"My dear fellow, there is, of course, no way of thanking you sufficiently for your care of her; but I can only say I am mighty glad to know a man like you."
It was Mr. Seldon who said so, and Dan Overton looked embarrassed and deprecating under the praise he had to accept.
"It is all right for you to make a fuss over it, Seldon," he returned; "but you know, as well as you know dinner time, that you would have done no less if you had found a young girl anywhere without a home--and especially if you found her in an Indian camp."
"Did she give you any information as to how she came to be there?"
Overton looked at him good-naturedly, but shook his head.
"I can't give you any information about that," he answered. "If you want to know anything of her previous to meeting her here, she will have to tell you."
"But she won't. I can't understand it; for I can see no need of mystery. I knew her mother when she was a girl like 'Tana, and--"
"You did?"
"Yes, I did. So now, perhaps, you will understand why I take such an interest in her--why Mr. Haydon takes an interest in her. Simply because she is his niece."
"Oh, she is--is she? And he came here, found her dying, or next door to it, and never claimed her."
"No; that is a little way of his," acknowledged his partner. "If she had really died, he never would have said a word about it, for it would have caused him a lot of troublesome explanation at home. But I guess he knew I would be likely to come across her. She is the very image of what her mother was. He told me the whole story of how he found her here, and all. And now he wants to do the proper thing and take her home with him."
"The devil he does!" growled Overton. "Well, why do you come to me about it?"
"Your influence with her was one thing," answered Mr. Seldon, with a dubious smile at the dark face before him. "This protegee of yours has a will of her own, it seems, and refuses utterly to acknowledge her aristocratic relations, refuses to be a part of her uncle's household; and we want your influence toward changing her mind."
"Well, you'll never get it," and the tone was decided as the words. "If she says she is no relation to anybody, I'll back her up in it, and not ask her her reasons, either. If she doesn't want to go with Mr. Haydon, she is the only one I will allow to decide, unless he brings a legal order from some court, and I might try to hinder him even then. She willingly came under my guardianship, and when she leaves it, it must be willingly."
"Oh, of course there will be no coercion about the matter," explained Mr. Seldon, hastily. "But don't you, yourself, think it would be a decided advantage for her to live for a while with her own relatives?"
"I am in no position to judge. I don't know her relatives. I don't know why it is that she has not been taken care of by them long ago; and I am not asking any questions. She knows, and that is enough; and I am sure her reasons for not going would satisfy me."
"Well, you are a fine specimen to come to for influence," observed the other. "She has a grudge against Haydon, that is the obstacle--a grudge, because he quarreled with her mother long ago. I thought that as you have done so much for her, your word might have weight in showing her the folly of it."
"My word would have no more weight than yours," he answered, curtly. "All I have done for her amounts to nothing; and I've an idea that if she wanted me to know her family affairs, she would tell me."
"Which, interpreted, means that I had better be at other business than gossiping," said Mr. Seldon, with much good humor. "Well, you are a fine pair, and something alike, too--you goldfinders! She snubbed Max for trying to persuade her, and you snub me. As a last resort, I think I shall try to get that old Indian into our lobbying here. He is her next great friend, I hear."
"I haven't seen him in camp to-day, for a wonder; but he is sure to be around before night."
"But, you see, we are to go on up to the new works on the lake to-day, and be back day after to-morrow. I wish you, too, could go up to-morrow, for I would like your judgment about some changes we expect to make. Could you leave here for twenty-four hours?"
"I'll try," promised Overton. "But the new men from the Ferry will be up to-day or to-morrow, so I may not reach there until you are about ready to start back."
"Come anyway, if you can, I don't seem to get much chance to talk to you here in camp--maybe I could on the river. You may be in a more reasonable mood about 'Tana by that time, and try to influence her to partake of civilization."
"'Civilization!' Oh, yes, of course, you imagine it all lies east of the Appalachian range," remarked Overton, slightingly. "I expect that from a man of Haydon's stamp, but not from you."
Seldon only laughed.
"One would think you had been born and bred out here in the West," he remarked, "while you are really only an importation. But what is that racket about?"
