The Girl from Montana | Page 3

to them with a slow,
almost haughty, inclination of her head, and spread out her hands like
one who would like to bless but dared not, and said clearly, "I thank
you--all!" There had been just a slight hesitation before that last word
"all," as if she were not quite sure, as her eyes rested upon the
ringleader with doubt and dislike; then her lips had hardened as if
justice must be done, and she had spoken it, "all!" and, turning, sped
away to her cabin alone.
They were taken by surprise, those men who feared nothing in the wild
and primitive West, and for a moment they watched her go in silence.
Then the words that broke upon the air were not all pleasant to hear;
and, if the girl could have known, she would have sped far faster, and
her cheeks would have burned a brighter red than they did.

But one, the boldest, the ringleader, said nothing. His brows darkened,
and the wicked gleam came and sat in his hard eyes with a green light.
He drew a little apart from the rest, and walked on more rapidly. When
he came to the place where they had left their horses, he took his and
went on toward the cabin with a look that did not invite the others to
follow. As their voices died away in the distance, and he drew nearer to
the cabin, his eyes gleamed with cunning.
The girl in the cabin worked rapidly. One by one she took the boxes on
which the rude coffin of her brother had rested, and threw them far out
the back door. She straightened the furniture around fiercely, as if by
erasing every sign she would force from memory the thought of the
scenes that had just passed. She took her brother's coat that hung
against the wall, and an old pipe from the mantle, and hid them in the
room that was hers. Then she looked about for something else to be
done.
A shadow darkened the sunny doorway. Looking up, she saw the man
she believed to be her brother's murderer.
"I came back, Bess, to see if I could do anything for you."
The tone was kind; but the girl involuntarily put her hand to her throat,
and caught her breath. She would like to speak out and tell him what
she thought, but she dared not. She did not even dare let her thought
appear in her eyes. The dull, statue-like look came over her face that
she had worn at the grave. The man thought it was the stupefaction of
grief.
"I told you I didn't want any help," she said, trying to speak in the same
tone she had used when she thanked the men.
"Yes, but you're all alone," said the man insinuatingly; she felt a
menace in the thought, "and I am sorry for you!"
He came nearer, but her face was cold. Instinctively she glanced to the
cupboard door behind which lay her brother's belt with two pistols.

"You're very kind," she forced herself to say; "but I'd rather be alone
now." It was hard to speak so when she would have liked to dash on
him, and call down curses for the death of her brother; but she looked
into his evil face, and a fear for herself worse than death stole into her
heart.
He took encouragement from her gentle dignity. Where did she get that
manner so imperial, she, born in a mountain cabin and bred on the
wilds? How could she speak with an accent so different from those
about her? The brother was not so, not so much so; the mother had
been plain and quiet. He had not known her father, for he had lately
come to this State in hiding from another. He wondered, with his wide
knowledge of the world, over her wild, haughty beauty, and gloated
over it. He liked to think just what worth was within his easy grasp. A
prize for the taking, and here alone, unprotected.
"But it ain't good for you to be alone, you know, and I've come to
protect you. Besides, you need cheering up, little girl." He came closer.
"I love you, Bess, you know, and I'm going to take care of you now.
You're all alone. Poor little girl."
He was so near that she almost felt his breath against her cheek. She
faced him desperately, growing white to the lips. Was there nothing on
earth or in heaven to save her? Mother! Father! Brother! All gone! Ah!
Could she but have known that the quarrel which ended her wild young
brother's life had been about her, perhaps pride in him would have
salved her grief, and choked her horror.
While she watched