Part 18

“Here,” said Jean, the next morning, approaching her father, who was hard at work by sunrise, “are the letters I promised to write to Mr. Ashleigh and his mother. You stipulated that you should see them, as you will remember.”

His head and heart were aching. “I don’t care a rap for your nonsense,” he exclaimed. “Nothing’ll ever come of it. The fellow has never written to you.”

“That’s so!” thought Jean, strolling off aimlessly into the woods. “Daddie gave him our address as Oregon City. Oh, my God! can it be possible that my other self has been married (or the same as married) to Le-Le, the Indian slave?”

Giant trees rose often to the height of three hundred feet,—one hundred and fifty feet from the ground without a limb,—and so straight that no hand-made colonnade could equal them for grace and symmetry. As Jean stood under these stately monarchs of the soil and listened to the soft sighing of the wind among their evergreen leaves, she heard the roar of rushing water. She clambered through a labyrinth of deciduous undergrowth till she came to a horseshoe bend at the head of a gulch, over which the water foamed and tumbled till lost from sight amid the tangled ferns and foliage.

“Halloa!” cried a voice from an unseen source.

She looked in the direction whence the call seemed to proceed, and beheld, standing on the opposite bluff, a typical young backwoodsman, tall and shapely.

She returned the salutation by waving her sunbonnet, which she had been swinging aimlessly by its strings, exposing her face and head to the caress of the balm-laden air.

A minute later, and the stranger was by her side. She noticed that he carried in a careless way a long, old-fashioned rifle; that a pipe was in his mouth, and a pistol of the “pepper-box” variety protruded from the leg of his boot.

“Are you the Ranger gal what got left at Green River?”

She turned ghastly pale at mention of the locality where her thoughts were centred, but made no audible reply.

“My name is Henry Jackman,—better known as Happy Jack,” he said, as he dropped the butt-end of his rifle to the ground with a thud, and stood waiting for her to speak.

“I’ve heard of you before,” said Jean; “you are the man who’s been talking sawmill to my daddie.”

“That’s what!”

“Then we may as well become acquainted. I am Jean Ranger, and I have an older sister Mary and a younger one named Marjorie, besides my brother Hal and two little sisters.”

“I seed yer dad yisti’dy an’ we talked things over. Thar’s a fine prospec’ hyer fur a sawmill.”

“So I perceive.”

“Yer dad an’ me’s goin’ to go snucks.”

“I do not understand.”

“I mean pardners. He’s got the sabé an’ I’ve got the rocks, so we can make a go of it. The kentry’s settlin’ up powerful fast, an’ thar’ll be lots o’ demand for lumber for bridges an’ barns an’ houses an’ fencin’ an’ sich.”

“I see. We had a lot of spavined, wind-broken old horses for our sawmill power in the States, sir.”

“Thar’s a water-power yander that beats hosses all to thunder, miss.”

“So I see, sir.”

“Thar’s millions o’ feet o’ logs in sight; an’ out yander in the mountains is a place to build a flume, so we kin raf’ the logs down to a lake that I found up thar in the woods. We’ll have a town here some day an’ make things hum.”

“Have you often met my daddie?” asked Jean.

“I’m lookin’ fur him now, every minute. We’re goin’ to survey some timber-land fur the mill-hands, farther up the crick. The curse o’ this kentry is bachelders. Ah! here’s the Cap’n now. It’s lucky you’ve brought along so many weemen folks, ole man; we’ll all be needin’ wives.”

This concluding remark brought the hot blood of indignation to the cheeks of Jean as she turned to meet her father, who was carrying an ax and a gun, followed by Mr. Burns, equipped with a clothes-line and a carpenter’s square.

“What in thunder are you doing out here, Jean?” asked her father, taking no notice of the stranger’s remark. “Don’t you know that the woods are full of wild beasts?”

“I’ve seen nothing wilder than your prospective ‘pardner,’” she answered aside. “He seems harmless; but he’s an ignoramus and a boor.”

“Very well, Jean. But ruin home now, and help the women folks. They have a whole lot o’ work on hand, getting settled, and you do like to shirk.”

“Thar’ll be lots more of it for ’em to do afore this timber is all sawed up,” added the prospective “pardner.” “It takes a mountain o’ grub to keep a lot o’ loggers in workin’ order. I’m mighty glad, Cap’n, that you’ve got a lot a weemin folks; we’ll need ’em in our business.”

