“A GIRL WHO SAT—ON A LOW STOOL.”

A FRONTIER KNIGHT

A STORY OF EARLY TEXAN
BORDER-LIFE

BY
AMY E. BLANCHARD

ILLUSTRATED BY
WILLIAM F. STECHER

W. A. WILDE COMPANY
BOSTON AND CHICAGO

Copyrighted 1905
By W. A. Wilde Company
All rights reserved

A Frontier Knight

CONTENTS

A FRONTIER KNIGHT

CHAPTER I
THE OLD KENTUCKY HOME

THE sun was shining gloriously across level sweeps of blue-grass meadow-land, and sending its beams through the windows of a plain, substantial, country house, where it made squares of brightness on the whitewashed walls, sharply outlining the shadows, and touching to gold the fair hair of a girl who sat motionless on a low stool near the window. She was thinking intently and did not heed the entrance of an older girl who glanced at her with a smile and began to busy herself about the room.

Finally the girl at the window gave a deep sigh and stretched her hands above her head. “Oh, is it dinner time, Christine?” she said.

“Very near,” was the reply. “What a brown study you were in, Alison; you must have been miles away.”

“And so I was. I must decide, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” There was a serious note in Christine’s voice. “And have you decided?” she asked after a pause.

“Yes.” The girl arose and came to where her sister stood. She laid her hands on the shoulders of the other and looked steadfastly into the clear eyes. “I am going with you and John,” she said. “There are just the three of us, and I cannot be separated from you, even though I have this home for always, mine at Aunt Miranda’s death and all its comforts while I live here. I have thought it over. I have thought of the days which will go by all alike; everything just so, all cut and dried; up at such an hour every morning; hot rolls for breakfast on Wednesdays and Saturdays, cold bread on Mondays. Every chair set at exactly such an angle, Aunt Miranda always with her hair parted precisely, Uncle Brown with his whiskers curled in just such a fashion, never a hair out of place; never any excitement; once a month the minister and his wife to dinner; once a year a day in town; twice a year house-cleaning; no adventure, no fun, nothing but dull monotony and commonplace comfort.”

“But Aunt Miranda is good and kind in her way, and Uncle Brown is just, if he is particular and a trifle near.” Christine felt it her duty to plead their cause.

“Then don’t you want me?” said Alison wistfully.

“Want you?” Christine’s arms went around her. “Think how I shall want you when we are away off there amidst strangers; when John must leave me alone in our little cabin and I am homesick and yearning for just one glimpse of my little sister. Think how I shall want you.”

“Then there is nothing more to be said.” Alison moved away and began to set the dishes on the table.

“Yes, there is. I can’t be selfish about it, and I must show you the advantages offered you here: a comfortable home where the larder never fails, where the flour barrel is never empty; where the potatoes and turnips and apples are plentifully stored away every year; where the hogs are killed in due season and the preserves put up; where all is orderly and exact. Uncle Brown is a good provider if his wife does not have much ready money to spend on fripperies. I may not be able to have more than one frock of blue jeans a year.”

“We shall be as well dressed as our neighbors, no doubt,” replied Alison.

“And though you may have to help Aunt Miranda as a daughter should, you will have one more year of schooling, and you will have neighbors, young people, who are not such a very great distance away,” Christine continued her argument. “Our settlement may be miles from any other and there may be only married couples there.”

“But you will be there, and so will John, and—Fidgetty Lou.”

“Why, what do you mean, Alison?” said Christine in surprise.

“Fidgetty Lou declares she is going if you do.”

“But we can’t take her.”

“She says she is going,” repeated Alison. “I think that is a great inducement. No one makes better biscuits and flapjacks. She will be a great addition to our household, I think.”

“But if we do not take her how will she ever get there?”

“She says she can find a way, and she says furthermore that she has worked all these years for nothing but her board and clothes, so she doesn’t see why she cannot do it a while longer, if she chooses to.”

“John will never consent to taking all three of us; he will be delighted if you go, but Fidgetty Lou——” She shook her head, and Alison laughed.

“Settle it between you,” she said. “I am going, anyhow, for if Fidgetty Lou has the courage to face the uncertainty of pioneer life, why should not I? Especially since my nearest and dearest will be with me. Fidgetty Lou has no such tugging at her heart-strings.”

“It will be a blow to Aunt Miranda to lose you both.”

“She has never had me to lose, for I am here only on a visit; it was so understood from the first, and at the end of the three months I was to decide whether I would accept the offer of a home here, an offer which I am made to understand is of great advantage. I am very sure that Uncle Brown will not omit every morning to pray openly for the ‘young pensioner upon our bounty.’ I shall never be allowed to forget, even on Sundays, that I am a pensioner, and it will be a great strain upon me to beam gratitude when my heart is pining for you. As for Fidgetty Lou, she has always declared that when her time was out she meant to leave. She has never said anything else, and now that she has fallen in love with my big sister she is determined to follow her fortunes. You may be four years older than I, Tina, but you cannot persuade me that my lot here will be a happier one than with you and John. It is all clear enough in my mind and I shall tell Aunt Miranda to-night. It will not break her heart to part with me, and so far as Fidgetty Lou is concerned she will get another orphan to train up the way she should go, and will rather enjoy the process.”

“Fidgetty Lou could get good wages somewhere,” said Christine thoughtfully.

“She would rather see the world at present. Here she comes.”

Fidgetty Lou entered, arrayed in a spotless blue frock and gingham apron. Her red hair was drawn tightly back into a hard knot; her freckled face beamed with good-nature. A little nervous twitch of the head alone remained as the result of an attack of St. Vitus’s dance which had obtained for her, when a child, the nickname of Fidgetty Lou. Behind her came Aunt Miranda, as scrupulously neat. Her black alpaca apron covered a black stuff gown; her hair, plastered down each side her face and tucked behind her ears, showed not a stray lock. She looked the table over comprehensively, then replaced some of the knives and forks, remarking that they were not laid quite straight. “Set that dish a little more to the left, Louisa,” she ordered. “Bring in the rest of the dinner, and then call Mr. Brown.” She looked at her nieces critically. “I wish you would try to smooth your hair a little, Alison,” she said. “Your uncle dislikes to see a frowsy head.”

Alison cast an amused glance at her sister as she hastily tucked under a few stray, curling tendrils which had escaped from the confines of her neat braids. “A frowsy head!” she whispered as she passed Christine. “I must go and wet it into sleekness or I shall be disgraced.” The thought that she would soon escape from the lectures of an over-particular uncle and the reproving words of a particular aunt made her sing a little song of joy as she ran down-stairs again.

Her uncle was just coming in. “A little too noisy, Alison,” he said. “Remember that ‘the heart of fools is in the house of mirth.’”

“Yes,” she returned brightly, “but the wise man also says, ‘A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.’ You read that this morning, I remember.” Alison was usually too ready to meet her uncle’s quotations with counter-texts exactly to meet his approval, for he preferred to adapt the Scriptures to point his own opinions. But on this occasion he said nothing and the two passed on to the dinner-table.

Nevertheless this small passage at arms had its effect in producing less opposition when the moment came for Alison to declare her decision. This she did that same evening, after supper, when all were gathered in the living-room. Save for the ticking of the big clock all was very still. Uncle Brown was poring over his weekly paper, while Aunt Miranda neatly patched a hole in some table linen, and Christine’s fingers were flying along the hem of a sheet.

“Have you nothing to do, Alison?” asked her aunt disapprovingly. “Where is your knitting?”

“I have it here,” responded Alison, producing her knitting-bag and drawing forth a half finished sock. “I want to tell you,” she said, speaking hurriedly, “that I have decided to go with John and Christine.”

