A group composed principally of cowboys, squaw-men, and breeds squatted and lounged outside of Joe Harris' house. Numerous tousley-headed boys, with worn overalls and bare feet, played noisily on the outskirts, dogs and pigs scurried about everywhere, while in the doorway of the dingy, dirt-covered kitchen in the rear hovered a couple of Indian women and several small dark-skinned children. Somewhere out of sight, probably over the cook-stove, were two or three nearly grown girls. Such, at supper time, was the usual aspect of Joe Harris' cabins, varied occasionally by more or less Indians, whose tepees stood at one side, or more or less dogs, but always the same extraordinary amount of squealing pigs and children.

The huge figure of Joe Harris, squaw-man, cattle-man, and general progressive-man, was prominent in the center of the group. He was by all odds the greatest and most feared man in that portion of the country. His judgment as well as his friendship was sought after by all the small ranchers about, and also, it was rumored, by a certain class of cattle owners commonly called rustlers. To be Joe Harris' friend meant safety, if nothing more; to be his enemy meant, sooner or later, a search for a new country, or utter ruination. He brought with him, years before from the north, a weird record, no tangible tale of which got about, but the mysterious rumor, combined with the man's striking personality, his huge form, bearded face, piercing blue eyes, and great voice, all combined to make people afraid of him. He was considered a dangerous man. At this date he possessed one thousand head of good cattle, a squaw, and fifteen strong, husky children, and, being a drinking man, possessed also an erratic disposition. He was very deferential to his Indian wife, a good woman, but he ruled his offspring with a rod of iron. His children feared him. Some of them possessed his nature to such a marked degree that they hated him more than they feared him, which is saying considerable. Even as they played about the group of men they watched him closely, as they had learned by instinct at their mother's breast.

In the midst of loud talk from the assorted group, a tiny girl, the great man's favorite child, was sent out from the kitchen to tell them that supper was ready. The little thing pulled timidly at the large man's coat. He stooped and picked her up in his arms, leading the hungry throng into the house, where a rude supper was eaten in almost absolute silence. Occasionally a pig would venture into the room, to be immediately kicked out by the man who sat nearest the door. Then the children that played about the house would chase the offending animal with sticks and shrill cries.

In a room adjoining this one a girl sat alone in dejected attitude, her face buried between two very brown hands. As the men tramped into the house she rose from the trunk upon which she had been sitting and crossed to the farther side of the room. There, with difficulty, she forced up a small dingy window looking out upon the mountains at the back of the ranch—a clear view, unobstructed by scurrying dogs, pigs, or children. She leaned far out, drawing in deep, sweet breaths, and wondering if she would follow the impulse to climb out and run to the top of the nearest hill. She thought not, then fell again to wondering how she should ever accustom herself to this place, these new surroundings. She heard the men tramp out of the house, followed soon by a timid rap upon her door, then moved quickly across the room, an odd contrast to her rude surroundings.

"You can have supper now," said a tall girl in a timid voice. "The men are through. We ain't got much, Miss Hathaway."

"A little is enough for me," said the girl, smiling. "Don't call me Miss, please. It doesn't seem just right—here. Call me Hope. It will make me feel more at home, you know. You're Mary, aren't you? You haven't been to supper, have you?"

"Mother said you were to eat alone," answered the breed girl.

"Oh, no, surely I may eat with you girls! I'd much prefer it. You know it would be lonely all by myself, don't you think so?"

"We ain't going to eat just yet, not till after the boys get theirs," said the Harris girl a trifle less timidly.

"Then I will wait, too," Hope decided. "Come in, Mary, and stay till I unpack some of these things. Just a few waists and extra riding skirts. I suppose I am to hang them up here on these nails, am I not?" When she had finished unpacking she turned to the breed girl, who had become quite friendly and was watching her interestedly, and explained: "Just a few things that I thought would be suitable to wear up here, for teaching; but, do you know, I'd feel lots better if I had a dress like yours—a calico one. But I have this—this old buck-skin one. See, it has bead-work on it. Isn't it pretty?"

"Oh!" exclaimed the girl, as Hope held it up for inspection. "Isn't it lovely!"

"Very old and dingy-looking, but I'll put it on and wear it," she decided.

