The "Wild West" Collection. William MacLeod Raine
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of sunshine I've seen in camp to-day. For the average specimen I've run across has looked to me like you--glum."
Receiving no reply whatever to this criticism, he strolled away after a smiling glance upward to 'Tana's window. But no girlish hand waved greeting to him this time, and he comforted himself by humming, "My Love is but a Lassie Yet." This was a mischievous endeavor to attract Overton's attention and make him say something, even though the something should prove uncomplimentary to the warbler.
But it was a failure. Overton only thrust his hands a little deeper in his pockets as he stared after the handsome, light-hearted fellow. Of course, it would be Max to whom she would wave her hand; and he was glad somebody felt like singing, though he himself could not. His mind was too much tormented by the thoughts of those two who formed a nucleus for the hospital already contemptuously alluded to by the captain.
And those two?
One sat almost motionless, as he had been for the twenty-four hours. But as Mrs. Huzzard and the captain left his room, each spoke hopefully of his appearance. Mrs. Huzzard especially was very confident his face showed more animation than she had observed at her noonday visit; and the fact that he could move his head and nod in reply to questions certainly did seem to promise recovery.
In the adjoining room, close to the very thin partition, 'Tana lay with ears strained to catch each word of the conversation. But when her door was opened by Mrs. Huzzard, all semblance of interest was gone, and she lay on the little bed with closed eyes.
"I'm right glad she's taking a nap at last," said the good soul as she closed the door softly. "That child scarce slept a bit all night, and I know it. Curious how nervous she got over that man's troubles. But, of course, he did look awful at first, and nigh about scared me."
'Tana lay still till the steps died away on the stairs, and the voices were heard more faintly on the lower floor. All the day she had waited for the people to leave the stranger in the next room alone; and, for the first time, no voice of visitors broke the silence of the upper floor.
She slipped to the door and listened. Her movements were stealthy as that of some forest animal evading a hunter. She turned the knob softly, and with still swiftness was inside the stranger's room, and the door closed behind her.
He certainly was more alert, for his eyes met hers instantly. His look was almost one of fear, and she was trembling visibly.
"I had to come," she said, nervously, in a half whisper, "I heard the letters read, and I have to tell you something I've thought all night--all day--and I have to tell you. Do you understand? Try to understand. Nod your head if you do. Do you?"
Her speech was rapid and impatient, while she listened each moment lest a step sound on the stairs again. But in all her eagerness to hear she never looked away from his face, and she uttered a low exclamation of gladness when the man's head bent slowly in assent.
"Oh, I am so glad--so glad! You will get well; you must! Listen! I know you now, and why you looked at me so. You think you saw me up at Revelstoke--I think I remember your face there--and you don't trust me. You are looking for that man--the man that took her away from you. You think I could find a trail to him; but you are wrong. He is dead, and I know she is--I _know_! Your name was the last word she said--'Joe.' She wanted you to forgive her, and not cross _his_ path. You don't believe me, perhaps; but it is all true. I went to the camp with--with the boy she wrote of. She talked of you to me. I had word to give you if we ever met. But how was I to know that Jim Harris was the man--the same man? Do you hear--do you believe me?"
Those burning eyes--eyes in which all of life in him seemed concentrated--looked out on her from the pale, strange face; looked on her until her own cheeks grew colorless, for there was something awful in the searching regard of the man who was but half alive.
"See!" she said, and slipped from her belt a package in which paper rustled, "I've had that plan of the gold find ever since--since she died. She gave it to me, in case you should be--as you are, and no one to look after it for you. Or, if you should go under, she said, I was to look it up. And I started to look it up--yes, I did; but things were against me, and I let it go for a while. But now, listen! If you get well, it means money must do it. See? Dan hasn't very much--not enough to float you long. Now, I've thought it all out. You give up the notion of looking for that man, who wasn't worth a shot of powder when he was alive, and worth less now. It's that notion that's been eating the life out of you. Oh, I've thought it all out! Now you just turn honest prospector, like you was when that man Ingalls first spotted you. I'm only a girl, but I'll try to help make amends for the wrongs he did you. I'll go partners with you. Look! here is the plan; and I'm almost sure I know where the two little streams meet. I've thought of it a heap; but the face of--of that dead girl, kept me from doing anything till I had either found you or knew you were dead. No one knows I have the plan--though _he_ would have cut throats for it. Now do you trust me?"
She held the plan up so he could see it--a queer puzzle of lines and dots; but a glance sufficed, and he turned his eyes again to the face of the girl. Her eagerness, her intensity, awakened him to trust and sympathy. He looked at her and nodded his head.
"Oh, I knew you would!" she breathed, thankfully. "And I'll stand by you--you'll see! I've wanted a chance like this--a chance to make up for some of the devilment he's done to folks--and some he's made me help at. You know who I am, but none of the rest do--and they sha'n't. I'm a new girl now. I want to make up for some of the badness that has been. It's all over; but sometimes I hate the blood in my veins because--you know! And if I can only do _some_ good--"
She paused, for the eyes of the paralyzed man had moved from her face, and were resting on something back of her.
It was Overton! He entered and closed the door, and stood looking doubtful and astonished, while 'Tana rose to her feet trembling and a little pale.
"How long--were you there?" she demanded, angrily.
He looked at her very steadily before making reply--such a curious, searching look that she moved uneasily because of it; but her face remained defiant.
"I just now opened the door," he said at last, speaking in a slow, deliberate way. "I slipped here as quietly as I could, because they told me you were asleep, and I must not make a noise. I got here just as you were telling this man that no one but him should know who you were before you came among us--that is all, I guess."
She had sat down on a seat close to Harris, and dropped her face in her hands.
Overton stood with his back against the door, looking down at her. In his eyes was a keen sorrow as she sat down in that despairing fashion, and crept close to the stranger as though for refuge from _him_.
"I might have avoided telling what I heard," he continued; "but I don't think that would be quite square among friends. Then, as I see you have found a new acquaintance here, I thought maybe you would have something to tell me if you knew what I heard you say to him."
But, kindly as his words were, she seemed to shrink from them.
"No; I can't. Oh, Mr. Dan, I can't--I can't," she muttered, with her head still bowed on the arm of the chair occupied by Harris. "If you can't trust me any more, I can't blame you. But I can't tell you--that's all."
"Then I'll just go down stairs again," he decided, "and you can finish your talk with Harris. I'll keep the rest of the folks from interrupting you as I did. But if you want me, little girl, you know I'll not be far away."
The tears came in her eyes. His persistent kindness to her made her both ashamed and glad, and she reached out her hand.
"Wait," she said, "maybe I have something to tell you," and she unfolded the paper again and showed it to Harris.
"Shall I tell him? Would you rather he would be the man to do the business?" she asked. "You know I'm willing, but I don't know enough myself. Do you want him to be the man?"
Harris nodded his head.
With a look of relief on her face, she turned to Overton, who watched them wonderingly.
"What sort of man is it you want? or what is it you want to tell