The Cattle-Baron's Daughter

“It happened,” she said, “that I was particular, or fanciful, and there was only one man – the one that would take me without a dollar, in borrowed clothes – who seemed good enough for me.”

They rode on past a stockyard, and into a rutted street of bare frame houses, and Hetty was glad they scarcely met anybody. Then, Larry helped her down, and, thrusting a wallet into her hands, knocked at the door of a house beside a store. The man who opened it stared at them, and when Larry had drawn him aside called his wife. She took Hetty’s chilled hand in both her own, and the storekeeper smiled at Larry.

“You come right along and put some of my things on,” he said. “Then, you are going with me to have breakfast at the hotel, and talk to the judge. I guess the women aren’t going to have any use for us.”

It was some time later when they came back to the store, and for just a minute Grant saw Hetty alone. She was dressed very plainly in new garments, and blushed when he looked gravely down on her.

“That dress is not good enough for you,” he said. “It is very different from what you have been accustomed to.”

Hetty glanced at him shyly. “You will have very few dollars to spare, Larry, until the trouble’s through,” she said, “and you will be my husband in an hour or two.”

XXX

LARRY’S WEDDING DAY

Hetty was married in haste, without benefit of clergy, while several men, with resolute faces, kept watch outside the judge’s door, and two who were mounted sat gazing across the prairie on a rise outside the town. After the declarations were made and signed, the judge turned to Hetty, who stood smiling bravely, though her eyes were a trifle misty, by Larry’s side.

“Now I have something to tell your husband, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “You will have to spare him for about five minutes.”

Hetty’s lips quivered, for she recognized the gravity of his tone, and it was not astonishing that for a moment or two she turned her face aside. She had endeavoured to look forward hopefully and banish regrets; but the prosaic sordidness of the little dusty office, and the absence of anything that might have imparted significance or dignity to the hurried ceremony, had not been without their effect. She had seen other weddings in New York as well as in the cattle country, and knew what pomp and festivities would have attended hers had she married with her father’s goodwill. After all, it was the greatest day in most women’s lives, and she felt the unseemliness of the rite that had made her and Larry man and wife. Still, the fact remained, and, brushing her misgivings away, she glanced up at her husband.

“It must concern us both now,” she said. “May I hear?”

“Well,” said the judge, who looked a trifle embarrassed, “I guess you are right, and Larry would have to tell you; but it’s not a pleasant task to me. It is just this – we can’t keep you and your husband any longer in this town.”

“Are you against us, too?” Hetty asked, with a flash in her eyes. “I am not afraid.”

The judge made her a little respectful inclination. “You are Torrance of Cedar’s daughter, and everyone knows the kind of grit there is in that family. While I knew the cattle-men would raise a good deal of unpleasantness when I married you, I did it out of friendliness for Larry; but it is my duty to uphold the law, and I can’t have your husband’s friends and your father’s cow-boys making trouble here.”

“Larry,” said the girl tremulously, “we must go on again.”

Grant’s face grew stern. “No,” he said. “You shall stay here in spite of them until you feel fit to ride for the railroad.”

Just then a man came in. “Battersly saw Torrance with the Sheriff and Clavering and quite a band of cow-boys ride by the trail forks an hour ago,” he said. “They were heading for Hamlin’s, but they’d make this place in two hours when they didn’t find Larry there.”

There was an impressive silence. Hetty shuddered, and the fear in her eyes was unmistakable when she laid her hand on her husband’s arm.

“We must go,” she said. “It would be too horrible if you should meet him.”

“Mrs. Grant is right,” said the storekeeper. “We know Torrance of Cedar, and if you stayed here, Larry, you and she might be sorry all your lives. Now, you could, by riding hard, make Canada to-morrow.”

Grant stifled a groan, and though his face was grim his voice was compassionate as he turned to Hetty.

“Are you very tired?” he said gently. “It must be the saddle again.”

Hetty said nothing, but she pressed his arm, and her eyes shone mistily when they went out together. Half an hour later they rode out of the town, and Grant turned to her when the clustering houses dipped behind a billowy rise, and they were once more alone in the empty prairie, with their faces towards Canada.

“I am ’most ashamed to look at you, but you will forgive me, little girl,” he said. “There are brighter days before us than your wedding one, and by and by I hope you will not be sorry you have borne so much for me.”

Hetty’s lips quivered a little, but the pride of the cattle-barons shone in her eyes. “I have nothing to forgive and am only very tired,” she said. “I shall never be sorry while you are kind to me, and I would have ridden to Canada if I had known that it would have killed me. The one thing I am afraid of is that you and he should meet.”

They rode on, speaking but seldom as the leagues went by, for Grant had much to think of and Hetty was very weary. Indeed, she swayed unevenly in her saddle, while the long, billowy levels shining in the sunlight rolled back, as it were, interminably to them, and now and then only saved herself from a fall by a clutch at the bridle. There were times when a drowsiness that would scarcely be shaken off crept upon her, and she roused herself with a strenuous effort and a horrible fear at her heart, knowing that if her strength failed her the blood of husband or father might be upon her head.

