when the cousins grew pitiful over the handsome face of
Holly, were touched with ridicule.
"I wonder if there was ever a man too low and vile to get woman's pity, if
he only had a pretty face," she said, caustically. "If he was an ugly,
old, half-decent fellow, you wouldn't be making any soft-hearted surmises
as to what he might have been under different circumstances. He has
spoiled the lives of several tenderhearted women like you--yet you pity
him!"
"'Tana, I never knew you to be so set against any one as you are against
that poor dead man," declared Mrs. Huzzard. "Not so much wonder the folks
think you know how it happened, for you always had a helping word for
the worst old tramp or beggarly Indian that came around; but for this man
you have nothing but unkindness."
"No," agreed the girl, "and you would like to think him a romantic victim
of somebody, just because he is so good-looking. I'm going to talk to
Harris. He won't sympathize with the wrong side, I am sure."
He looked up eagerly as she entered, his eyes full of anxious question.
She touched his hand kindly and sat close beside him as she talked.
"You want to know all about it, don't you?" she asked, softly. "Well, it
is all over. He was alive, after all, and I would not believe it. But now
you need never trail him again, you can rest now, for he is dead. Somebody
else has--has owed him a grudge, too. They think I am the somebody, but
you don't believe that?"
He shook his head decidedly.
"No," she continued; "though for one moment, Joe, I thought that it might
have been you. Yes, I did; for of course I knew it was only weakness would
keep you from it, if you were in reach of him. But I remembered at once
that it could not be, for the hand that struck him was strong."
He assented in his silent way, and watched her face closely, as if to read
the shadows of thought thrown on it by her feelings.
"It's awful, ain't it?" she whispered. "It is what I said I hoped for, and
just yet I can't be sorry--I can't! But, after this stir is all over, I
know it will trouble me, make me sorry because I am not sorry now. I can't
cry, but I do feel like screaming. And see! every once in a while my hands
tremble; I tremble all over. Oh, it is awful!"
She buried her face in her hands. Only to him did she show any of the
feeling with which the death of the man touched her.
"And you can't tell me anything of how it was done?" she said, at last.
"You so near--did you see any one?"
She longed to ask if he had seen Overton, but dared not utter his name,
lest he might suspect as she did. Each hour that went by was an added gain
to her for him. Of course he had struck, not knowing who the man was. If
he had known, it would have been so easy to say, "I found him robbing the
cabin. I killed him," and there would have been no further question
concerning it.
"But if all the other bars were beaten down between us, this one would
keep me from ever shaking hands with him again. Why should it have been he
out of all the camp? Oh, it makes my heart ache!"
While she sat thus, with miserable thoughts, others came to the door, and
looking up, she saw Akkomi, who looked on her with keen, accusing eyes.
"No--it is not true, Akkomi," she said, in his own jargon. "Keep silent
for a little while of the things these people do not know--a little while,
and then I can tell you who it is I am shielding, but not yet."
"Him!" and the eyes of the Indian turned to the paralytic.
"No--not him; truly not," she said, earnestly. "It is some one you would
want to help if you knew--some one who is going fast on the path from
these people. They will learn soon it is not I; but till then, keep
silence."
"Dan--where?" he asked, laconically, and her face paled at the question.
Had he any reason to suspect the dread in her own mind? But a moment's
thought reassured her. He had asked simply because Overton seemed always
to him the controlling spirit of the camp, and Overton was the one he
would have speech with, if any.
"Overton left last night for the lake," explained Lyster, who had entered
and heard the name of Dan and the interrogative tone. Then the blanket was
brought to Akkomi--his blanket, in which the man had died.
"I sold it to the white man--that is all," he answered through 'Tana; and
more than that he would not say except to inform them he would wait for
Dan. Which was, in fact, the general desire of the committee organized to
investigate.
They all appeared to be waiting for Dan. Lyster did not by any means fill
his place, simply because Lyster's interest in 'Tana was too apparent, and
there was little of the cool quality of reason in his attitude toward the
mysterious case. He did not believe the ring she wore had belonged to
Holly, though she refused to tell the source from which it had reached
her. He did not believe the man who said he heard that war of words at her
cabin in the evening--at least, when others were about, he acted as if he
did not believe it. But when he and 'Tana chanced to be alone, she felt
the doubt there must be in his mind, and a regret for him touched her. For
his sake she was sorry, but not sorry enough to clear the mystery at the
expense of that other man she thought she was shielding.
Captain Leek had been dispatched with all speed to the lake works, that
Seldon, Haydon, and Overton might be informed of the trouble in camp, and
hasten back to settle it. To send for them was the only thing Lyster
thought of doing, for he himself felt powerless against the lot of men,
who were not harsh or rude in any way, but who simply wanted to know
"why"--so many "whys" that he could not answer.
Not less trying to him were the several who persisted in asserting that
she had done a commendable thing--that the country ought to feel grateful
to her, for the man had made trouble along the Columbia for years. He and
his confederates had done ugly work along the border, etc., etc.
"Sorry you asked me, Max?" she said, seeing his face grow gloomy under
their cheering (?) assertions.
He did not answer at once, afraid his impatience with her might make
itself apparent in his speech.
"No, I'm not sorry," he said, at last; "but I shall be relieved when the
others arrive from the lake. Since you utterly refuse to confide even in
me, you render me useless as to serving you; and--well--I can't feel
flattered that you confide in me no more than in the strangers here."
"I know," she agreed, with a little sigh, "it is hard on you, and it will
be harder still if the story of this should ever creep out of the
wilderness to the country where you come from--wouldn't it?" and she
looked at him very sharply, noting the swift color flush his face, as
though she had read his thoughts. "Yes--so it's lucky, Max, that we
haven't talked to others about that little conditional promise, isn't it?
So it will be easier to forget, and no one need know."
"You mean you think me the sort of fellow to break our engagement just
because these fools have mixed you up with this horror?" he asked,
angrily. "You've no right to think that of me; neither have you the
right--in justice to me as well as yourself--to maintain this very
suggestive manner about all things connected with the murder. Why can you
not tell more clearly where your time was spent last evening? Why will you
not tell where the ring came from? Why will you see me half-frantic over
the whole miserable affair, when you could, I am sure, easily change it?"
"Oh, Max, I don't want to worry you--indeed I don't! But--" and she smiled
mirthlessly. "I told you once I was a 'hoodoo.' The people who like me are
always sure to have trouble brewing for them. That is why I say you had
better give me up, Max; for this is only the beginning."
"Don't talk like that; it is folly," he said, in a sharp tone. "'Hoodoo!'
Nonsense! When Overton and the others arrive, they will find a means of
changing the ideas of these people, in spite of your reticence; and then
maybe old Akkomi may find words, too. He sits outside the door as
impassive as the clay image you gave me and bewitched me with."
She smiled faintly, thinking of those days--how very long ago they seemed,