For screeches were sounding from the cabin--cries, feminine and frightened.
Overton and Seldon started for it, as did several of the workmen, but their haste slackened as they saw 'Tana leaning against a doorway and laughing, while the squaw stood near her, chuckling a little as a substitute for merriment.
But there were two others within the cabin who were by no means merry--the two cousins, who were standing huddled together on the couch, uttering spasmodic screeches at every movement made by a little gray snake on the floor.
It had crept in at a crevice, and did not know how to make its escape from the noisy shelter it had found. Its fright was equal to that of the women, for it appeared decidedly restless, and each uneasy movement of it was a signal for fresh screams.
"Oh, Mr. Overton! I beg of you, kill the horrible reptile!" moaned Miss Slocum, who at that moment was as indifferent to the proprieties as Mrs. Huzzard, and was displaying considerable white hosiery and black gaiter tops.
"Oh, lawsy! It is coming this way again. Ooh--ooh--h!" and Mrs. Huzzard did a little dance from one foot to the other, in a very ecstasy of fear. "Oh, Lavina, I'll never forgive myself for advising you to come out to this Idaho country! Oh, Lord! won't somebody kill it?"
"Why, there is no need to fear that little thing," said Overton. "Really, it is not a snake to bite--no more harm in it than in a mouse."
"A mouse!" they both shrieked. "Oh, please take it away."
Just then Akkomi came in through the other cabin, and, hearing the shrieks, simply stooped and picked up the little stranger in his hand, holding it that they might see how harmless it was.
But, instead of pacifying them, as he had kindly intended, they only cowered against the wall, too horrified even to scream, while they gazed at the old Indian, as at something just from the infernal regions.
"Lord, have mercy on our souls," muttered Lavina, in a sepulchral tone, and with pallid, almost moveless, lips.
"Forever and ever, amen," added Lorena Jane, clutching her drapery a little closer, and a little higher.
And not until Overton persuaded Akkomi to throw the frightened little thing away did they consent to move from their pedestal. Even then it was with fear and trembling, and many an awful glance toward the placid old Indian, who smoked his pipe and never glanced toward them.
"Never again will I sleep in that room--not if I die for it!" announced Mrs. Huzzard, and Miss Slocum was of the same mind.
"But the cabin is as safe as a tent," said 'Tana, persuasively, "and, really, it was not a dangerous snake."
"Ooh--h! I beg that you will not mention it," shivered Miss Slocum. "For my part, I don't expect to sleep anywhere after this terrible experience. But I'll go wherever Lorena Jane goes, and do what I can to comfort and protect her, while she rests."
Akkomi sat on Harris' doorstep, and smoked, while they argued on the dangers around them, and were satisfied only when Overton put a tent at their disposal. They proceeded to have hammocks swung in it on poles set for the purpose, as they could feel safe on no bed resting on the ground.
"But, really, my conscience troubles me about leaving you here alone, 'Tana," said Mrs. Huzzard, and Overton also looked at her as if interested in her comfort.
"Well, your conscience had better give itself a rest, if that is all it has to disturb it," she answered. "I don't care the least bit about staying alone--I rather like it; though, if I need any one, I'll have Flap-Jacks stay."
So Overton left them to their arrangements, and said nothing to 'Tana; but as Seldon and Haydon were about to embark, he spoke to the former.
"I may not be able to get up there after all, as I may feel it necessary to be here at night, so don't wait for me."
"All right, Overton; but we'd like to have you."
After the others had left the cabin, Akkomi still remained, and the girl watched him uneasily but did not speak. She talked to Harris, telling him of the funny actions of the two frightened women, but all the time she talked and tried to entertain the helpless man, it was with an evident effort, for the dark old Indian's face at the door was constantly drawing her attention.
When she finally entered her own room, he appeared at the entrance, and, after a careful glance, to see that no one was near, he entered and spoke:
"'Tana, it is now two suns since we talked. Will you go to-day in my boat for a little ways?"
"No," she said, angrily. "Go home to your tepee, Akkomi, and tell the man there I am sorry he is not dead. I never will see him again. I go away from this place now--very soon--maybe this week. What becomes of him I do not care, and it will be long before I come back."