“Yes,” retorted Jean. “They’re as handy to have in the house as a coffin with the proper combination of letters on the plate!”

Mr. Burns laughed; but Mr. Jackman dropped his lower jaw and looked the picture of an exaggerated interrogation point. “What’s the gal drivin’ at?” he asked under his breath; and her father said gravely, “Stop talking nonsense, Jean.”

It was mutually agreed upon that a logging-camp should be started at once, and the ground prepared during the coming rainy season for the foundation and erection of a combined sawmill, planer, and shingle-mill, and that Captain Ranger should return, as early as practicable, to the States, _via_ the Isthmus, to purchase the necessary machinery, which could not at that time be procured on the Pacific Coast.

* * * * *

Soon thereafter Captain Ranger went to Portland to purchase the necessary supplies for the winter’s use. Arriving there, he repaired, in his best Sunday suit, to the primitive hotel, and inquired for Mrs. Addicks.

The lady appeared, after long waiting, fastidiously gowned and so thoroughly at ease that all his thought of the superior quality of the white man’s blood departed as he saw her, and he stood in her presence in embarrassed silence.

“Won’t you be seated, Mr.—”

“Ranger,” he said, fumbling his hat awkwardly and shambling into the proffered chair.

“To what am I indebted for this visit, Mr. Ranger?”

“You will please excuse me, ma’am,” he said, crossing his legs clumsily, “but I have come to see you on a little business that concerns us both. Your husband is my brother.”

“Then, sir, you can tell me something about his family. Do his parents yet live?”

“They were alive and well at last accounts; but it takes two months or more for a letter to go and come. Our grandmother died recently.”

“The dear old lady he calls ‘Grannie’?”

“Yes.”

“My husband will be grieved to hear of this. I must write to him at once. Can you give me any particulars concerning her last days? Did she remember Joseph?”

“She had a dream of him, and said his mother would live to see him again.”

“I used to wonder why my husband was so reticent about his family affairs. I supposed when we were married that he would take me back to live among his people. But he steadfastly refused to do it, and would not even let me know their post-office address. But I know all about it now. He left home under a cloud.”

“But it was not nearly so bad as he thought. I set his mind at rest on that score when we had that last interview. The poor fellow was in daily dread of discovery and pursuit for more than a dozen years.”

The woman arose and paced the floor in silence, the coppery hue of her complexion enriched by the blood that rushed to her face. She paused and stood before him, her hands folded over the back of a chair, as she waited for him to speak again.

“I did your husband a grievous wrong when I saw him at the post, madam. I must confess that I had no idea that the Indian woman he told me that he had married was—”

She waved her hand in protest. “There, there, Mr. John; no flattery, if you please. If you had seen me as I was that day, you would have felt justified in spurning your brother’s wife. It was not my fault, though, that he kept me like a common squaw. Your conduct is fully forgiven, since it resulted in an open declaration of independence on my part.

“There were a dozen young chieftains and half as many white men who aspired to my hand and heart in my girlhood; but Joseph was a king among them all. But we had not been married a month before I found that I was doomed to the same treatment, as his wife, that other Indian wives endure. So I lost heart, and accepted the situation as stolidly as my father would have done if he had been doomed to perpetual slavery.”

“Did Joseph always treat you badly after your marriage?”

The woman shrugged her shoulders.

“Hard times came to our tribe. The Hudson Bay Company’s business languished. We had a succession of bitter cold winters, with dry, hot summers following. The different tribes became involved in war. Then famine came, and pestilence. We will draw a veil over what followed, Mr. John. Joseph will never beat his wife again; I have sworn it!

“The fluctuations of fortune brought us at last to the Utah trading-post, where you saw Joseph. We were prosperous then, and might have lived like white folks; but he seemed to prefer to keep me situated like an ordinary squaw, so I gave him all he bargained for. But, ugh! I did detest the life. Finally my father died and left me an ample inheritance, which is mine absolutely. I will educate my children and take them to London, where there is no prejudice against my people such as abounds in this ‘land of the free and home of the brave’!”

“Do you think Joseph is able to repay a part of the money we lost on his account?”

