The three months' school had begun in earnest. Each day Hope found new interest in her small class and in her surroundings. She readily learned to dispense with all the comforts and luxuries to which she had been born, substituting instead a rare sense of independence, an expansion of her naturally wild spirit. She dispensed also with conventionalities, except such as were ingrained with her nature, yet she was far from happy in the squaw-man's family. She could have ridden home in a few hours, but remembered too keenly her mother's anger and her father's parting words. He said to her:

"You have hurt your mother and spoiled her summer by the stand you have taken. You are leaving here against my wishes and against your own judgment. The only thing I've got to say is this: don't come back here till you've finished your contract up there, till you've kept your word to the letter. No one of my blood is going back on their word. A few rough knocks will do you good."

He probably discovered in a very few hours how much he loved his girl, how she had grown into his life, for the next day after she had left he drove to the distant town and hunted up his wife's nephew, who had caused all this trouble.

"You deserve another thrashing," he said when he had found him, "but now you've got to turn to and do what you can to bring things back to where they were. Hope's left home and 's gone to teaching school up in the mountains at Harris'. Now, what in thunder am I going to do about it? She can't live there with those breeds. Lord, I slept there once and the fleas nearly ate me up!"

The boy's face turned a trifle pale. "I'm sorry, uncle, about this. I never thought she would do such a thing, on my account—not after I left. And she's gone to Joe Harris' place! I know all about that, a regular nest of low breeds and rustlers. She can't stay there!"

"But she will, just the same," announced the man, "because when she told me that she'd promised Harris, and that she was going, anyway, I told her to go and take her medicine till the school term was ended."

"But surely you won't allow her to stay, to live at Joe Harris'! There are other people up there, white people, with whom she could live. Why, uncle, you can't allow her to stay there!"

"Why not? She's made her nest, let her lie in it for awhile—fleas and all. It won't hurt her any. But I'm going to keep a close eye on her just the same. I couldn't go up there myself on account of your aunt's being here, but I was thinking about it all last night, and I finally concluded to send a bunch of cattle up there, beef cattle, and hold 'em for shipment. Now I came here to town to tell you that your aunt wants you to come back to the ranch, but you're not going to come back, see? You're going up there and hold those cattle for a spell, and keep your eye on my girl. I don't give a damn about the steers—it's the girl; but you've got to have an excuse for being there. Your aunt's got to have an excuse, too. These cattle—there's two hundred head of 'em—they're yours—see? I'll have 'em all vented to-morrow, for in case Hope thought they wasn't yours she might catch on. You can ship 'em in the fall for your trouble. She won't think anything of you holding cattle up there, because the range is so good. So you look out for her, see how she is every day, and send me word by McCullen, who I'll send along with you. You can take a cook and another man if you need one. And now don't let her catch on that I had a hand in this! Seen anything of them blame New Yorkers yet?" Young Carter shook his head absent-mindedly. He was filled with delight at this clever scheme of his uncle's. "No? Well, mebbe there's a telegram. Your aunt expected me to take them back to the ranch to-morrow. Never mind thanking me for the cattle. You do your part to the letter. Send me word every day and don't forget. And another thing, just quit your thinking about marrying that girl, and keep your hands off of her! Remember she's in a wild country up there, among tough customers, and she probably knows it by now, and the chances are she's got a gun buckled onto her!"

He was right. Hope found herself among too many rough characters to feel safe without a gun concealed beneath her blouse or jacket, yet rough as the men were, they treated this quiet-faced girl with the utmost respect, perhaps fearing her. Her reputation as a phenomenal shot was not far-fetched, and had reached the remotest corners of the country. She had played with a gun as a baby, had been allowed to use one when a wee child, and had grown up with the passion for firearms strong within her. Shooting was a gift with her, perfected by daily practice. In one of her rooms at the ranch the girl had such a collection of firearms as would have filled the heart of many an old connoisseur with longing. It was her one passion, perhaps not a more expensive one than most women possess; yet, for a girl, unique. Her father gratified her in this, just as other fathers gratify their girls in their desire for music, art, fine clothes, or all, as the case may be. But the things that most girls love so well had small place in the life of Hope Hathaway. She cared little for music, and less for fine clothes. Society she detested, declaring that a full season in New York would kill her. Perhaps if she had not been filled with the determination to stay away from it, its excitement might finally have won her; but she was of the West. Its vastness filled her with a love that was part of her nature. Its boundless prairies, its freedom, were greater than all civilization had to offer her.