Mr. Brown lowered his paper. “And quite rightly, Miranda,” he observed. “Christine will need the companionship of another woman, and, if ill, her ministrations. I am glad Alison has seen where her duty lies and that she has chosen the rough path of industry and privation rather than the smooth one of sleek and untroubled ease.”

Mrs. Brown looked a little surprised and was ready with her protest. “But for a young girl like you, Alison, to go to such a place as that, haunted by cut-throat Mexicans and lawless Indians, seems unnecessary. Of course if one of you must go, Christine is the older and therefore the proper one, though I must say it would be better if she could remain in a more civilized community. As your father’s elder sister I must object, and I am surprised that you should countenance this decision, Ephraim.” She turned to her husband.

“I quite appreciate your sisterly concern for your brother’s offspring, Miranda,” returned Mr. Brown, “yet viewing it from a disinterested standpoint, I think Alison is right.” Mr. Brown had studied for the ministry in his youth, but owing to ill health had never completed his course. However, he had never lost a certain ministerial manner, and a strong tendency to give opinions upon moral questions.

The farm belonged to Mrs. Brown, but was successfully managed by her husband.

“We do not grudge you a home. I hope you understand that,” Mrs. Brown remarked. “I should be deficient in respect to my brother, as well as in doing my duty, if I did not offer you freely a home with me. I have already said that having no children of my own I shall make a will in your favor if you remain with me, though I do not wish you to think I desire to buy your presence by favors.”

“I understand it all, dear aunt,” said Alison, quite willing to show responsiveness to any affection which Mrs. Brown might feel for her, “but there are only the three of us, and, as Uncle Brown says, if Christine were to fall ill, I should be miserable if I knew I had failed her when she needed me. I thank you very heartily, but I believe my place is with my sister and brother.”

“We will say no more about it, then,” said Mrs. Brown, “except that if you change your mind any time within the next two years you will find my home open to you. I will not stand in the way of what you believe to be your duty at the present moment, but time may work changes. When do you expect John, Christine?”

“He thought he would be able to make all arrangements so as to be here at the end of the week,” Christine told her.

“And we shall be ready to start next week,” Alison added.

No further reference was made to the subject that evening, but the next day Mrs. Brown came to her nieces in a fine passion. “Which of you has been trying to lure Louisa away?” she asked angrily.

“Neither of us,” spoke up Alison. “She told me yesterday that she was free now, and meant either to go with us or to go to a place where she could earn wages; then, later, she said she had decided to go wherever we did.”

“I am sure I don’t know what John will say,” Christine put in. “He surely cannot tote three women down to Texas, and I, for one, am very sorry Lou has any such notion.”

Mrs. Brown was somewhat mollified. “Well, I am glad to know you have no hand in it,” she said. “Of course I’ve known for some time that I couldn’t expect to keep her much longer. Old Maria needs some one to save her steps, and cannot do much out of the kitchen. I suppose I can get another orphan bound out to me, but it is ungrateful of Louisa, I must say, after all I have taught her. I have given her a home, too, all these years.”

“But she has earned her board and clothes, hasn’t she?” said Alison, ready to champion Louisa.

“Well, yes, I suppose some would say so. I should be willing to keep her if Mr. Brown would agree to give her wages, but he will not. Maria belongs to us, and he says we can get plenty of help without paying wages. She is eighteen and over, and I suppose I ought not to expect to keep her much longer.” This ended the controversy over Louisa so far as Christine and Alison were concerned, and soon they were too busy in preparing for their own long journey to be greatly interested in what Fidgetty Lou meant to do.

In due time John Ross appeared. He had been steadily occupied in arranging for the emigration to the new state of Texas, and had left his young sisters with their relatives until he should complete his preparations. He was a tall, broad-shouldered, keen-eyed young fellow, rather quiet in manner but with a fund of humor much appreciated by his comrades. He was always called Texas John in the old neighborhood, to distinguish him from his cousin John Ross, who was about his own age, and who, lately married, had no desire to leave Kentucky. Texas John, at the death of his parents, had found little left for the support of himself and sisters, so he started for Texas to look up a grant which he thought promised a living for the three. The elder Ross had been something of a rover, and had been killed in a struggle with the Mexicans while serving in the effort to maintain the independence of the young republic of Texas. Perhaps his spirit of adventure was his son’s by inheritance, for the latter was enthusiastic in his belief in the wild country, where, he was satisfied, were better prospects for him than nearer home. Having placed his young sisters at school he started off to look up his claim and after a two years’ absence returned home, settled up affairs and was now ready to emigrate for good.

He strode into the living-room one bright day in early October. “Ready, girls?” he cried. “We can be off in a few days.”

Christine sprang to his arms. “Is it all settled then?” she asked eagerly.

“All settled.”

“And do you know Alison has decided to go with us?”

He gave the younger girl a bright look. “I knew we could count on her,” he said. “I didn’t think she would desert her brother for any old——”

“Sh! Sh!” whispered Christine, putting her hand over his mouth as Uncle Brown entered.

“So you are really on the road to that cut-throat country,” he said to young Ross as they shook hands.

“It’s a pretty good country from what I have seen of it,” returned John. “It has had its little scuffles, I admit, but it’s in the Union now and I reckon it’s in for good.”

“It may be in for bad, so far as some of us are concerned,” was the reply. “Mexico will probably think she has a word to say on that subject. She hasn’t acknowledged yet that Texas is anything but one of her provinces. What will you do if she wars over it?”

“I’ll go and fight. You can’t scare me that way,” said John. “We’ve the whole United States to back us now, and I reckon we can teach Mexico where Texas belongs.”

Uncle Brown shook his head. “It doesn’t strike me that I’d like to live in such an unsettled country. Just a few years ago it was a Spanish colony, then it was an independent republic, and now it is a state.”

John looked reflectively out of the window where yellowed fields spoke of gathered harvests. “It has had its baptism of blood,” he said. “It has arisen from its ashes. Brave patriots have made it what it is. My father died for its sake. He would be glad to know that his son means to carry out what he began. When he left his family he meant to come back for us all; it was his dream to build up a home in Texas, and to have us grow up with it. Because he died in the struggle for independence is the very reason that I am the more anxious to carry out his wishes.”

The young man’s face became stern and determined. Christine crept closer to him. Her memory went back to the time when the news came of her father’s death at Goliad, and when her brother, pale and full of set purpose, registered a vow to avenge his death. Seven years later Christine had wept bitter tears at the departure of this brother to the new republic of Texas. Returning when the young state had become a part of the Union, he found Christine a fair, sweet young woman, and Alison almost as tall. The recollection of all these events, during which the elder of the two sisters had grown from girlhood to womanhood, flashed across her memory as she leaned against her brother. She understood and appreciated his desire to follow out his father’s plans. She was willing to share joy or sorrow with him, and now that Alison had cast in her lot with theirs she had not a regret.

There was another reason, too, which Christine acknowledged to no one but herself, but which carried more weight than any other when she came to think of going to Texas, and this was that her brother’s companion and partner was no other than her playmate Steve Hayward, who had been her neighbor and comrade ever since she could remember. It was he who had carried her books to school, who had helped her with her lessons, who had made her a ring carved from a peach stone, when she was but eight years old, and who had promised to marry her when they two should be grown. In later years he had not repeated the promise, but when he went away with John he had said: “I am coming back here to get my wife, Christine,” and she understood, without more words. Now it was she who was going to him, and there was not a fear in her heart, even though Uncle Brown spoke discouragingly. So she smiled up at her brother, saying: “Tell uncle all about the arrangements, John.”