A few minutes later, when they had arranged the small, barren room somewhat more comfortably, Hope Hathaway, attired in her dress of Indian make, joined the Harris girls at their frugal meal. Her dark hair was parted in the center and hung in two long braids down her back. That, combined with the beaded dress, fringed properly, her black eyes, and quiet expressionless face, made a very picturesque representation of an Indian girl. Truly she was one of them. The breed girls must have thought something of the same, for they became at their ease, talking very much as girls talk the world over. There were three of them between the ages of fourteen and eighteen, and Hope soon found herself well entertained and almost contented. The loneliness soon wore away, and before realizing it she began to feel at home—almost one of them, true to her spirit of adaptability. But yet for her supper she ate only two hard boiled eggs.

After the meal the breed girls walked with her down to the spring-house where the milk and butter was kept. From underneath the small log building a large spring crept lazily out, spreading itself as it went into a miniature lake which lay between the house buildings and the stables. It was the only thing on the ranch worthy of notice, and, in a country barren of water excepting in the form of narrow winding creeks, it was pleasing to the eye.

The men and boys had disappeared, the younger children were with their mother, and even the pigs had drowsily gone to their sleeping quarters. The place seemed strangely quiet after its recent noise and commotion.

Finally the girls returned to the house to help with the small children, while in the deepening twilight Hope remained alone beside the lake. The water into which she looked and dreamed was shallow, but the deepening shadows concealed that fact. To her fancy it might have been bottomless. Someone rode up on horseback, but she paid no attention until a pleasant voice close beside her startled her from her reverie.

"Can I trouble you for a drink of that water, please? I have often wished for one as I rode past; it looks so clear and cold." She bowed her head in assent, and, bringing a cup from the spring-house, stooped and filled it for him. He thanked her and drank the water eagerly.

"It is good, just as I thought, and cold as ice," he said; then, noticing the girl more closely, continued: "I have been talking with your father over there at the corral, and am returning home."

"With my father," emphasized the girl. The young man noted with wonderment the richness of her voice, the soft, alluring grace of every movement. Someone had jokingly told him before he left his old-country home that he would bring back an Indian wife, as one of historical fame had done centuries before. He laughed heartily at the time—he smiled now, but thought of it. He thought of it again many times that evening and cursed himself for such folly. Perhaps there was Indian medicine in the cup she gave him, or perhaps he looked an instant too long into those dark, unfathomable eyes. He found himself explaining:

"Yes; your father has agreed to sell me that team I have been wanting. I am coming back for the horses to-morrow."

"My father," she began again. "Oh, yes, of course. I thought——Would you like another drink of the water?"

"Yes, if you please." It seemed good to stand there in the growing darkness, and another drink would give him fully a minute. He watched her supple figure as she stooped to refill the tin cup. What perfect physiques some of these Indian girls possessed! He did not wonder so much now that some men forgot their families and names for these dark-skinned women.

"I am coming to-morrow for the horses—in the morning," he repeated foolishly, returning the cup. She did not speak again, so bidding her a courteous good-night he mounted his horse and rode slowly into the gathering dusk.

Hope stood there for a moment, returning to her study of the water; then two of the breed girls came toward her. One of them was giggling audibly.

"We heard him," said Mary. "He thought you was one of us. It'll be fun to fool him. He's new out here, and don't know much, anyhow. He's Edward Livingston, an Englishman, an' has got a sheep ranch about three miles over there."

"A sheep-man!" exclaimed Hope, "Isn't that too bad!"

"You hate sheep-men, too?" asked the older girl.

"No, I don't know that I hate them, but there's a feeling—a sort of something one can't get over, something that grows in the air if you're raised among cattle. I despise sheep, detest them. They spoil our cattle range." Then after a short pause: "It's too bad he isn't a cattle-man!"

"That's what I think," said Mary, "because the men are all gettin' down on him. He runs his sheep all over their range, an' they're makin' a big talk."

"You shouldn't tell things, Mary, they're only talkin', anyway," reproved the older girl.

"Talkin'! Well, I should say so, an' you bet they mean business! But Miss Hathaway—Hope—don't care, an' I don't care neither, if he gets into a scrape; only he's got such a nice, pleasant face, an' he ain't on to the ways out here yet, neither—an' I don't care what the men say! Tain't as if he meant anything through real meanness."

"That's so," replied the older girl, "but maybe she don't want to hear such talk. It's bedtime, anyway; let's go in."

"Yes, I'm tired," said Hope wearily, adding as she bade Mary good-night at her door: "I do hope he won't get into any trouble."