She brought with her to the mountains a long-distance rifle and a brace of six-shooters. A shotgun she seldom used, for the reason that to her quick, accurate eye a rifle did better, more varied work, and answered every purpose of a shotgun. It was said that each bird she marked on the wing dropped at her feet in two pieces, its head severed smoothly. This may not have been true always, but the fact remains that the birds dropped when she touched the trigger.

She was an odd character for a girl, reserved and quiet even with her most intimate friends, rough and impulsive as a boy sometimes, in speech and actions, again as dignified as the proudest queen. Her friends never knew how to take her, because they never understood her. She left, so far along her trail in life, nothing but shattered ideals and delusions, but she had not become cynical or embittered, only wiser. After her first week's stay at Harris' she began to realize that perhaps she had always expected too much of people. Here were people of whom she had expected nothing opening up new side lights on life that she had never thought to explore. Life seemed full of possibilities to her now, at least, immediate possibilities.

She had not met again the courteous, smooth-faced young man who had mistaken her for an Indian girl, though he had come the next morning for the horses, and had ridden past the ranch more than once. Yet she had not forgotten the incident, or what the Harris girls had told her, for daily as she passed the group of loungers on her return from school she heard his name gruffly spoken, intermixed with oaths. They certainly meant mischief, and she was curious to know what it was.

The first school week had ended. On Friday night she wondered how she could manage to exist through Saturday and Sunday, but Saturday morning found her in the saddle, accompanied by the three largest Harris boys, en route for the highest peaks of the mountains.

"This is something like living," she exclaimed, pulling in her horse after the first few miles. "How pretty all of this is! What people call scenery, I suppose. But give me the prairie, smooth and level as far as the eye can reach! There's nothing like it in all the world! The open prairie, a cool, spring day like this, and a horse that will go till it's ready to fall dead—that is life! Who is it that lives over there?" she asked, pointing toward some ranch buildings, nestled in a low, green valley.

"That's the Englishman's place," answered the soft-voiced twin.

"Sheep-man," explained Dave disgustedly. "See them sheds?"

"Oh, the new man by the name of Livingston. Do you boys know him?" asked the girl curiously.

"Nope! Don't want to, neither. Seen him lots of times, though," answered Dave.

"He's come in here without bein' asked, an' thinks he can run the whole country," explained the soft-voiced twin.

"Is he trying to run the whole country?" asked Hope.

"Well, he's runnin' his sheep over everybody's range, an' they ain't goin' to stand for it," replied the boy.

"But what can they do about it? Have they asked him to move his sheep?"

"No. What's the use after they've been over the range—spoiled it, anyhow. No, you bet they ain't goin' to ask him nothing!"

The girl thought for a moment, absently pulling the "witches' knots" from her horse's mane, while it climbed a hill at a swinging gait, then continued as though talking to herself:

"Once upon a time a young man took what money he had in the world, and going into a far-away, wild country started in business for himself. He had heard, probably, that there was more money in sheep than in cattle. A great many people do hear that, so he bought sheep, thinking, perhaps, to make a pile of money in a few years, and then go back to his home and marry some nice, good girl of his choice. It takes money to get married and make a home, and to do mostly anything, they say, and so this young man bought sheep, for no one goes into the sheep business or any other kind of business unless they want to make money. They don't generally do it for fun. And, of course, he thought, as they all do, to get rich immediately. He made a great mistake in the beginning, being extremely ignorant. He brought his sheep to a cattle country, where there were no other sheep near his own. All the men around him hated sheep, as men who own cattle always do, and hating the sheep, they thought they hated the sheep-man also, who really was a very harmless young man, and wouldn't have offended them for anything. But these men's dislike for the sheep grew daily, and so their fancied dislike for the young man grew in proportion.

"The men in the country would meet together in little groups, and every day some man would have some new grievance to tell the others. It finally got on their brains, until all they could think or talk about was this new man and his sheep. The more they thought and talked, the more angry they became, until finally they forgot that he was another man like themselves—in all likelihood a good, honest man, who would not have done them wrong knowingly. They forgot a great many things, and all they could think about night or day was how they could do something to injure his business or himself. They got so after awhile that they talked only in low whispers about him, taking great pains that their families, children, and even their big boys, should not know their plans. They made a great mistake in not taking their boys into their confidence, because boys are very often more reliable than men, and can always keep a secret a whole lot better. But perhaps the fathers knew that the boys had very good sense and would not go into anything like that without a better reason than they had, which was no reason at all.