“My husband will waste more money in a single night sometimes, at the gambling-table, than he will expend on his family in a year. I think he is quite able to pay his debts.”

“How would you like to visit our people back in the old home?”

“When our children reach the age of six or seven years, they begin to outgrow the Indian style and complexion,” she said; “but I’ll not take them among my husband’s people while they look like little pappooses.”

“Why not take them out to my donation claim? My family will be glad to welcome you.”

“Couldn’t I take my nurse along?”

“If you did, some fool would coax her to marry him, so he and she could hold a double quota of land. Better leave her here with your little ones, or set her to washing dishes.”

“In either case our landlord would marry her himself, I fear. But I’ll risk it.”

The older girls were out of school for a walk, in the company of their brother John and a black-robed Sister, and thus were permitted at this juncture to enter their mother’s presence for an introduction to their uncle.

“John and Annie are Rangers, as you see, sir. My husband is very proud of them.”

“And well he might be,” thought the Captain, as he scanned them critically.

* * * * *

The sun was sinking behind the Coast Range the next evening, throwing the picturesque valley of the Willamette into deep shadows, and lighting up the tops of the Cascade heights with tinges of rose and gold and purple, when a carriage and pair were seen ascending the narrow grade leading to the great log house occupied temporarily by all the families of the Ranger colony. The unexpected arrival of the Captain created a sensation, which was not at all abated when he vaulted to the ground, followed, before he could turn to assist her, by a large, well-formed, and faultlessly attired Indian woman, with a sheen of gold in her raven-hued hair.

“Mrs. O’Dowd,” said the Captain, offering his hand, “allow me to introduce Mrs. Ranger Number Two,—my brother Joseph’s wife.”

XXXV

_ASHLEIGH MAKES NEW PLANS_

When Henry Jackman saw the wife of Joseph Ranger, whom he had known at the trading-post in Utah as Mr. Addicks, and understood the full significance of her arrival as a welcome visitor and relative of the Ranger family, he shrugged his shoulders and walked away, exclaiming: “I’m dummed!”

“No wonder Uncle Joe was captured by that fine creature,” said Jean to herself. “She must have been as handsome in her girlhood as Le-Le.” And for the first time in her life she fainted away.

When she awoke to consciousness, which was not till the next morning, she was on the big white bed in the spare chamber, whither she had been carried by loving friends and treated through all the watches of the night by the Little Doctor with the untiring faithfulness of a devoted friend.

“Take that Indian away! I cannot bear the sight of her,” cried Jean, as her copper-colored aunt approached her, proffering kindly offices.

“She must be humored in her whims till she has had time to recover, Mrs. Ranger,” said Mrs. McAlpin, aside. “There’s a love story and a disappointment behind all this. Her antipathy is not against you, but another Indian princess whom she thinks she has cause to remember.”

“I didn’t come here to make wounds, but to heal them,” faltered Mrs. Ranger, as, with an indistinct conception of the trouble, she left the room, followed by Sally O’Dowd.

“I want you to know that you have healed my wounds,” said Sally. “I was miserably and unreasonably jealous of—I didn’t know of whom—for a whole week before you came to us. I shall never be such a simpleton again.”

“My wise brother says you and he have concluded to marry each other, Mrs. O’Dowd.”

“We were engaged for a short time, but when I overheard him talking to himself about going to Portland ‘to see a woman,’ and he wouldn’t take me into his confidence about her, I got angry and jealous, and treated him shabbily.”

They found the Captain, of whom they went in quest, in his favorite seat on the front doorstep.

“I don’t see why you and Joseph cannot go together to visit your parents this winter,” said Mrs. Ranger, coming at once to the point. “Your partner can have ample time while you are away to get the foundations ready for the mill and other buildings. I will write to Joseph this very night and urge it if you say so.”

The Captain looked inquiringly at Mrs. O’Dowd.

“I quite agree with your brother’s wife,” she said, extending her hand. “I was an idiot to act toward you as I did.”

“With your permission, I will write at once to Joseph, explaining everything and urging him to come to the ranch at once. The courier goes out to-night, so there is no time to lose.”

“Yes,” said Sally, whose eyes were blazing with a new joy, “it is just as Wahnetta says. You can be spared better this winter than later. Will you go if Joseph consents to accompany you?”