He muttered some words of regret, and she turned to him more kindly.
"Yes, I know, Akkomi, you are my good friend. You think it is right to do what you are doing now. Maybe it is; maybe I am wrong. But I will not be different in this matter--never--never!"
"If he should come here--"
"He would not dare. There are people here he had better fear. Give him the names of Seldon and of Haydon."
"He knows; but it is the new miners he fears most; they come from all parts. He wants money."
"Let him work for it, like an honest man," she said, curtly. "Don't talk of it again. I will not go outside the camp alone, and I will not listen to any more words about it. Now mind that!"
In the other cabin, Harris listened intently to each word uttered. His eyes fairly blazed in his eagerness to hear 'Tana's final decision. But when Akkomi slouched past his door, and peered in, with his sharp, quick eyes, he had relapsed again into the apathetic state habitual to him. To all appearances he had not heard their words, and the old Indian walked thoughtfully past the tents and out into the timber.
Lyster called some light greeting to him, but he barely looked up and made no reply whatever. His thoughts were evidently on other things than camp sociabilities.
It was dark when he returned, and his fit of thoughtfulness was yet upon him, for he spoke to no one. Overton, who had been talking to Harris, noticed him smoking beside the door as he came out.
"You had better bring your camp down here," he remarked, ironically. "Well, for to-night you will have to spread your blanket in this room if Harris doesn't object. That is what I am to do, for I've given up my quarters to the ladies, who are afraid of snakes."
Akkomi nodded, and then Overton moved nearer the door again.
"Jim, I may not be back for an hour or so. I am going either on the water or up on the mountain for a little while. Don't lie awake for me, and I'll send a fellow in to look after you."
Harris nodded, and 'Tana, in her own room, heard Overton's steps die away in the night. He was going on the water or on the mountains--the places she loved to go, and dared not.
She felt like calling after him to wait to take her with him once more, and did rise and go to the door, but no farther.
Lights were gleaming all along the little stream; laughter and men's voices came to her across the level. Her own corner of the camp looked very dark and shadowy in comparison. But she turned back to it with a sigh.
"You may go, Flap-Jacks," she said to the squaw. "I don't mind being alone, but first fix the bed of Harris."
She noticed Akkomi outside the door, but did not speak to him. She heard the miner enter the other cabin and assist Harris to his couch and then depart. She wondered a little that the old Indian still sat there smoking, instead of spreading his blanket, as Overton had invited him to do.
A book of poems, presented to her by Lyster, was so engrossing, however, that she forgot the old fellow, until a movement at the door aroused her, and she turned to find the silent smoker inside her cabin.
But it was not Akkomi, though it was the cloak of Akkomi that fell from his shoulders.
It was a man dressed as an Indian, but his speech was the speech of a white man, as he frowned on her white, startled face.
"So, my fine lady, I've found you at last, even if you have got too high and mighty to come when I sent for you," he said, growlingly. "But I'll change your tune very quick for you."
"Don't forget that I can change yours," she retorted. "A word from me, and you know there is not a man in this camp wouldn't help land you where you belong--in a prison, or at the end of a rope."
"Oh, no," and he grimaced in a sardonic way. "I'm not a bit afraid of that--not a bit in the world. You can't afford it. These high-toned friends you've been making might drop off a little if they heard your old record."
"And who made it for me?" she demanded. "You! You've been a curse to every one connected with you. In that other room is a man who might be strong and well to-day but for you. And there is that girl buried over there by the picture rocks of Arrow Lake. Think of my mother, dragged to death through the slums of 'Frisco! And me--"
"And you with a gold mine, or the price of one," he concluded--"plenty of money and plenty of friends. That is about the facts of your case--friends, from millionaires down to that digger I saw you with the other night."
"Don't you dare say a word against him!" she exclaimed, threateningly.
"Oh, that's the way the land lies, is it?" he asked, with an ugly leer at her. "And that is why you were playing 'meet me by moonlight alone,' that night when I saw you together at the spring. Well, I think your money might help you to some one besides a married man."
"A married man?" she gasped. "Dan!"