“We go from here down the river to the Red,” he began, “and when we have landed at the nearest point, we can take wagons about twenty miles further on where our grant lies. It isn’t as if it were an entirely strange place, for I’ve plenty of friends there, and we have a stout new house waiting for us. Steve has another a few rods away, and after a while I shall be able to put up a good frame house and be as fine as any one. We shall not be uncomfortable as it is, for we are taking all that is necessary, and I have even such luxuries as I thought could be easily transported, for I didn’t want the girls to feel as if they had no part of their old home. The soil is rich, and the climate can’t be beat. I don’t believe I am taking the girls to such a miserable place as you would have us believe. When you hear how well we are getting along you will be wanting to move down there yourself, sir.”

“Don’t you think it,” returned Mr. Brown. “Kentucky will never see me desert her. Well, John, I wish you luck, though I must say I should have more faith in your getting on if you were going to stay in the old blue-grass country. It is good enough for me.”

John shook his head and smiled. His was adventurous youth and Uncle Brown’s was the conservative spirit of middle age.

CHAPTER II
FIDGETTY LOU

IT was several days after this that the little company started on their journey, though they had not thought to be so detained. Fidgetty Lou made no such delay, however, for after particular inquiries as to where the Rosses were going she set about her own preparations. “I’ve a chance to get started,” she told the girls. “You’ll see me again.”

Mrs. Brown refused approval of this sudden departure and was really so disturbed by it that her nieces had not the heart to leave her until another orphan could be found to take Louisa’s place. “I had counted on you, Alison,” she said, aggrieved, “and now it seems I am to be bereft of even Louisa.”

“But you know, Aunt Miranda, we came only for the summer holidays, or till John should come for us,” Alison answered.

“You were to come for good and all if you so chose,” returned her aunt who could not resist making this last appeal.

“You know that was all settled,” replied Alison, looking distressed. And then came the compromise that there should be no talk of going till Louisa’s place was filled. In consequence of all this delay it seemed probable that Louisa was well on her way before the other travelers started.

But they were off at last, one bright October morning. “Good luck to you,” was Uncle Brown’s parting word as he opened the gate that they might drive through.

“Good-bye,” Aunt Brown called her final farewell, as they leaned from the carriage for a last look of the quiet white house, the orderly whitewashed outbuildings, and the trim garden.

“Our last view of home,” said Alison, her eyes moist.

But Christine was looking straight ahead with a smile upon her face. She leaned towards John. “We’re going home,” she said, “aren’t we, John?”

John’s plan to make the journey by water, so far as it was possible, seemed to involve less fatigue than any other way. Their household furniture was thus readily transported, for though the flatboats, familiarly known as broadhorns, were still in use by the poorer emigrants, the speedier method of travel was by the steamboats which could bear many a comfortable outfit to the settlements located on the rivers of Texas. From these river landings the goods and chattels were transported further inland in carts. The state was filling up rapidly, and those who did not travel by water took the slower way across country in the hooded emigrant wagons, which plodded over many a road as the new settlers poured in.

The trip down the muddy waters of the Mississippi was one the two girls never forgot. The steamboat was well patronized, and their fellow passengers represented so many different classes that it was a source of great entertainment to watch them. Here was a set of wild looking men whose whole business in life seemed to be a game of cards, there a group of traders, merchants or mechanics. Families of women and little children, made way for some silken-gowned dame on her way to the city of New Orleans; spruce young soldiers saluted portly politicians; dapper Frenchmen gesticulated to some neighbor planter. In truth the river boats were lively places, and the girls, who had not traveled far beyond their own state, were entertained hour after hour. At last came their final landing when the steamer stopped at a primitive wharf at the foot of a bluff none too easy to climb. A crowd of negroes, Mexicans, Texas rangers, and planters gathered curiously to watch the passengers. At sight of John, one tall young fellow called out: “Look there, boys, if it’s not John Ross, I’m jiggered.” Then, as the gangplank was drawn in, several from the crowd rushed forward with hearty greetings, but at sight of the two girls all but one or two drew back, and these, standing their ground, were presented. The tall young man who had first recognized John was introduced as Neal Jordan. He gave the girls a joyous smile, bowed low, and with perfect ease appropriated the hand luggage, seeming in no way abashed, and carrying on a conversation which was a strange mixture of the local vernacular and that of a man who was accustomed to greater refinements.

“You’ve had right smart of a journey, haven’t you?” he said.

“It did seem rather long,” Alison answered, “but it was interesting, for there were so many queer people on the steamboat and we liked to watch them.”

“They do give you rather a mix up,” returned the young man. “Some pretty tough customers travel down this way, but then we have a better class to offset them. John, going right on?”

“Yes, as soon as we can arrange to get conveyances for our goods. We have about twenty miles further to go before we are really at home.”

“I reckon that’s about the distance. I suppose you’ll want to rest up a little, though I don’t suppose you are as tuckered out as some of the folks are that come down on the broadhorns or in wagons. They get pretty sick of it sometimes. Going to Haller’s, John? It’s about the only place that’s half decent, and none too good for ladies at that.”

“We shall have to go there, I suppose,” said John in reply. “Are you putting up there, Neal?”

“Yes, while I am in town. I just got over yesterday, and am going right back. I reckon I might as well hang on to your train. It won’t do any harm to have two or three of us along.”

“No signs of Indians?” John spoke up quickly.

“No-o, not around here, but it’s always well to be sociable when you have any distance to go with ladies. When a fellow has only his own skin to take care of he doesn’t have to be so particular.”

“That’s so,” returned John, “and if any of the boys are going our way I’d be glad to have them join us.”

“How soon do you start?”

“As soon as I can get the goods loaded. Those lazy little Mexicans will be as long as they can loading the stuff; you may be sure of that. I’d like to get off to-morrow, if it’s possible.”

“We’ll make it possible,” said Neal. “Us boys will tickle up those Greasers so they’ll step lively.”

They had now reached the long low house which served as an inn, and as Alison looked around upon the homely, dingy furnishings which were none too clean, her heart sank within her. “Will it all look like this?” she asked wistfully.

“Bless you, no,” said Neal. “Why, some of our people have as pretty places as you want to see. To be sure the houses ain’t much on the outside, but inside, there’s a power of fine things. More than one has brought his piano and books and pictures along with him, and though you may find some eating out of wooden trenchers and using horn spoons, others will set you out fine china and silver. It’s about as much of a mix up as you found on the steamboat, you’ll find. Our hotels ain’t to say choice.”

“But where we are our own housekeepers,” said Christine brightly, “we can have it as spick and span as we choose. Don’t get discouraged, Allie, before we really get there.”

“No, it’s too early in the game to throw up your hand,” said Neal.

“I’m not homesick,” Alison protested; yet, just then, with the remembrance of Aunt Brown’s neat orderly home and the familiar faces she had left behind, there was mingled a slight feeling of regret at having exchanged quiet ease for this wild place.

Christine, however, had no regrets. To her the end of the morrow’s long ride meant the meeting towards which her thoughts had tended during many months. She watched her brother and his friend depart and stood long by the window seeing nothing but the new home in the prairie, hearing nothing but Stephen’s voice again calling her name.

“You look as happy as a lark,” said Alison, turning her gaze from the crude sights of the village to her sister.

“I am happy,” returned Christine. “We shall soon be all together in our own home. Isn’t that enough to make any one happy?”

“There come John and Mr. Jordan,” said Alison, her eyes again wandering to the street. “What a queer little place this is. The best house in it isn’t as good as Aunt Miranda’s.”

“Did you expect it would be?”

“I expected the best here would be as good, though I knew ours would not be.”

Christine smiled, and at this moment John and his friend entered the little room which served as parlor and office.

“Neal tells me there is some one in town who has been looking for us,” John told his sisters.

“Oh!” Christine’s first thought flew to Steve, but she immediately realized that he would have been on hand to meet them, knowing when the steamboat was expected. “Who can it be?” she said.

