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HOPE HATHAWAY

A Story of Western Ranch Life

BOSTON, MASS. C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. 1904

HOPE HATHAWAY

Hathaway's home-ranch spread itself miles over an open valley on the upper Missouri. As far as the eye reached not a fence could be seen, yet four barbed-wires, stretched upon good cotton-wood posts, separated the ranch from the open country about.

Jim Hathaway was an old-time cattle-man. He still continued each summer to turn out upon the range great droves of Texas steers driven north by his cowboys, though at this time it was more profitable to ship in Western grown stock. He must have known that this was so, for every year his profits became less, yet it was the nature of the man to keep in the old ruts, to cling to old habits.

On one of his daily rides he had come home tired and out of humor. The discovery of a new fence near his boundary line had opened up an unpleasant train of thought, and not even the whisky, placed beside him by a placid-faced Chinese servant, could bring him into his usual jovial spirits. After glancing through a week-old newspaper and finding in it no solace for his ugly mood, he threw himself down upon his office lounge, spreading the paper carefully over him. The Chinaman, by rare intuition, divined his state of mind and stole cautiously into the room to remove the empty glasses, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed upon the large man under the newspaper.

Hathaway generally took a nap in the forenoon after returning from his ride, for he was an early riser, and late hours at night made this habit imperative. This day his mood brought him into a condition where he felt no desire to sleep, so he concluded, but he must have fallen into a doze, for the sharp tones of a girl's voice directly outside his window brought him to his feet with a start.

"If that's what you're driving at you may as well roll up your bedding and move on!" It was spoken vehemently, with all the distinctness of a clear-toned voice. A man replied, but in more guarded tone, so that Hathaway went to the window to catch his words.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he was saying. "This is my home as well as yours, and I'd have small chance to carry out my word if I went away, so I intend to stay right here. Do you know, Hope, when you get mad like that you're so devilish pretty that I almost hate you! Look at those eyes! You'd kill me if you could, wouldn't you? But you'll love me yet, and marry me, too, don't forget that!"

"But you're handsome, you brown devil!" he cried, taking one step and clasping her roughly to him. She tore herself loose, her eyes blazing with sudden fire, as Hathaway, white with anger, came suddenly around the corner of his office and grasped the offender by the coat collar. Then the slim young man was lifted, kicked, and tossed alternately from off the earth, while the girl stood calmly to one side and watched the performance, which did not cease until the infuriated man became exhausted. Then the boy picked himself up and walked unsteadily toward the building, against which he leaned to regain his breath while Hathaway stood panting.

"Here, hold on a minute," roared the angry father as the young man moved away. "I ain't done with you yet! Get your horse and get off this ranch or I'll break every bone in your damn body! You will treat my girl like that, will you? You young puppy!" The young fellow was whipped undoubtedly, but gracefully, for he turned toward Hathaway and said between swollen lips:

"You don't want to blame me too much, Uncle Jim. Just look at the girl! Any man would find it worth risking his neck for her!" Then he moved slowly away, while the girl's eyes changed from stern to merry. Her father choked with rage.

The girl moved forward a few steps, calling: "That's right, Sydney, keep your nerve! When you're ready to call it off we'll try to be friends again." Without waiting for her cousin's reply she ran into the house, while he lost no time in leaving the ranch, riding at a rapid gait toward the nearest town. Hathaway watched him out of sight, then with a nervous, bewildered shake of the head joined his wife and daughter at luncheon.

"My dear," said Hathaway blandly, "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I've been somewhat occupied--somewhat."

"But you should always consider that your meals come first, even if your wife and family do not," continued the lady. "Where is Sydney? The dear boy is generally so very prompt."

The effect of her words was not apparent. Her husband appeared absent-minded and the meal began.

The daughter, Hope, with quiet dignity befitting a matron, occupied the head of the table, as she had done ever since her mother shifted the responsibilities of the household to her young shoulders. When this question was asked she gave her father a quick glance. Would he acknowledge the truth? Evidently not, for he began immediately to talk about the new fence near his boundary line. It was a shame, he said, that these people were settling in around him.

