It was late in the afternoon when she finally stepped fearfully out from the woods, wondering if after all she had not better remain there for another night. The sun could not be more than two hours from setting now, and the world looked strange and different as she paused and tried to get her bearings. There were still some mountains in the distance, but they did not look quite like the mountains she knew. They were far away and purple with a misty light upon them, and the land ahead of her looked flatter and had been fenced in places, though there were still wide stretches of land without fences, with just a sort of hard flat trail over them. This must be what men in the world called a road.
Strange that just going through a forest, even a wide forest like the one she had traversed, should make things different. Here there seemed to be no friendly hidings, few trees together that could be climbed in time of need.
She hardly knew how to adjust herself to this new outlook.
She stepped timidly down from the wooded bank and started along the cleared, smooth way. It was even easier going than in the forest, and she made good time. But what, she wondered, should she do if enemies on horseback came along that way and met her? Here were no convenient holes in which to burrow, no kindly mountain to offer shelter, only the open country wide and frightening and different. It seemed so far to anywhere, yet there was a way marked out, and on the beaten path she took her unknown course.
It might have been an hour she walked along, her feet growing sore with the dust between her toes, and longing for rest again, when a strange, foreign noise began to grow upon her consciousness. It came from behind her, and she stopped in a nameless dread as she saw an old horse jogging along the road at a steady pace, drawing a shaky vehicle of the type known as a buckboard. It was the rattle of the wobbling wheels, more than the thud, thud of the old horse’s feet on the dirt road, that had made the strange noise, but the sight of the oncoming wagon frightened the little pilgrim more than anything that had come her way yet.
There was nothing to do but stand aside until the thing had passed, or take to the open and run, and she had sense enough to see that this course would lay her open to suspicion far more than to sit by the wayside and rest. So she sat down a little off the beaten track and looked toward the sunset, as if she had come out for that purpose, even as she might have done at home by the old cabin in the mountains.
She could not yet see the driver of the wagon very clearly, but she knew that none of her immediate enemies drove such things as that; they all went on horseback. Of course it might be some of their gang who had been sent to trace her, but if it was she would have to face it somehow. She selected deliberately a spot of ground that was a bit higher than the road and throwing her bag down, flung herself beside it, resting one elbow on the firm square of the old Bible, her hand slipped through the strap, if there came a need for sudden flight.
On came the buckboard, and presently she could see the driver quite plainly. It was a woman, dressed in an old dark cotton frock with a man’s felt hat on the back of her head. A few straggling gray locks of hair hung down around her ears, and her skin was darkly tanned like old tired leather. She sat slouched forward on the rickety seat, occasionally looking over her shoulder to a box of things that was lashed to the back of the rig. When she got opposite to Fraley she drew rein and stopped, gazing at her pleasantly and not at all curiously.
“Howdy,” she said with a kindly leather smile, “want a lift?”
Fraley half rose, a frightened look in her eyes, ready for almost anything but glad that it was a woman.
“Want a what?” she asked doubtfully.
“Goin’ my way?” explained the woman questioningly. “Want a lift? It’s late fer walkin’. Hop in!”
“Oh!” said the girl, beginning to comprehend. “Thank you. How much will it be to ride a little way?”
“Not a cent!” responded the woman heartily. “We don’t charge fer lifts out our way. I’m gettin’ back to the ranch before dark ef I kin make it. Left the children alone with the dogs. Gettin’ oneasy about ’em, so hop in quick. I ain’t got time to waste!”
Fraley was coming down the bank swiftly now. The invitation sounded too good to be true, for her weary feet would hardly carry her down the slope and the bag dragged heavily on her shoulder as if it were weighted with iron.
“You are very kind!” she said shyly as she climbed up beside the woman. It was only after the old horse had started on his jog trot again that she thought this might possibly be a person sent by her enemies to lure her back to them. So she rested the heavy bag in her lap and sat tongue-tied, choking over the thought.