“I don’t know who it is,” Neal answered. “Lon Davis was asking where you-alls was going. He said there was some one, a gal, a female woman, I took it, that was out at his house waiting for you to get here.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if it were Fidgetty Lou,” exclaimed Alison. “When did she come? How did she get here?”

“Came on a broadhorn with the Simmonses. They went further up country, and she said she was going to stick right here till John Ross and his sisters come, if it was a year.”

“Did you see her? What did she look like?” questioned Alison.

“I sorter disremember,” said Neal, “but it strikes me, if she’s the one I saw get off the boat, she’s got red hair. She might have been a Simmons, but I noticed one of the gals didn’t look like the rest, wa’n’t as tall and had a different build, but it runs that way sometimes, even among cattle, and I never thought but she was a Simmons. Of course the boys take right smart of notice of the new arrivals, and I run ’em all over pretty sharp, though I didn’t fancy any of the bunch very much.” He spoke quite honestly and as if it were a matter of course that the subject should be discussed in this way.

Christine dimpled and looked at Alison who did not quite understand this outspoken criticism. She had been away at school for two years and had yet to learn the characteristic manner of Texans.

“If you-all think it’s the gal you know, and you want to see her,” Neal continued, “I don’t mind ropin’ her in for you, but if she’s somebody you don’t want to meet up with, why I’ll chase her out of your way.”

“Oh, we want to see her, surely,” said Alison.

“Do we?” said Christine thoughtfully. “We must talk it over, I think. I did say something about her to you, John, but you said we’d probably never see her again; yet here she is and it’s my opinion that if we don’t take her with us she’ll hunt us up anyhow.”

“The question,” said John, “is whether or not you want her. So far as her keep is concerned, I reckon there’ll be plenty for us all, and if she’s going to be any help to you girls, we’d better let her come along.”

“She certainly will be a help,” put in Alison.

Neal laughed. “Little sis is speaking two words for herself and one for the gal, I reckon. I wouldn’t bother any too much about her, Miss Christine; she’ll likely be taken off your hands by some of the boys before long; there’s lots of ’em won’t mind the color of her hair.”

Every one laughed and the question of Fidgetty Lou’s future was settled.

She made her appearance the next morning under Neal’s escort, and was in high glee at having stolen a march on the later arrivals. “I’ll earn my keep, Mr. John,” she declared, “and I’ve clothes enough to last a year or two, so if you’ll jest let me go along with you I’ll ask for nothing. My father fit and died for Texas, and I always made up my mind I’d go and do likewise, if I could get here by hook or by crook.”

“I didn’t know you remembered your father,” said Alison.

“Didn’t say I did. My mother told me about his going to Texas when I was a baby, and that he got kilt by the Injuns. I was eight years old when she died, so I reckon I was old enough to take in what she said. I said then, and I say now, that I shan’t be satisfied till I get to the place he went, and I mean to go. Where my dad died I mean to die.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Alison, “don’t talk of dying first thing. For my part what I want is to live here. Now tell us, Lou, how you managed to get ahead of us.”

“I knew Jake Simmons’s folks. They are kind of kin of mine, and Lotty Meekins told me that Sadie Simmons told her that Jake Simmons was getting ready to up and go to Texas, and so one day when Joe, the tinman came along, I knew he’d be traveling that way, so I got leave to go along with him in his cart and see the Simmonses. They said I had heard right, and that they was going down on a broadhorn to Texas. I asked ’em where and when, and they told me, so I said I wanted to go along, and Jake he said: ‘Louisa, I’ve heerd my father talk about your father, and so long as we are blood kin I’ll see what I kin do. I know you was never took up by none of the family when you was left an orphan and I always thought they did kind of mean to bind you out, but ma said you had a good home and honest work wasn’t going to hurt nobody, and we might as well let well enough alone and leave you stay with Mis’ Brown till your time was up. But now if you want to go to Texas with me and the gals, go you shall.’ Well, he was as kind as could be, though he ain’t more’n second cousin to my father, and I told him my time was up and over, and I was just staying along till I could see my way clear to get where I wanted to go, that I’d made up my mind to say to Miss Christine, ‘whither thou goest I will go,’ and so then we hashed it all up that I was to go over there and leave with his folks. I didn’t say too much about it, for I was afraid Mis’ Brown would come talking around and make them think I’d ought to stay. Well, we got off all right and made good time, so here I am and here I stay. You won’t turn me off, will you, Mr. John?” She turned pleadingly to the young man.

“Not I,” was the response. “If you choose to follow our fortunes you shall do it, so get your traps, whatever they are, and come along.”

This, Louisa lost no time in doing. Her worldly belongings were packed in two stout bundles standing outside, and with the rest of the goods and chattels they were stowed away in the wagon which was to take them all to their destination.

Many were the westward moving wagons following the roads, some having come all the way from the eastern states, others from no further than the coast, where their owners had landed, and, like the Ross family, were conveying their goods over the last stage of their journey. At the small towns which were come upon at infrequent intervals, the wagoners would stop to help themselves to dipperfuls of tar from the barrels hospitably set out for the newcomers, and many an agonizing creak was thus brought to an end, to the relief of those who for hours had endured the noise of a squeaking wagon.

It was a beautiful open country which the travelers passed through. Even at this season flowers were in bloom, and bees still hummed above them. Herds of deer and wild horses haunted the plains; wild turkeys in great droves frequented the borders of the streams; thickets of prickly pear harbored more dangerous creatures, and the bark of the coyote made the presence of this ubiquitous little creature known even when he was not seen. The wagon in which the girls sat was driven by John Ross, while the others belonging to the party were guided by Mexicans. Neal Jordan and two or three of his comrades accompanied the travelers. True Texas rangers were these hardy fellows, and in buckskins and sombreros, with clanking spurs and long rifles, they looked their character. It gave the girls a sense of security to see these gallant out-riders, for, though the state was at peace, it was necessary for all travelers to be on their guard against the predatory Comanches and Wacos. Especially was this true after the main road was left and the small company turned off towards more isolated settlements.

Christine was as joyous as a maid could be. She and Alison took turns in sitting with John on the front seat, Alison taking the first ten miles by her brother’s side, and Christine the last ten. Louisa was quite content to sit anywhere.

“I shouldn’t wonder if we met up with Steve somewhere hereabouts,” said John, as the last five miles only lay before them.

Christine smiled and murmured: “Two years. Has he changed much, John?” she asked.

“Changed? In what way?” John laughed. “He hasn’t turned gray; neither has he grown decrepit and wrinkled. A man doesn’t alter noticeably in two years. I reckon you’ll be able to recognize him without an introduction. I expect he will have everything in good order for us. I’ll guarantee no one within fifty miles has a better cabin than ours. I don’t know that Steve can calculate to a day when we shall be along, though I reckon he won’t be far out, and we can be looking out for him when we reach Denton; that’s our nearest village and the one you’ll soon be best acquainted with.”

But the village of Denton was reached and no Steve appeared. John stopped to rest his horses, to ladle out a last dipperful of tar for his wheels, and to inquire into the happenings of the little place.

A tall man with a long beard, came out from the building which served as store, post-office and inn. He wore a blue flannel shirt and his trousers were tucked into his boots. “’Light and come in, John,” he said hospitably. “I declar’, yer a sight for sore eyes. How long ye been gone? Come in, all of ye. Mandy ain’t cla’red away yet and we’ll hand ye out somethin’. Got yer fambly in thar?” He peered curiously into the wagon.

“Yes, we’re all here,” John told him. “We’ll not come in, Buck, for the girls are anxious to see their new home. Seen anything of Steve? I thought we’d likely meet him about now.”