"The land's no good," he declared. "Nearly all the water around here that's any account is on my place. All on earth these hobos are taking it up for is in expectation that I'll buy them out. Well, maybe I will, and again maybe I won't. I'd do most anything to get rid of them, but I can't buy the earth." At this Hope smiled, showing a flash of strong, white teeth.

"And if you could buy the earth, what would you do with these people?" she asked, her face settling into its natural quiet. Her mother gave her the usual look of amazement.

Hathaway passed his cup to be refilled, making no answer to his wife's outburst. Perhaps he had learned in his years of experience that the less said the better. At any rate he made no effort to defend his daughter--his only child, and dear to him, too. If she had expected that he would defend her it was only for a passing instant, then she returned to her natural gravity. Her face had few expressions. Its chief charm lay in its unchanging immobility, its utter quiet, behind which gleamed something of the girl's soul. When her rare smile came, lighting it up wonderfully, she was irresistible--in her anger, magnificent.

Ordinarily she would not have been noticed at first glance, except, perhaps, for the exceptionally fine poise of her strong, slim body. She was a true daughter of the West, tanned almost as brown as an Indian maid, and easily might have passed for a half-breed, with her blue-black eyes and hair of the darkest brown. But if she had Indian blood she did not know it. Her mother, during the season, a flitting butterfly of New York society, a Daughter of the Revolution by half a dozen lines of descent, would have been horrified at the mere thought.

The girl herself would not have cared had she been born and raised in an Indian camp. She had what Mrs. Hathaway termed queer ideas, due, as she always took occasion to explain to her friends who visited the ranch, to the uncivilized life that she had insisted upon living.

Hope had been obstinate in refusing to leave the ranch. Threats and punishments were unavailing. When a young child she had resolved never to go away to school, and had set her small foot down so firmly that her mother was obliged to yield. Hathaway was secretly glad of this, for the ranch was home to him, and he would not leave it for any length of time.

The little girl was great company to him, for his wife was away months at a time, preferring the gayety of her New York home to the quiet, isolated ranch on the prairie. Some people were unkind enough to say that it was a relief to Hathaway to have the place to himself, and certain it is that he never made any objections to the arrangement. Their only child, Hope, was educated on the ranch by the best instructors procurable, and readily acquired all the education that was necessary to her happiness.

At Mrs. Hathaway's outburst the girl made no effort to defend herself, and was well aware from former experiences that her father would not come to her aid. That he was afraid of her mother she would not admit. It seemed so weak and foolish. She had exalted ideas of what a man should be. That her father fell below her standard she would not acknowledge. She loved him so, was proud of his good points, and in many ways he was a remarkable man, his greatest weakness, if it could be called that, being his apparent fear of his wife. Her dominion over him, during her occasional visits at the ranch, was absolute. Hope shut her eyes to this, telling herself that it was caused by his desire to make her happy during these rare opportunities.

Hathaway did not respond to his wife's somewhat uncalled-for remarks, but after a moment of silence adroitly changed the subject by inquiring of Hope who it was that had ridden up to the ranch just as he left that morning.

Hope looked searchingly at her father, but he ignored her glance. Surely he would say something now! The question trembled upon the air, but she waited involuntarily for him to speak.

Hathaway moved uneasily under the direct gaze of his daughter. "I haven't the least idea," he finally answered. "I can't keep track of everyone on the ranch." The girl's face turned pale under her tan. She rose from the table and stood tall and straight behind her chair, her clear eyes direct upon her father.

"Yes," answered the girl quietly. It was her first lie.

She placed both hands imploringly on his arm.

"Yes, I'll go after him to-morrow, so stop your worrying," he answered soothingly. "Hope, fetch your mother a glass of wine, don't you see she's all upset?"