"I never heard just what they planned to do to this newcomer to get rid of him and his sheep, but I know how it had to end." She looked up, searching each boy's intent, astonished face.

"Say, what're you drivin' at, anyway? You can't fool me—it's him!" exclaimed Dave, pointing toward the sheep-ranch. "You're makin' up a story about him!"

"How'd you know all that?" asked the quicker, soft-voiced twin.

"Know all that. Why, how did you boys know all that? I suppose that I have ears, too—and I've heard of such things before," she replied.

"But you don't know how the end'll be. That's one thing you don't know," declared the soft-voiced twin. "You can't know that."

"She might be a fortune-teller like grandmother White Blanket," laughed the other.

"Is that old squaw in the farthest tepee from the house your own grandmother?" asked the girl.

"Yep, an' she ain't no squaw, either! She's a French half-breed," he said, with an unconscious proud uplifting of the shoulders.

Hope laughed slightly. "What's the other half?" she asked. The boy gave her a look of deep commiseration.

"I thought you had more learnin' than that! Why, the other half's white, of course."

"I beg your pardon!" gasped the girl. "My education along those lines must have been somewhat neglected. I had an idea that those were Indians camped down at your place. But French half-breeds,—a mixture of white and French,—that's a different matter!" She stopped her horse and laughed with the immoderation of a boy. "That is rich," she cried. "If ever I go to New York again I shall spring that on the Prince. 'Mon Dieu!' he will exclaim. 'What then are we, Mademoiselle, we, the aristocracy—the great nation of the French?'" Her face sobered. "But this is not the question. I do know how this will end, and I am not a fortune-teller, either. I know that the ones who are in the wrong about this matter will get the worst of it. Sometimes it means states prison, sometimes death—at all events, something not expected. I tell you, boys, I wouldn't want to be on the wrong side of this for anything! And do you know, I am real glad that your father doesn't need your help. We will take a little side of our own and watch things—what do you say? It will be lots of fun, and we'll know all the time that we are in the right, and maybe we can prevent them from doing any real wrong to themselves." She watched them closely to see how they accepted the suggestion. Her inspiration might be considered a reckless one, but their young minds lent themselves readily to her influence.

"The old man licked me this mornin'," growled Dave. "An' he can go straight to the hot place now, for all o' me! I'm goin' off on the round-up, anyway, next year."

"You boys know, don't you, that if your father ever found out that I knew anything about this thing, he would probably give me a licking, too—and send me out of the country?" This for effect.

"I'd like to see him lay hands on you," roared Dave. "I'd fill him so full of lead that—that——"

Words failed him.

"I'd kill him if he did, Miss Hathaway," exclaimed the small boy, Ned, with quiet assurance that brought a hint of laughter to the girl's face. The soft-voiced twin rode up very close to her.

"He ain't goin' to find it out, an' don't you worry; we'll all stand by you while there's one of us left!"

"All right, boys, we're comrades now. I'll tell you what we'll do; we'll form a band—brigade—all by ourselves. I am commanding officer and you are my faithful scouts. How's that?" Hope's fancy was leading her away. "Come on," she cried, "let's race this flat!"

The self-appointed commanding officer reached the smooth valley far in advance of her faithful scouts, who yelled in true Indian fashion as they rode up with her.

"I'll run you a mile an' beat you all hollow," declared Dave. "But on a two hundred yard stretch like this here place my horse don't have no chance to get started."

"I'll bet my quirt against yourn that you lose," said the soft-voiced twin.

"Keep your quirt! I don't want it, nohow. One's enough fur me. But I can beat her just the same!" Dave was stubbornly positive.

"You'll have to ride my horse if you do beat her," continued the soft-voiced twin. Dave grew furious.

"Now, see here, that raw-boned, loose-jointed, watch-eyed cayuse o' yourn couldn't run a good half mile without fallin' dead in his tracks! What'er you a-givin' me, anyhow?" At that instant his attention was fortunately taken. "Where'd all them cattle come from?" he exclaimed.

They had turned up a narrow gulch, the youngest boy and Hope taking the lead, and had traveled it for perhaps fifty yards when they found themselves at a stand-still before a drove of cattle that were making their way slowly down the narrow trail.