The sky was blue above them, the white sod warm below, and already chequered here and there with green; and, advancing in long battalion, crane and goose and mallard came up from the south to follow the sun towards the Pole. The iron winter had fled before it, and all nature smiled; but Hetty, who had often swept the prairie at a wild gallop, with her blood responding to the thrill of reawakening life that was in everything, rode with a set white face and drooping head, and Larry groaned as he glanced at her.

Late in the afternoon they dismounted, and Hetty lay with her head upon his shoulder while they rested amidst the grass. The provisions the storekeeper had given them were scattered about, but Hetty had tasted nothing, and Grant had only forced himself to swallow a few mouthfuls with difficulty. He had thrown an arm about her, and she lay with eyes closed, motionless.

Suddenly he raised his head and looked about him. Save for the sighing of the warm wind, the prairie was very still, and a low, white rise cut off from sight the leagues they had left behind, but, though a man from the cities would have heard nothing at all, Larry, straining his ears to listen, heard a sound just audible creep out of the silence. For a moment he sat rigid and intent, wondering if it was made by a flight of cranes; but he could see no dusky stain on the blue beyond the rise, and his fingers closed upon the rifle as the sound grew plainer. It rose and fell with a staccato rhythm in it, and he recognized the beat of hoofs. Turning, he gently touched the girl.

“Hetty, you must rouse yourself,” he said, with a pitiful quiver in his voice.

The girl slowly lifted her head, and glanced about her in a half-dazed fashion. Then, with an effort, she drew one foot under her, and again the fear shadowed her face.

“Oh,” she said, “they’re coming! Lift me, dear.”

Larry gently raised her to her feet, but it was a minute or two before she could stand upright, and the man’s face was haggard when he lifted her to the saddle.

“I think the end has come,” he said. “You can ride no farther.”

Hetty swayed a little; but she clutched the bridle, and a faint sparkle showed in her half-closed eyes.

“They want to take you from me. We will go on until we drop,” she said.

Larry got into the saddle, though he did not know how he accomplished it, and looked ahead anxiously as he shook the bridle. Away on the rim of the prairie there was a dusky smear, and he knew it was a birch-bluff, which would, if they could reach it, afford them shelter. In the open he would be at the cow-boys’ mercy; but a desperate man might at least check some of the pursuers among the trees, and he was not sure that Torrance, whose years must tell, would be among them. There was a very faint hope yet.

They went on at a gallop, though the horses obtained at Windsor were already jaded, and very slowly the bluff grew higher. Glancing over his shoulder, Grant saw a few moving objects straggle across the crest of the rise. They seemed to grow plainer while he watched them, and more appeared behind.

“We will make the bluff before them,” he said hoarsely. “Ride!”

He drove his heels home; but the beast he rode was flagging fast when, knowing how Torrance’s cow-boys were mounted, he glanced behind again. He could see them distinctly now, straggling, with wide hats bent by the wind and jackets fluttering, across the prairie. Here and there a rifle-barrel glinted, and the beat of their horses’ hoofs reached him plainly. One, riding furiously a few lengths ahead of the foremost, he guessed was Clavering, and he fancied he recognized the Sheriff in another; but he could not discern Torrance anywhere. He turned his eyes ahead and watched the bluff rise higher, though the white levels seemed to flit back to him with an exasperating slowness. Beyond it a faint grey smear rose towards the blue; but the jaded horse demanded most of his attention, for the sod was slippery here and there where the snow had lain in a hollow, and the beast stumbled now and then.

Still, the birches were drawing nearer, and Hetty holding ahead of him, though the roar of hoofs behind him told that the pursuers were coming up fast. He was not certain yet that he could reach the trees before they came upon him, and was clawing with one hand at his rifle when Hetty cried out faintly:

“There are more of them in front.”

Grant set his lips as a band of horsemen swung out of the shadows of the bluff. His eyes caught and recognized the glint of sunlight on metal; but in another moment his heart leaped, for through the drumming of their hoofs there came the musical jingle of steel, and he saw the men were dressed in blue uniform. He swung up his hat exultantly, and his voice reached the girl, hoarse and strained with relief.

“We are through. They are United States cavalry!”

The horsemen came on at a trot, until Grant and the girl rode up to them. Then, they pulled up, and when Grant had helped Hetty down their officer, who wheeled his horse, sat gazing at them curiously. Grant did not at once recognize him, but Hetty gasped.

“Larry,” she said faintly, “it’s Jack Cheyne.”

Grant drew her hand within his arm, and walked slowly forward past the wondering troopers. Then he raised his broad hat.

“I claim your protection for my wife, Captain Cheyne,” he said.

Cheyne sat very still a moment, looking down on him with a strained expression in his face; and Grant, who saw it, glanced at Hetty. She was leaning heavily upon him, her garments spattered with mire, but he could not see her eyes. Then Cheyne nodded gravely.