The man pulled his long beard thoughtfully. “Now lemme see,” he said. “Steve was here; I reckon it must hev been day before yesterday. He came for some truck, coffee I believe it was. Said he was looking out for you-alls to be gittin’ along. Maybe he thought you’d be as well satisfied if he waited at your house for you and had it comfortable when you got thar.”

“He was all right then?”

“Right as a trivet. Said you’d been gone long enough for him, ’peared like it was three years instead of three months. Said he didn’t reckon nobody’d be gladder than him to see you and your folks. Got some of the boys to come along with ye, didn’t ye? Neal movin’ up this way?”

“Well no, he’s still down on the river, but he and the boys thought they might as well ride along with us.”

“Where there’s women folks,” said Buck, “it’s just as well to pick up as many as ye kin to travel with ye. Ain’t come acrost no Injuns, I suppose?”

“Not one. Been any about?”

“I ain’t sure about that. Ben Phillips was tellin’ me he heard they’d got a bunch of horses from the Carterses the other night.”

“Humph!” John glanced towards the wagon a trifle uneasily. Christine was listening eagerly. Buck followed his glance. “Thar ain’t nothin’ to be skeered of, miss,” he said coming forward. “We don’t hev no trouble nowadays. They will steal horses every chanst they git, and I reckon they’re bound to keep thet up till the cows come home, but they don’t pester us much. White folks is gittin’ too thick fur ’em; settlemints too clost together and Uncle Sam standin’ ready to lick ’em into shape if they git troublesome. Well, you off? Bring the gals over when ye kin.” He waved his hand in farewell and the company proceeded on its way. Three miles beyond Denton lay the home to which they all looked forward expectantly.

They were covering the distance rapidly, when suddenly a riderless horse came dashing up to John’s team, and tossing its head stood still for a moment, then ran alongside.

“It’s Hero, as I live,” exclaimed John, hastily handing the reins to his sister and climbing down. He held out his hand to the pretty creature, who pricked up his ears, lowered his head and looked at him suspiciously, then dashed off a short distance to stand still again. John cautiously followed with a bunch of grass and finally Hero allowed himself to be caught, evidently first making sure that John was a friend.

“I’d like to know what the mischief he’s doing here,” said John. “It’s Steve’s horse, you know.”

Christine looked startled, and asked tremulously: “What do you think can have happened?”

“He’s gotten loose somehow, or has slipped out of the corral, I suppose,” said John carelessly. But he led the horse up to where Neal was watching proceedings, and the two conferred together, Neal taking the horse in charge and John returning to the wagon. Christine thought he looked troubled, but to her questionings he only answered: “I haven’t a doubt but that it’s all right. We’ll soon find out. Steve certainly will be glad to see his horse again. It’s lucky he met us instead of some other crowd, or Steve would likely never have got him back.” But in spite of this off-hand way of disposing of the matter, Christine was not satisfied.

CHAPTER III
THE CHASE

AT last through the trees, appeared the yellow ends of hewn logs attesting to their newness, and a sudden turn into the clearing brought the house into view. It was a roomy affair and much better than the pioneer dwellings of former days. The main room below was supplemented by a lean-to which was divided; while the loft overhead gave ample accommodation for sleeping arrangements and could be partitioned off if necessary. Alison’s eyes were scanning the new house eagerly, but Christine gazed in the direction of the little old cabin which had done service for John and Stephen, and which she knew Stephen still occupied. No smoke came from its chimney, and there was no sign of life anywhere. Christine looked at her brother wistfully. “Where do you suppose Steve is?” she asked faintly.

“Like as not he didn’t look for us just yet or he would have been on hand,” John hastened to say. “I shouldn’t wonder if he had gone to some of the neighbors. Got lonely, I reckon. Come to think of it, that’s just what he has done. He could ride over here every day and look after things and go back again. I suppose that accounts for Hero’s appearance; he got loose and made tracks for his own stable. Neal and I will go and hunt up Steve and give him a surprise.” After having given orders for the unloading of the goods he nodded to Neal, and the two galloped in the direction of the silent little cabin, while the wagons were stopped at the larger house.

The fact that Stephen’s presence was lacking did not prevent Alison from taking a keen interest in the moment of arrival, whatever may have been her sister’s sensations, and it was Alison who was the first to spring lightly down from the wagon and to enter the house. She ran from room to room, then gave a ready hand to the carrying in of the lighter articles, chatting all the while. “Home at last, Tina. Louisa, do help me with this basket; I am sure it has some breakables in it,” and so the removing went on till the main room was full of pieces of furniture, with the boxes, bags and barrels which were set there ready to unpack.

Meanwhile John and Neal had returned from their tour of investigation. “Not a sign of Steve and not a horse on the place,” they reported. “It looks like horse thieves had been about,” said Neal to the other men, “whether Injuns or no we ain’t able to tell, but we lay out to chase after them and I reckon you boys don’t want to miss the fun.”

“Who’s to stay with the gals?” asked one, turning to John.

“I hadn’t thought about that part of it,” he acknowledged.

“I suppose bein’ new to the country they’d be skeered to death to be left alone, and it mightn’t be safe nuther,” said the other.

“They ain’t no war and the Injuns is quiet, if they will steal hosses,” said Ira Korner, unwilling to give up the prospect of the chase.

“That’s so,” returned John. “Suppose we get old Pedro and his Greasers to stay till we get back. He’s a reliable old soul and as good-hearted a yellow-faced, skin-dried old Mexican as I ever met. Feed the men up well and give them nothing to do and they’ll be willing to camp out here for a week.” They hunted up the girls and made the proposition to them.

“I don’t see why we need any one,” said Alison. “You will be back before night, you say, and I should think three women were as good as one man, and not one of you would hesitate to stay here alone.”

“I should think if we three girls can’t look out for ourselves for a few hours we must be poor shakes,” put in Louisa.

“Go, John. Do go. We shall not mind. I am sure Pedro will be an excellent protector,” was Christine’s comment. And so, after a conference with the Mexicans, John and Neal, in company with Ira Korner and Reub Blakely, started off, leaving the girls looking after them. The old Mexican grinned sociably at his charges and in slow halting speech tried to talk to them. “No is to distress the self, the yong lade. Is to return ver soon. Is wish me to make a useful at time all is depart,” he said.

Christine, in whose eyes the tears were standing, turned to Alison who stood by smiling broadly. “Can you make out what he is trying to say?” she asked.

“Why yes, I think I know what he means. We are not to distress ourselves. They will be back soon and then it will be all right. In the meantime he will make himself useful.”

“You are cleverer at translating than I am,” acknowledged Christine. “I wish they did not need to go.”

“The best thing for us to do is to get to work,” said Alison. “The time will pass much more quickly if we do. There is no use in our sitting still and moping. Besides we want to make the place comfortable as soon as possible.”

“But if I only knew what had become of Steve,” said Christine wofully. “Suppose the Indians should have captured him. Suppose they should be torturing him.”

“Nonsense,” said Louisa briskly. “I don’t believe a word of that. You heard Mr. John say that he had probably gone to a neighbor’s and they’ll easy find him. Don’t get yourself all worked up, Miss Tina. It ain’t as if it were Mr. John, your own brother.”

Christine gave her a look which a less simple girl would have understood, but Louisa, blissfully unconscious of the reason for these terrors, went on unpacking and felt that the last word had been spoken upon the subject.

Christine went on murmuringly: “And I was so happy this morning and thought he would be here to meet us.”

This time it was Alison who listened to her plaint, and who began to have a dawning idea that this was a real grief to her sister. “Why, Tina,” she said with some show of indignation, “I believe you are in love with Steve Hayward.”

“CHRISTINE DROPPED HER HEAD ON THE TABLE AND BURST INTO TEARS.”