"We won't go back," called the girl. "Come on up here and wait till they pass." And followed by the boys she guided her horse up the steep, rocky side of a high bank, and waited while the cattle came slowly on. They counted them as they passed in twos and threes down the narrow valley. When nearly two hundred had gone by a rider came in sight around the bend of the hill. Hope's horse whinnied, and the man's answered back, then the girl gave a scream of delight, and, unmindful of the rocky bank, or of the appearance of two other riders, rushed down, nearly unseating the old cow-puncher in her demonstrations of welcome.

"Jim! Dear old Jim! Where did you come from? I am so glad to see you! Why, Jim, I'd rather see you than anyone in the world! How glad I am! Boys," she called, "come down here. This is Jim, my dear old father Jim!" Old Jim McCullen's eyes were dimmed with tears as he looked from the girl's happy, flushed face to the last of the cattle that were going out of sight around the bend of the gulch. "Where did you come from, Jim, and what brings you up here? Whose cattle? Why, they're ours, and rebranded! What are you doing with them?" Just then the two riders, whom in her excitement she had failed to notice, rode up. "Why, Syd, hello," she said. "And you're here, too! I thought Jim was alone."

She changed instantly from her glad excitement, speaking with the careless abruptness of a boy. Her cousin rode alongside. She gave one glance at his companion, then wheeled her horse about and stationed herself a short distance away beside the breed boys.

"This is a happy surprise, Hope," exclaimed her cousin. "What are you doing up here so far away from home?" She regarded him a trifle more friendly.

"Is it possible you don't know? Didn't you tell him, Jim, that I had gone away? Oh, I forgot, you weren't at the ranch when I left, so you couldn't tell him. Well, I am here, as you can see, Sydney—partly because I wanted a change, partly because they wanted a school-teacher up here. I am staying at Joe Harris'. What are you doing here with those cattle?"

"Oh, thought I'd go to work for a change. Just some cattle that I bought to hold for fall shipment." He turned to the man at his side, apologizing, then proceeded to introduce him to his cousin. The girl cut it short by a peculiar brief nod.

"Oh, I've met Mr. Livingston before!"

"Indeed?" said Carter in surprise, looking from one to the other.

"At Harris'" explained the sheep-man. "She gave me one of the sweetest, most refreshing drinks of water it has ever been my privilege to enjoy." He spoke easily, yet was much perturbed. Here was his shy Indian maid, a remarkably prepossessed, up-to-date young woman. It took a little time to get it straightened out in his mind.

"Of course I might have known that you two would have met. There are so few people here." Carter tried to speak indifferently.

"Well, good-by," said the girl, moving away.

"Don't be in a hurry! Where are you going, Hope?" called her cousin.

"Sorry, but can't wait any longer. We're off for a day's exploring. Good-by."

"I'll see you this evening. We're going to camp near Harris'," said Carter.

"No, not this evening," she called back to him as she rode on up the gulch. "I won't be back till late, and then I'll be too tired to see anyone. Good-by, Jim—I'll see you to-morrow." Old Jim watched her until she was lost to sight in the turn of the gulch. Livingston also watched her until she was out of sight. She rode astride, wearing a neat divided skirt, and sat her horse with all the ease and perfection of a young cowboy. Old Jim McCullen went on in trail of the cattle, while young Carter and Livingston followed leisurely.

"Rather a cool greeting from a girl one expects to marry," said Carter, under his breath.

"Is it possible—your fiancÉe!" Livingston's face became thoughtful. "You are to be congratulated," he said.

Carter laughed nervously. "I can scarcely say she is that, yet—but it is her mother's wish. We have grown up together. Miss Hathaway is my cousin, my second cousin. I can see no reason why we will not be married—some time."

"Miss Hathaway," mused his companion. "And you love her?" he asked quietly.

"Certainly," answered Carter, wondering at the other's abrupt way of speaking.

"And may I ask if she loves you?" The sheep-man's tone was quiet and friendly. Carter wished that it might have been insolent. As it was he could only laugh uneasily.

"It would seem not," he answered. "To-day she is like an icicle—to-morrow she will be a most devoted girl. That is Hope—as changeable as the wind. One never knows what to expect. One day loving—the next, cold and indifferent. But then, you see, I am used to her little ways."

"I wish you all the happiness you deserve, Mr. Carter," said Livingston a little later, as he rode off, taking a short cut to his ranch.

"Hope—Hope Hathaway; Carter's cousin. What an idiot I've been to think of her as an Indian girl! An odd name—Hope. Hope Hath a way," he mused as he rode homeward. "If only I had the right to hope!"