“How fur be you going?” asked the woman, turning kindly, uncurious eyes upon her.
“A good many miles,” stated Fraley noncommittally. “I’m sure I’m much obliged for the ride,” she added, as her mother had taught her was proper.
“Well, you mustn’t let me carry you outta your way,” said her hostess. “My ranch turns off to the right about fifteen miles beyond here.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Fraley, relieved that it did not turn to the left. Somehow her instinct taught her that the southern route was best, at least until she was farther east.
“Come fur?” asked the woman, still eyeing her admiringly.
“Yes, a good ways,” said Fraley laconically.
“Well, where are you goin’? I don’t wantta take you outta yer way.”
“Why, down this road,” said the girl. “I you see, I’m just traveling.”
“Umm!” observed the woman in a tone that implied her answer was inadequate.
“I’m on my way to New York,” Fraley added desperately, feeling that she must make some explanation. The woman reminded her a little of her mother.
“Umm! Yer young to be goin’that fur alone,” observed the woman affably. “What’s yer ma think o’ yer goin’? I hope ye ain’t running away. Ef ye are, I ken tell ya it don’t pay. I done it, and look at me!”
“Oh,” said Fraley, her tired eyes suddenly filling with tears, “my mother is dead! She told me to go. Yes, I’m running away, but not from anybody that has a right.”
“There, there, honey child, don’t you cry! I hadta ast. You see, I’m a mother, an’ you is too little and sweet eyed to be trampin’ around these here diggins alone so near night. There’s them that might do ya harm.”
“But I have to go. I have people in the East.”
“Well, thank goodness fur that!” said the woman warmly. “An’ I’ll take ye home with me ta-night, and you can have a good supper and a nice sleep before you start on. You look all beat out. And in the morning, my Car’line’ll harness up an’ give ya a lift over ta the railroad. It ain’t so fur, an’ she’s used ta drivin’ alone. She can take Billy along fer comp’ny on the way back.”
“Oh, thank you,” said Fraley again, still frightened at the way her affairs were being managed for her. She didn’t want to go to a strange ranch. There would be men there, and there might be friends of Brand’s or Pierce’s. Then she would not be safe ever, for they would come and hunt her wherever she went if they once got track of her. They would claim she was theirs.
“My old man died three years back and left me with five children,” went on her would-be hostess. “I thought we’d come to the end, but I stuck it out, and now Jimmie is fifteen, and he can do a man’s work. I useta have a hired man, but he got drunk and I got tired of it, so now we just look after things ourselves.”
“Oh,” said Fraley, suddenly relieved there were no men to face at the ranch.
“That’s one reason I’m hurryin’ home. Jimmie’s plantin’ t’day, an’ he’ll be tired, and Car’line’s got a cut on her hand an’ can’t milk. I got two cows, and they’ll be bawlin’ fit ta kill. I don’t let the young children milk; they’re too fresh. Last time Billy tried he knocked a whole pail of milk over on himself.”
“Oh, I can milk,” said Fraley eagerly. “If you’ll let me milk to pay for staying, I’d be glad
to come to your house tonight.”
“You got such little hands I wouldn’t think you could bring the milk down,” remarked the woman, eyeing Fraley’s little brown hands that lay relaxed in her lap.
“But I can,” said the girl earnestly.
“All right. You can try. I’ve got an awful lot to do to red up. I’m expecting a man t’morra from over beyont the mountain. His name’s Carter, Brand Carter. Mebbe you’ve heard of him. He’s coming to look over some steers I’ve got for sale.”
Chapter 7
Fraley’s face grew white as milk, and her heart seemed almost to cease to beat. The sustaining power seemed to ebb away from her arms and shoulder, and her whole body slumped. With the relaxing of her position, the bag on her lap began to slide and, in a second more, would have gone out onto the road. But she rallied and caught it and covered her confusion well with the effort.