At this charge Christine dropped her head on the table and burst into tears, to Louisa’s astonishment and Alison’s distress. “Why, Tina, why, Tina,” said the latter kneeling down by her side. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I didn’t know you cared, though I might have suspected. Don’t cry, Tina dear.” She murmured her words caressingly and the little Mexican, standing by with his head to one side, assumed an expression of interest and sympathy.

“Pobrecita,” he said. “Mientras mas alto es al monte mas profundio es el valle.” Then shaking his head he tried to say in English, “More high is the hill; more low is the val. The sister is so high as the hill and now she make the tear.” He wiped his eye in such a mockingly funny way that Alison had to laugh in spite of herself, and realizing that the old man understood English better than he spoke it Christine restrained herself from further exhibition of feeling and set to work with the rest.

By nightfall the place began to look quite habitable. Pedro and his men had worked with a will, Christine’s tears and Alison’s smiles having been strong factors in urging on their efforts. As dusk approached the wagoners retired, old Pedro alone remaining indoors. The cows came lowing home, the chickens gathered about the hen-house; it was the hour which most strongly carried back the thoughts of the girls to the home they had so lately left. Even Louisa gave a little sigh and said: “That red cow reminds me of Mis’ Brown’s Cherry. I wonder how they’re gittin’ along.”

“I think I should like to feed the chickens myself,” said Alison. “It seems kind of homelike to have something like that to do.”

“And I reckon I may as well do the milking; it will get my hand in,” returned Louisa.

But Pedro had forestalled her in this occupation and was bringing in the brimming buckets as she went into the kitchen. Alison, however, went out and made friends with the chickens and stopped to speak to Steve’s horse which was safe in the stable. Here, to her surprise, she found Christine who had stolen out to comfort herself with ministering to the one thing which was very near and dear to Stephen. Hero had responded cordially to her advancements and was rubbing his handsome head against the girl’s shoulder and nickering softly, as she fed him with apples and talked to him caressingly. Alison backed out of the stable without being observed by her sister and hurried back to the house to help Louisa with the supper.

The men, bivouacked a little distance away, near the wagons, were feasting on the viands with which they had been generously supplied, and were making merry. The girls had not stopped to prepare a meal earlier in the day, but now Alison insisted that they should make a feast in the new home, for, tired though she was, she told Louisa that when the men returned they would probably be more tired still. “And nothing rests one like a good meal,” she remarked.

Louisa was in her element. She had already stowed away the stores, and though books occupied one half the potato bin and fine china stood side by side with wooden platters, she knew where everything was and was ready to produce any article asked for. Soon the fragrance of coffee filled the big room and from the kitchen came the sound of sizzling ham and the odor of browning biscuits. “Just you set still and rest,” said Louisa to the others. “I came here to earn my keep and I mean to do it. You two ain’t used to running your legs off, and you’re all tuckered out while I’m as fresh as a lark. I ain’t lived with Mis’ Brown all these years without getting pretty strong in the muscles. I reckon I’d better cook a-plenty, for there’s no telling when them men will be coming along and they’ll be mortal hungry.”

Such a cheerful possibility had a good effect upon Christine, and as for Alison she would hear nothing but that the entire company, Steve included, would be with them before the meal was ready. “I shall set the table for eight,” she said, “and I mean to put on all our best dishes and things, for this is our house-warming.” Pedro had started a fire in the big fireplace, for the October night was chill, and so industrious had all been that the room presented a very cozy and lived-in appearance. Christine, who had taken her place at the window, was anxiously peering out into the gathering gloom. Presently she started and called out: “Alison, Alison, come here.” Her sister obeyed the summons. “What is that over there?” said Christine eagerly. “Does it seem to you that some one is coming? or is it only the waving branches of a tree? I have looked so long I cannot tell. See if you can make it out.”

Alison bent her eyes in the direction her sister indicated. “It is—one—two—three—— Oh, Christine, they are coming.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“You don’t think it could be Indians?”

Alison laughed. “You are so full of notions you will say next that they are Esquimaux or something equally absurd. Of course it is not Indians. I can see their hats and, unless I am much mistaken, they are John and the rest.” Christine clasped and unclasped her hands in an agony of agitation while Alison ran to the door and called: “Pedro, Pedro, they are coming.”

The old man abandoned his companions and came running. He and Alison had struck up quite a friendship. He had a daughter her own age, he had told her. She was his youngest and his treasure, Alison had discovered, and had won the old man’s heart by the interest she displayed in this Mexican maid. He joined her now by the door and assured her that she was right in her conjectures. “I am sure it is Mr. Jordan riding ahead,” Alison called in to her sister. “There are five of them, I verily believe. I can see them quite easily now. What did I tell you when I set the table?”

Nearer and nearer the horsemen galloped. Now they had passed Steve’s cabin, now they were at the gate and came clattering towards the house at full tilt. Alison fairly danced up and down with excitement. This was something like. Adventure to start with and no dull hours to drone away that evening.

John was the first to alight and Neal followed him. Christine watched breathlessly as one after another emerged from the dimness and stepped into the full light of the room. After John and Neal came Ira Korner, then Reuben Blakely; the fifth man was a stranger. Christine went swiftly up to her brother. “Where is he?” she asked. “Why didn’t you bring him?”

John looked down at her and patted her shoulder in awkward confusion. “Well, the fact is, we didn’t find Steve,” he said, “and we have about concluded that he went off hunting, lost his horse and is footing it back. He’ll likely get along between this and to-morrow night. We’ve about made up our minds that while he was away some pesky redskins, who had been watching their chance, sneaked in and got the horses. We made out by the tracks that it is just about that way. We followed up the thing as far as it seemed any use and then we passed on the word. Pike Toles is going to take a squint at the tracks beyond his place and maybe we can get wind of something. That’s why we brought Pike along. I wouldn’t worry, Tina. Steve’ll be tramping in first thing you know.”

At this report Christine looked so woebegone that Alison flounced out of the room to give vent to her feelings in the kitchen. “The idea of Christine’s looking as if she had lost her last friend. Suppose Steve hasn’t come, that’s no reason why she should be going about looking like a dying calf. I’d be ashamed to let any one know I cared. Big sisters are such sillies sometimes. You can be mighty sure I’d never do that way.”

Louisa laughed. “Just wait till your time comes,” she said, as she began to busy herself in dishing up the supper. All this excitement was having its effect upon her and her head was jerking more than usual, though this did not interfere with her activity, and by the time the horses were put up the supper was on the table.

Neal Jordan looked at the well-served fare and remarked as he took his place: “Reminds me of home, boys. I’ve not seen such a lay-out since I came down here.”

“Looks like somebody here’s a mighty good cook,” remarked Ira Korner, surveying the smoking, light biscuits.

“That coffee smells as good as a weddin’,” said Reub Blakely.

“Speakin’ of weddin’s,” began Ira, looking towards Christine.

“But we’re not speaking of weddings and we don’t want to,” Alison interrupted him by saying. “What we want to speak about is where you have been all day and what your adventures were.”

“Give us leave to eat our supper first,” returned Ira. “I tell you when a fellow gits grub like this he wants to give his whole attention to it without side-tracking onto a narrative. Just you let us get outside that ham and coffee and a pile or so o’ them biscuits and we’ll talk to ye.”

Just then Louisa skurried off saying, “I guess I’ll lose my head next. I clean forgot that honey Pedro got for us. I ain’t got the best head in the world, for I’ve most jerked it off already.”

Ira observed her gravely. Any one who could make such biscuits and coffee appealed to his tenderest sensibilities. “What’s the young lady’s name?” he whispered audibly to Alison by whose side he sat. “I didn’t catch her cognomen, as Pike likes to call it.”

“Her name is Sparks, Louisa Sparks,” Alison told him.