“And leave you behind?”

“It would be very humiliating to your family and embarrassing to both of us for me to return as your wife to the old home of your Annie, John.”

“But you’ll marry me before I start?”

“No, John,” she said, the tears welling to her eyes; “we owe to your Annie’s people a tender regard for their feelings. If we were to be married before you visit them, they could never be reconciled to me.”

“I must consult my partner,” said the Captain. “He may not want me to leave at this time. The fellow is terribly unreasonable at times.”

“Is that ‘fellow,’ as you call him, your master?” asked Mary, who was passing, on her way to the milk-house. “He’s been hanging around the house ever since sun-up, waiting for a chance to see Jean. He’s depending on the three of us to keep the boarding-house, and he wants to marry Jean, to stop her wages.”

“Excuse me, ladies; I must see my partner at once,” said the Captain, as he hurried away.

It required much persuasive argument to secure the consent of Happy Jack to Mrs. Joseph’s proposition; but he yielded at length, as men are wont to do when women to whom they are not married combine to carry a point.

The outgoing courier was to leave Oregon City at sunset, and it was necessary to write many letters for the overland mail, destined for Salt Lake and the few intervening points along the route.

Among the missives was one from Jean to Ashton Ashleigh, containing only a few sentences:—

“I have loved you more than life, but I have awaited tidings from you till hope is dead. I wrote a letter for your mother, but it was not sent to her because I had not heard from you. You will understand. I am deeply wounded, but I shall not die. I shall do my duty and be honest with myself, no matter what others may do or be.

“A man who styles himself Happy Jack has come among us, who wants to make me his wife. He is forming a partnership with daddie in the sawmill business; and he insinuates that you have married Le-Le. Does this explain your silence?”

* * * * *

A fortnight passed, and Ashton Ashleigh read this letter by the flickering light of a smoking kerosene lamp. Siwash lay on a buffalo robe in a corner, reading; and near him sat Le-Le, making a cunningly wrought moccasin.

The wind outside was rising. The ice-laden chains and pulleys of the idle ferry-boat resounded to its attack like a thousand-stringed Æolian harp. Suddenly, under a louder and more furious blast than any that had preceded it, the ice-incrusted cables snapped asunder, and the frozen boat crashed through the ice blockade, her timbers breaking as if made of withes.

Ashleigh opened the door and peered out into the moonlight. White clouds rolled over and over one another, and the stark white landscape seemed alive with flurrying snow.

“Good-bye, Green River Ferry,” he said. “This is a fitting finale to my cherished hopes. Oh, Jean! my bonnie Jean! To think that the end should be like this!”

* * * * *

“The ferry-boat is gone, Le-Le,” he said the next morning. “Your ransom price has been paid, and you are, as you know, a slave no longer. I am going away. Take good care of Le-Le, Siwash, my boy; and take good care of yourself also.”

The girl’s English vocabulary was too meagre to admit of much expostulation in speech, but her wailing was blood-curdling as she knelt at his feet, alternately embracing his knees and tearing her hair.

“I have made a terrible mistake, poor girl,” he cried, tearing himself away, “but I meant only to be kind. It was my dream to set you free and take you with me to—to—her. But now I see that it will be impossible!”

Le-Le, still wailing, prepared his breakfast. Siwash brought his mules to the door, in stolid obedience to orders, his face as expressionless as flint.

“The white man’s heart is hard, like the hoof of the buffalo,” he said to Le-Le in her native tongue. “You mistook his kindness for love. But never mind. You’ll get over it.”

* * * * *

Two days of steady travel through the solitudes brought Ashleigh to the lodgings of the post-trader, Joseph Ranger, alias Addicks.

“Your wife,” John had written to his brother, “has come to visit us at the Ranch of the Whispering Firs, as my girls have named our donation claims, to hold which we have pooled our issues, and have filed upon them as individuals. My family are charmed with her. Do join us here at once. Take a donation claim near to one or more of ours. Forget bygones. And, best of all, go with me this winter, by the Isthmus route, to the dear old home. Do say yes, Joe, and we may all be happy yet.”

“Halloa!” cried Ashleigh, as he alighted at the post.

“Well,” cried Joseph Ranger, as he opened his canvas door; “it’s Ashleigh. Come right in! You’re the very man I wanted to see.”