“Say, you don’t need ta hold that heavy bundle!” exclaimed the woman, alert at once to be kindly. “Here! Lemme put it back in my box. There’s plenty a room there, and it can’t get out. You’re all beat out, an’ you’re white as a sheet.”
“Oh, thank you but I’m all right,” urged Fraley, gripping her precious bag close once more. “I’d rather hold it. There are some very special things in it. They might fall out. It doesn’t fasten very close together.”
“But ain’t it heavy? My land! I don’t see how you ever managed carrying all that, hiking it! I think it’s better to travel light. What you got in there? Can’t you ship ’em on by freight?”
“Oh no!” said Fraley aghast. “I wouldn’t want to trust it that way! It’s my Bible, that’s the only heavy thing, and I couldn’t be without it. Besides, I wouldn’t be sure just where to send it till I got there.”
“Why, ain’t you got your folks’ address?”
“Yes, I have the old address, but they might have moved,” said Fraley evasively.
“Hmmm! Well, you could leave it to my house till you got fixed and let me know where to send it. Me, I wouldn’t bother about just a Bible. You can buy ’em cheap anywhere.”
“Oh no,” said the girl, horrified, “not like this one. This was my mother’s Bible. She taught me to read out of it. It has things written down in the cover things that she wrote for me. I promised her I’d never let it get away from me.”
“Oh, well, that’s diffrunt, of course, ef your maw wrote things down fer you to remember. I thought ef ’twas jest a common Bible why you cud git one most ennywheres. I don’t see what use they is ennyhow. Except ta sit round on the parlor table like a nornament and hev ta dust all the time. Me, I didn’t even bring mine with me when I cum out here. I hed too much else ta think about. I never missed it. I was too busy ta dust books. Besides, I never had no parlor table. Say, why don’t you stay ta our house awhile? You cud be comp’ny fer my Car’line. Mebbe she wouldn’t be so crazy to git out an’ see the world ef she hed a girl her own age to talk to. She’s got men comin’ to see her a’ready, an’ she ain’t much older’n you. There’s one comes ridin’ over the crest of the mountain every once an’ awhile. She’s allus fussin’ up when he comes. His name’s Pierce somethin’. I didn’t rightly git the last name, an’ I won’t ast Car’line, it would give her too much satisfaction. But I don’t like his eye. It ain’t nice. I donno why, but it ain’t. Say, whyn’t you stay over a week er so an’ be comp’ny fer Car’line? It might kinda make her more contented like.”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” said Fraley in a small disturbed voice. “I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t. I really ought to go on tonight. You see, I’m in a great hurry. I’ll just ride as far as you go, and by that time I’ll be rested and can go on. I really must get on tonight.”
There was actual panic in her voice. Brand and Pierce! Then she was not out of their region after all. Perhaps she was getting into an even worse place. Perhaps Brand or Pierce would come tonight and find her in this woman’s house.
“Naw, you can’t go on ta-night,” said the woman, eyeing her curiously. “I ain’t lettin’ no kid like you go gallivantin’ out in the dark. There’s wolves beyond the ranch in the forest. They come out sometimes. My Jimmy seen ’em. You ain’t got no gun, hev ye? Well, you jest better wait till daylight. It’ll be plumb dark now afore we git to my shack an’ time fer you ta rest. My Car’line, she’ll git ya off at daybreak, ef that’ll suit ya, but I ain’t lettin’ no child wander off ta get lost in the desert this time o’ night. Ef you’d get inta the desert alone an’ lose yer way yer bones might bleach white afore anyone found ’em. You trust me.”
Fraley’s face could turn no whiter, but she said nothing more. Perhaps there would be a chance to sneak away in the night.
The sky ahead was showing pearly tints with blue and green and fire pink like an opal. When she turned to look behind her, the sun was a burning ball just touching the rim of the horizon, and poised above a dark mountain. But she was relieved to see that so far there was no traveler in the long, beaten strip of white road that rose and fell and rose again mile after mile as far as she could see, until the forest through which she had come intercepted.