Ira nodded in answer. His eyes followed Louisa when she went from the room to replenish the supplies and when he had finished his thirteenth biscuit he looked across the table and said: “Any kin o’ old Cy Sparks? Old man with a red head, he is.”

Louisa looked up surprised. “Why, my father’s name was Cyrus, but he’s been dead these fifteen years.”

“That so? Orphin?”

“Yes, I lost my mother when I was eight and I was fetched up by Mis’ Brown, aunt o’ Mr. John’s.”

“Humph!” Ira returned to an appreciation of his biscuits and honey.

“Queer there should be another Cyrus Sparks down here in Texas,” said Louisa breaking the silence, for all the men were eating steadily, solemnly and ravenously.

“’Tis queer,” returned Ira. “Old Cy don’t live so terrible far from here. He’s a mean old cuss, though, and I reckon you kin thank your stars that you don’t need to call him pop. No, thank you, miss, I’m sorry to say that I’ve reached my limit. Jerusalem, but I’ve eat hearty!”

Christine had scarcely tasted her supper, but gave her attention to the hungry men. Alison was eagerly alert, her bright little face framed by its bands of fair hair was turned interestedly from one to another. “I think it is time that you told us where you have been all these hours,” she said, her curiosity refusing to be satisfied. “Out with your story, Mr. Jordan.”

“Pretty tame sort of story, isn’t it, boys?” he began. “If we had come back without our scalps it might have been interesting, though we wouldn’t have looked as pretty.”

“And if we’d have left our hides with a lot of bullet holes in ’em we’d have missed one good supper,” remarked Ira. “I reckon it’s a good thing we didn’t come to closter quarters with the redskins. I ain’t to say skeered of ’em, though I’m blest if I wouldn’t rather die in a good rational fight with the boys all yellin’ around me than be kilt by some sneakin’ varmint ketchin’ you unawares when you’re out alone. I must say I don’t ache to play cock-robin and git kilt by a bow and arrer neither. I reckin I’m a sort of skeery fellow.”

A roar of laughter went up at this. “It don’t seem to keep you much at home,” said Neal.

“Well, no, it don’t. I hev to hev my constitutional every day or I git sick. I ain’t sayin’ I’d set at home alone like a toad ketchin’ flies rather’n go out by my lone. I ain’t such a drivelin’ pasty-faced baby as thet. I’m only expressin’ my druthers and a-sayin’ that we were lucky to git back to supper. When I ponder on these here wittles, I tell you, Miss Sparks, I wisht I was twins, so I could eat ’em twicet over.” These remarks met the applause he meant they should, and after the laughter had settled down to an occasional chuckle Neal turned to Alison to give her an account of the day’s adventures.

“We surmised it was Injuns,” Neal began. “We found moccasin tracks and other signs. There must have been about half a dozen of the redskins. We found, too, the tracks of a single horse and that we concluded was Hero. So we put this and that together and made up our minds that Steve went off hunting and the Injuns sneaked in after the horses. Well, we were in a dilemma; we wanted to find Steve and we wanted the horse stealers, so we divided; two of us followed up Hero’s tracks and two went for the other horses. Hero worked around in a sort of circle and brought us out on the road where he came up this morning. We’d looked close all the way and there wasn’t any sign of Steve, so we surmised he had struck out for home after he lost his horse and had taken a different way. We knocked around for awhile but after a bit we concluded that we’d better start up the road and see after the other boys; then we met up with Pike. He was to wait at his house for Ira and Reub and get their report. They had come along by there and had gone on. Well, in about half an hour back they came. No luck. Injuns had got so far off that there was no good following them and so we joined forces and came home together about as disgusted a lot as you ever saw. Not a blessed bit of fun the entire time.”

“But suppose Steve doesn’t come back, what then?” Christine spoke up sharply.

“We’ll scour the country for him.”

And this indeed they came to do, for no Stephen appeared that day nor the next nor, indeed, did it seem after a while that he ever would appear. In time it came to be whispered about that he had been captured by the Indians, who must have come upon him as he was trudging home. No one made this explanation of his disappearance to Christine but she intuitively understood that it was the general opinion, yet she did not give up hope, though many a night her fast-flowing tears moistened her pillow, and the joy she had felt in the prospect of life in this new home was overshadowed by dread.

CHAPTER IV
OFF TO THE WAR

THE state of Texas had yet to battle further for her independence. She had long been a bone of contention between the United States and Mexico. In 1803, when Louisiana was ceded by France to the United States, Texas became disputed territory. Thirty years later the twenty thousand settlers who occupied the land rose up and attempted to found an independent republic. In 1835 a provisional government was formed with Samuel Houston as its head. The story of the continuous struggles with Mexico, the tales of bloodshed, the massacres at the Alamo and Goliad, when the fierce despairing efforts of valiant men were made for independence, belong to this period of the history of Texas, and a thrilling chapter it makes, one which has been the theme of many a writer. The chapter ends with the acknowledgment of the little republic by the United States in 1837, and in 1840 by England, France and Belgium. Feeling herself too weak to withstand continual invasion, Texas desired the support of a stronger government, and in 1845 was admitted into the Union in spite of the protests of Mexico, which had never acknowledged the independence of her small neighbor and which now declared the United States to be an invader. Intense excitement had prevailed previous to the annexation of Texas and it was reasonable to suppose that force must be resorted to before permanent possession of the new territory could be gained. Foreseeing the trouble which must ensue because of the determined opposition of the Mexican government, the United States selected Zachary Taylor as commanding officer of the forces which, it was now decided, must be stationed on the borders of Texas in order to meet any aggressive movement on the part of the Mexicans.

As early as the spring of 1844, in anticipation of future difficulties, certain regiments were ordered to Texas, remaining there ready for active service. There were many who believed that such decided measures on the part of our government would have the effect of chilling the ardor of the Mexicans and that their boasting was all a pretense, a bluster which would be stilled as soon as they discovered the presence of an army, but these optimists were mistaken, for in April, 1846, the first shot was fired, the Mexicans assumed the offensive and war began.

Rumors of this first fight were brought to the new home of the Rosses by Neal Jordan. He dashed in one spring morning, swung himself off his house and demanded to see John.

“You’re mighty peremptory, Mr. Neal Jordan,” said Alison, who was the first to welcome him. “What’s the matter that you’re in such a hurry?”

He set his long rifle against the wall, slipped his fingers along the barrel first on one side and then on the other. “Do you see this old pet?” he asked. “She’s going to speak a word to the Mexicans and I am going along to tickle her into speech. John won’t want to be left out of the little conversation that’s to take place, so I thought I’d stop by and invite him to join in.”

By this time Alison had gained a better understanding of the peculiarities of speech indulged in by her Texas friends. “Do you mean there is to be fighting?” she asked.

Neal nodded. “They’ve fired the first shot and there has been a battle. We boys are going to help out our side.”

“Oh, dear!” Alison shook her head. “Do you suppose it will last long?”

“Can’t tell. It depends upon how soon we lick ’em.”

“You are sure to do that.”

“Sure as shootin’.”

“Will there be fighting up this way?”

“I reckon not, but we can’t tell so early in the game.”

Alison glanced out of the door at the quiet scene before her. She shuddered as her gaze returned again to the long rifle. “I wish John didn’t have to go,” she said, “but I know he will. He’s always said he would. I’ll go find him, but I must say I wish you hadn’t come; for the first time I wish that of you, Neal Jordan.”

The young man looked at her with a half smile. “I’m glad it’s the first time,” he said simply, “and I hope it will be the last time you need say that.”

“What does make you men so eager to fight?” Alison asked, looking back, as she stood with her hand on the door.

“Nature of the beast, I suppose,” returned Neal coolly. “It gets into the blood and you can’t get rid of it. It’s masculine, I reckon, though there’s female women who have it too.”