The girl brought the wine and handed it to her father, but his eyes shifted uneasily from her clear, steady ones. He led his unhappy wife from the room, leaving Hope alone with the empty wine glass in her hand. She stood so for a moment, then walked to the table and set the tiny glass down, but, oddly, raised it up again and looked at it closely.

"As empty as my life is now," she thought. "As empty as this home is for me. I have no one--father, mother--no one." A queer look crossed her face; determination settled over her, as with a sudden, vehement motion she shattered the frail glass upon the floor. A single thought, and a new life had opened before her.

Upon the slope of a great grass-covered hill, among other hills, larger and grass-covered also, stood a small log school-house. A hundred yards away, between this isolated building and the dingy road stretched through the mountain valley, grew a scrubby clump of choke-cherry brush. Some boys crouched low upon the ground behind these bushes, screened from sight of possible passers-by, and three pairs of eyes looked through the budding branches, intently scanning the road at the crest of hill to the left. Finally a dark speck appeared upon its gray surface. The youngest boy shivered, a tightening of expression came over the leader's face. He drew his shotgun closer to him, resting it upon his knees. Suddenly he laughed unpleasantly and kicked the child who had shivered.

"If father catches us in this he'll lick us to death," interposed the youngest boy.

"Not much, he won't. He'll have to ride a faster horse than mine or Dan's if he catches us! We'll ride over to the Indian camp, an' you can stay here an' take the lickin'! He'll be glad enough to see us come back in a month or two, I'll bet! And he's goin' to find out right now that it ain't no use to bring any doggoned teacher up here to teach this outfit. Ain't that so, Dan? We know enough of learnin'. I bet this new fellow won't stay long enough to catch his breath!"

A boy, who in looks and size was the exact counterpart of the speaker, asked in a sweet, soft-toned voice: "What if the old man takes a notion to come along to the school-house with him--what'll we do then, Dave?"

"You bet we have," softly assented his twin. "But what if the fellow don't scare at them blank cartridges?"

"Then we'll try duck-shot on him," answered the first readily. "What'd you think--we're a lot of babies? I reckon we've got fight in us! You've got to stick to us, Ned, even if you ain't as old as Dan and me. Ain't that so, Dan?"

"Yes, unless he wants to get whaled half to death," sweetly answered the soft-voiced twin.

"And he's alone," said the bold leader joyfully. "We won't have no trouble with him. He rides like a tenderfoot, all right. Wait till he gets down by that rock there, then let him have it, one after the other--first me, then Dan, then you, Ned. I'll bet my horse an' saddle that he'll go back quicker'n he's comin'!"

"What if that ain't the feller we want?" gently asked Dan.

"We'll wait till he turns in here, an' then we'll know. They ain't nobody else goin' to come along this way just now. Lord, don't he ride slow, though! Now I'll shoot first, don't forget."

"His saddle blanket's flying on this side, and he's got a red shirt on," said the other twin. "He's lookin' over this way. Yes, he's comin' here all right. Let him have it, Dave, before he gits any closer!"

As he spoke, the approaching rider left the main road and turned up the dimly marked trail toward the school-house. The forward twin waited an instant, then, aiming his shotgun carelessly toward the stranger, fired. At the signal a volley rang out from behind the bushes. As quickly the horse took fright, stopped stock still, then wheeled, and bolted with utmost speed directly toward the patch of brush, passing so near that the boys drew in their legs and crawled snake-like under the protection of the branches.

"Good Lord," gasped the leader, as the horse raced past, on up the grassy slope of a hill, "it's a girl!"

Two minutes later the bushes were quickly parted over three very uncomfortable boys, and a red shirt-waisted girl looked sternly in at them.

"You boys come out of there this minute! Who did you take me for that you were trying to frighten me to death? Or is that the way you treat ladies up here in the mountains? Come out immediately and explain yourselves!"

"We'd do most anything if you wouldn't tell on us, Miss Hathaway!"

"We know all about that! You ain't a-goin' to hurt us, are you?" exclaimed Dave.

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