The woman began to talk of her home and the children, telling bits of family life, until Fraley grew interested. Her heart leaped at the thought of knowing another girl. Only once or twice had she seen girls of her own age—once when a party of tourists lost their way and stopped at the cabin to inquire. There had been two pretty girls in that company, dressed in lovely garments the likes of which she had never seen before. And once she had seen some girls in the town when her father took her with him to buy her shoes. The ride had taken all day, and she had been very tired. He never took her again. He said it was too much trouble. It would be nice to know a girl and to see some children. There had been no children near the cabin since her baby brother died of croup, and she was a tiny thing then herself.
It was quite dark when at last they came in sight of a speck of light in the distance. She could see nothing in the blackness but that light like a red berry, and she began to be afraid again.
“That’s my place,” announced the woman cheerfully. “Now, we’ll have some grub. I’m gettin’ hungry. What about you? There! Hear the dogs howl! They know it’s me just as well ’zif they cud see me. We keep five dogs around the place an’ there couldn’t no stranger come within a half a mile ’thout we’d know it. You like dogs? Ever have one?”
“I had a dog but it is dead,” said Fraley in a low voice, and the woman could see the tears were not far away.
“Well, they will die, too. That’s so! But they’re right useful while they live. I reckon Car’line’s got hot bread fer supper. You like hot bread? Car’line kin make it good. She knows how to housekeep real well, an’ she c’n work the farm, too, only I won’t let her. I say that’s man’s world. Though goodness knows I’ve done enough of it myself, too. But that’s diffrunt! Car’line ain’t gonta!”
They were nearing the ranch house now—a long, low building made of logs. The door was flung open wide, and shyness descended upon Fraley. She wondered what to say to these strange people. She had had no dealings with her own kind, and she remembered keenly the mirthful glances of the two daintily dressed girls in the lost party on the mountain. They had made fun of her bare feet, she knew as well as though she had heard the words they were whispering. What would this Caroline think of her?
Then the dogs broke around them with barks of joy and leaped at the woman as she halted the old horse in front of the door.
Fraley stood, in a moment more, inside the open door, holding her precious bag in her arms, looking like a frightened rabbit.
She did not know that she made a picture as she stood there in her bare feet and the old coat and kerchief, with the light of a big log fire flickering on the golden curls that strayed from under the binding silk. The other children stood off, suddenly shy, and watched her, and she eyed them and then stared at the great beautiful fire in bewilderment. She had never been in a room like this, nor seen a fi
re in an open fireplace.
The baby of the house ran and jumped into her mother’s arms, and the others stood around, evidently happy that she had come home. It seemed like heaven to Fraley.
Caroline stood by the side of the fire and stared at the girl her mother had brought home. Said “howdy” perfunctorily when her mother told her to and went on looking at her curiously. The other children stood around and watched her.
There was a certain dignity about Fraley, even as she stood there in bare feet, clasping her bundle, that made the others feel shy. But suddenly one of the dogs sprang through the door, went wagging from one member of the family to the other, wagged up to the stranger, sniffing around her skirts and laying his muzzle against her hands. Fraley stooped down and began to pat him, snuggling her arm around him. Here was someone she understood, and who understood her.
“Oh, he is a dear dog,” she said, looking up, and he wagged his tail and whined in pleasure at her attention. There was something in the tone of her voice or the way she spoke that made the children stare again. This was a person of another kind. There was something fine in the quality of her speech that they recognized as beyond theirs, which Caroline perhaps resented a little.
“He’s fell fer you all right,” said the mother as she removed the old felt hat she wore and hung it on a peg between the logs. “I ken see he things you’re jest right. Swing that kettle round, Car’line; you’ll have that stew burned before we get a chance to get it et up. Whar’s Jimmy?”
The boy appeared at the door, awkward in the presence of the stranger but melted into a grin as he saw how the dog had made friends with her.