“Yes, there was Joan of Arc, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard of her. They ketched her and burned her. I don’t just recollect who it was did it, but I don’t think it was Injuns.” Neal gravely tried to recall his somewhat limited knowledge of the facts.

“No, it was done by the French. They pretended to think she was a witch.”

“So they did. Well, we did some witch-burning ourselves way back there, so we in the States can’t call the kettle black. That’s what I think sometimes when the boys go to pitchin’ into the Injuns.”

“But we were never as cruel as they.”

“No, but we were smart enough, big enough and ugly enough to know better than to burn women and to cut off people’s ears because they didn’t go to the same church as we did. I’m an Injun fighter from way back, but I ain’t so sure that I wouldn’t do as they do, if I wasn’t any more civilized, and if I was run off my land as they are. We’ve got to run ’em, of course, but in spite of that I reckon they can claim that there ain’t justice done every time.”

Alison regarded him thoughtfully. She had heard others talk less mercifully and yet she knew no man was braver, more ready to rush into action, to lead a band against the Indians, than this same Neal Jordan. Ira Korner, too, was noted for his fearlessness, but he had not Neal’s sense of justice. “Then you wouldn’t fight now if you didn’t believe it right,” the girl said.

“No,” was the reply. “As it is, we only want our own. We claim a certain boundary, you know; the Mexicans say we want more than is coming to us and they are ready to go to war about it. We don’t mean to have them grab what we have a right to and we are perfectly willing to fight, too. That’s what it’s all about. I suppose we wouldn’t be quite so fierce if we didn’t remember the way they did us back in ’36 when they slaughtered every man at the Alamo, and when they gave no quarter at Goliad. We are glad of the chance of paying off old scores and are not above being ready for revenge.”

“I don’t wonder at that,” returned Alison, her eyes kindling. “John has had that in mind ever since our father fell fighting for Texas. John is my only brother, but when I think of father I cannot say a word, and I mean to give him all the encouragement I can.”

Neal looked after her admiringly as she left the room. “Spunky little kitten,” he said to himself. “I like her spirit. I wonder what Christine will say.”

He was not long left in doubt as to Christine’s attitude, for she soon entered the room with the swift directness which was always hers. “You are going to take John away from us,” she said abruptly.

“I am not going to take him,” was the reply. “I reckon he’ll be willing to go without being gagged and bound.”

“Must every one be sacrificed?” asked Christine. “Our father gave up his life in this dreadful land. It has swallowed up Stephen Hayward and now John must go. Must we give up all that we have left? If John is killed what will happen to us, to two defenseless girls alone in this crude country?”

Neal’s face flushed slightly, but he answered quietly, “I’m something of a believer in fatality, Miss Christine. If fate decrees that John must go to his death, he will go as a brave man and not as a coward. He might stay at home and be killed by an Injun or a wildcat and there would be no special glory in it. The chances are as much in his favor if he goes, for all I can see, and it’s something to fall in battle, to die doing one’s duty.”

“I question the duty,” replied Christine. “He brought us here. His first duty is to stand by us and see that we are taken care of.”

Neal bent his steady eyes upon her. “It’s a pity that you ever thought of coming to this crude country as you call it. Any one that feels as you do had better stay at home.”

“I didn’t feel so when we started. I didn’t know what awaited us. I have lost my faith in Texas.” She sat down and dropped her hands listlessly in her lap.

Neal regarded her silently for a minute. “You’re not like those Revolutionary ancestors of yours that you were telling me about the other day; they sent their husbands and brothers to the war with the word that they were to fight to the last lick. But then I don’t know as I blame ye, pore little gal,” he said under his breath. “Allie gone to fetch John?” he asked after a pause.

“Yes.”

“Don’t begrudge him to us, Miss Christine. John won’t leave you all alone. I shouldn’t wonder if he could get old Pedro Garcia and his daughter to come stay on the rancho. There’s the empty cabin, you know.”

“Steve’s cabin?” Christine shook her head in opposition to the suggestion.

“It ain’t any use to have it stand there and fall to pieces, is it?” he said. “I wish to heavens Steve was still in it, but if he was here he’d be going off, too, to this war, and you’d have that trouble to face. There’s no good looking behind. The best way is to let what’s gone lie still and keep on a-stepping forward.”

Christine sighed. “I can’t look forward with much joy unless I let myself believe that Steve will come back.”

“Don’t do any harm to believe it.”

“Do you think there is the slightest hope?”

“Of course there’s a chance, not much of a one, I’ll admit, but Steve was a good fighter.”

“Was? Can’t you say is?”

“I’ll say it till I have to say was. We’ve always been good friends, Steve and I. He’s spoken of you to me,” added Neal a little hesitatingly.

“I felt sure of that, and it is why I have always felt that I could talk to you more freely.”

Neal’s happy smile brightened his face. “That’s right. I want you to feel that you can do that. I know how Steve looked forward to your coming and what his dreams were. I know that we hadn’t a man in the country that I’d rather call my friend than Steve Hayward. Now, Miss Christine, don’t let your feelings interfere with the needs of our army. We want John and you must let him go. That little sister of yours has grit; she’ll stand by you.”

“Alison? She is still such a child. She doesn’t know the troubles that lie in wait for us; she doesn’t understand the bitterness of disappointment.”

“She’s got the grit to stand it when it comes, and that red-headed Lou of yours ain’t far behind her. She don’t stand at anything. I’d as lief have her about as a man.”

“I suppose I do seem very foolish, a silly, weak sort of creature, to you,” returned Christine with a little show of petulance.

“No, I can’t say that,” returned Neal candidly, “but I think you let yourself mope too much. You’re the oldest; you owe it to that little sister of yours to brace up and get through this with all the courage that’s in you. I’m pretty free-spoken, I know, Miss Christine, but—it hurts a fellow to see a girl like you spending her life pining after what can’t be helped.” He drew out his bowie-knife and fell to examining the keen blade, and then John came in.

“Well, it’s come, has it?” was John’s greeting.

Neal nodded.

“Then I’m off with the rest.”

“But not yet, not just yet,” pleaded Christine.

“To be sure I must see that you girls have some one here to look after you. Fortunately we’ve nearer neighbors than we had six months ago; the settlement’s growing, and since the treaty, and the coming in of the troops, there’s no fear of Injuns, so I reckon you won’t be carried off. I’ll see if Bud Haley will look after the crops and we’ll have to get some one to stay on the place to see to the stock.” John’s mind was working rapidly. He never delayed when there was any important matter to be settled.

“I think old Pedro Garcia would be as good a man as you could get to stay on the place,” said Neal. “He knows how to get hold of the best of the Greasers and is rather particular who comes loafing about, on his daughter’s account. She’s a pretty little creetur, that Lolita Garcia, and I don’t wonder he watches her like a hawk. Suppose I go and look up the old fellow and send him over to you. I’ve no family to keep me and I thought you and I might start off soldiering together.”

“First-rate idea,” declared John. “I’m with you, Neal. Then I will ride over to see Bud, and, if you will hunt up Pedro, we can make tracks in no time.”

Christine offered no further word of protest, but watched the two men mount and ride off down the road and on till they were lost to sight. Then the girl felt an arm around her waist. “Isn’t it glorious,” said Alison, “to be a man and to be able to go to war?”

“Yes, I think it is much more so than to be a woman and to sit at home and see your dear ones leave, to go perhaps to their death.”

“Don’t hint at such a thing,” returned Alison. “We shall be sure to win.”

“With no fighting?”

“Of course there’ll be fighting, but John will not be killed.”

“How do you know that?”

“I feel positive of it. At all events we shall see none of the fighting, for it will not be in our part of the country. Mr. Jordan says so.”

“You pin your faith on what he says, always, I think.”