A savory odor of hot biscuits and frying ham greeted the nostrils of the benumbed and hungry wayfarer.

“This supper smells good, Mr. Addicks.”

“Mr. Addicks no more, if you please, Mr. Ashleigh. My name is Ranger,—Joseph Ranger. I have found myself, and I shall be known by my real name hereafter. But help yourself to pot-luck. And please excuse me. I have just begun to read a letter from the coast. The courier hasn’t been gone five minutes.”

After Ashleigh had finished his meal his host thrust the letter in his face and said, “What do you think of that?”

“What do you propose to do?” asked Ashleigh, after carefully considering the missive.

“Why, go to Oregon, of course. What else could a fellow do? But I don’t know what in the dickens to do with my stuff.”

“You can leave me in charge, if you like. You can invoice at your lowest selling-price, and I’ll make what profit I can on the venture and close it out in the spring; that is, if you do not care to return next year.”

“The good Lord has taken pity on me at last,” cried the delighted host. “My luck has begun to turn.”

XXXVI

_HAPPY JACK IS SURPRISED_

“You don’t seem to like the idea of my going to the States this winter, after all,” said Captain Ranger to his partner, who had been for several days exhibiting a degree of ill temper not assuring to a man of peaceful inclinations.

“Not by a darn sight. Business is business. Them weemen folks o’ yourn is as independent as so many hogs on ice. They are goin’ back on me about the cookin’ for the men. But say! I won’t object to your goin’ no more, if you’ll make Jean marry me afore you start. I could manage her all right if she was my wife; an’ then I could set the pace for the rest of ’em.”

The Captain paused a moment, in doubt whether to give the fellow the toe of his boot or wipe the ground with his whole body. “My daughters are to be their own choosers,” he said. “I have already engaged a crew of loggers to work while I am absent. If the winter is open, we can have everything shipshape by the time the machinery arrives.”

“Stay, daddie,” cried Jean, who, with Mary, had come up unobserved by their father. She was ghastly pale and strangely tremulous. “Mame and I have something important to say to you both before you part.”

“What is it, gals? Don’t hesitate to speak right out.”

“We—that is, Jean and I and Sally O’Dowd—have been talking things over; and we have concluded that we had better settle our side of this business proposition before matters go any further,” said Mary, speaking with unusual decision. “As you, father, have arranged to have a partner, and as—to use his own words—‘business is business,’ I want to say that I will be your cook at the partnership mess-house, but only at a reasonable salary. If you had no partner, the work would be all in the family, and we could settle its dividend among ourselves.”

“I have engaged a dozen pupils and will open a little school in a few days,” interrupted Jean, who had not heard the partner’s proposition in regard to herself, and therefore spoke without embarrassment. “But I shall have plenty of time to keep the books of the concern after school hours, and I will see that everything is done on business principles.”

“The deuce you will!” thought the partner. Then aloud: “I was intendin’ to keep the books myself.”

“Are you a practical book-keeper?” asked Jean.

“No; that is, not edzactly. But I kin keep most any set o’ transactions in my head. I never in my born days hearn tell of any woman or gal that could keep books. An’ I never knowed any woman to git a salary.”

“That was because you never knew the Ranger family,” laughed Marjorie.

“It is arranged that Hal is to have employment in the mill at a salary,” said Mary, “and he is very proud of the opportunity. We girls are all as willing to work as he is. But we do not believe at all in the custom of servitude without salary, to which all married women, and most of the single ones, are subject.”

“Is that the way you look at it, Miss Jean?” asked her would-be suitor.

“Daddie has always taught us that the highest type of humanity is built on the self-dependence of the individual. Haven’t you, daddie?”

“My daughters are right, Mr. Jackman. I have trained them to the idea of self-government. I am glad indeed to see them taking hold of these principles firmly.”

The partner turned away crestfallen. When he was fairly out of hearing, he took off his hat and exclaimed: “I’ll be gol darned! What is the weemin comin’ to?”

* * * * *

“I have engaged Susannah to live at my house,” said the Little Doctor, addressing the Captain as he sauntered toward a spreading fir near the front doorsteps, where the family were holding a consultation with Mrs. Joseph Ranger prior to her departure.