"Dan, it is," he answered, insolently. "But you needn't faint away on that account. I have other use for you--I want some money."
"You are telling that lie about him because you think it will trouble me," she said, regarding his painted face closely and giving no heed to his demand. "You know it is not true."
"About the marriage? I'll swear--"
"I would not believe your oath for anything."
"Oh, you wouldn't? Well, now, what if I prove to you, right in this camp, that I know his wife?"
"His wife?" She sat down on the side of the couch, and all the cabin seemed whirling around her.
"Well--a girl he married. You may call her what you please. She had been called a good many things before he picked her up. Humph! Now that he has struck it rich, some one ought to let her know. She'd make the dollars fly."
"It is not true! It is not true!" she murmured to herself, as if by the words she could drive away the possibility of it.
He appeared to enjoy the sensation he had created.
"It is true," he answered--"every word of it, and he has been keeping quiet about it, has he? Well, see here. You don't believe me--do you? Now, while I was waiting there at the door, a man came in to put your paralyzed partner to bed. The man was Jake Emmons--used to hang out at Spokane. He knew Lottie Snyder before this Overton did--and after Overton married her, too, I guess. You ask him anything you want to know of it. He can tell you--if he will."
She did not answer. She feared, as he talked, that it was true; and she longed for him to go away, that she could think alone. The hot blood burned in her cheeks, as she remembered that night by the Twin Springs. The humiliation of it, if it proved true!
"But, see here, 'Tana. I didn't come here to talk about your virtuous ranger. I want some money--enough to cut the country. It ain't any more than fair, anyway, that you divide with me, for if it hadn't been for that sneaking hound in the other room, half of this find would have been mine a year ago."
"It will do more good where it is," she answered. "He did right not to trust you. And if he were able to walk, you would not be allowed to live many minutes within reach of him."
"Oh, yes; I know he was trailing me," he answered, indifferently, "but it was no hard trick to keep out of his road. I suppose you let him know you approve of his feelings toward me."
"Yes, I would load a gun for him to use on you if he were able to hold it," she answered, and he seemed to think her words amusing.
"You have mighty little regard for your duty to me," he observed.
"Duty? I can't owe you any duty when I never received any from you. I am nearly seventeen, and in all the years I remember you, I can't recall any good act you have ever done for me."
"Nearly seventeen," and he smiled at her in the way she hated. "Didn't your new uncle, Haydon, tell you better than that? You are nearly eighteen years old."
"Eighteen!" and she rose in astonishment. "I?"
"You--though you don't look it. You always were small for your age, so I just told you a white lie about it in order to manage you better. But that is over; I don't care what you do in the future. All I want of you is money to get to South America; so fix it up for me."
"I ought to refuse, and call them in to arrest you."
"But you won't," he rejoined. "You can't afford it."
He watched her, though, with some uncertainty, as she sat silent, thinking.
"No, I can't afford it," she said, at last. "I will be doing wrong to help you, just as if I let a poison snake loose where people travel--for that is what you are. But I am not strong enough to let these friends go and start over again; so I will help you away this once."
He drew a breath of relief, and gathered up his blanket.
"That is the way to talk. You've got a level head--"
"That will do," she said, curtly. "I don't want praise from a coward, a thief, or a murderer. You are all three. I have no money here. You will have to come again for it to-morrow night."
"A trick--is it?"
"It is no trick. I haven't got it, that is all. Maybe I can't get it in money, but I will get it in free gold by to-morrow at dusk. I will put it here under the pillow, and will manage to keep the rest away at that time. You can come as you came this evening, and get it; but I will neither take it nor send it to you. You will have to risk your freedom and your life to come for it. But while I can't quite decide to give you up or to kill you, myself, I hope some one else will."
"Hope what you please," he returned, indifferently. "So long as you get the dust for me, I can stand your opinion. And you will have it here?"
"I will have it here."
"I trust you only because I know you can't afford to go back on me," he said, as he wrapped the blanket around him, and dropped his taller form to the height of Akkomi. "It is a bargain, then, my dear. Good-night."
"I don't wish you a good-night," she answered. "I hope I shall never see you alive again."
