Because of Stephen (2 page)

"I shall reach your queer-sounding station at eight o'clock Friday evening, and I hope you will be able to meet me at the train, for of course I shall be very lonely in a strange place. Forgive me for
surprising you this way. I know Aunt Priscilla would think I was doing a dreadful thing; but I can't feel that way about it myself, and anyway I have myse
lf to look out for now. So good
by
e
until Friday evening of next week, and please make up your mind to be a little glad to see your sister,"

"Margaret Halstead."

Philip ha
nded over the last sheet to Ste
phen, and sat up, looking blankly at the wall for a minute. He could not deny to himself that he
was wholly won over
to the enemy's cause. Ther
e was something so fresh and ap
pealing about that letter written from a lonely girli
sh heart, and something so alto
gether brave a
nd daring in her actually start
ing out to hunt up a renegade brother who had shown no wish to be brotherly, that he could but admire her.
But
what could they do with her there? Of
course
she must go back.
A pity, too, when she seemed to have her heart so set.
But
, if she stayed, she would be disappointed. Philip looked at Stephen sadly. It was a good thing she must go back, and would not need to know how little
worthy of
her love and admiration
this
unknown brother of
hers was. He was a good-hearted fellow, too. A pit
y for the girl she had not some
one to care for her.

Suddenly a new thought came to him as he looked idly down at the envelope of the letter Stephen had carelessly flung aside. The date on it was a week old.

He picked it up excitedly.

"Steve, what day was that letter written?"

"The twenty-eighth," said Stephen, looking up to see what caused the unusual note in Philip s tone.

"Man alive!" exclaimed Philip, "that letter's lain in the office for more than a week now, or else it's been off up to
Humstead'
s
ranch, lying around till some
one had time to bring it back to the office. Such a postmaster as they have out here anyway! Get up, Steve,
and do some
thing! This is Friday night! Don't you realize that your
sister's
almost here? If it
wasn't
that the Northern Central is always an hour or more behind time, she would be standing alone down there on the platform, in the dark, this minute, with all that howling mob o
f loungers that congregate near
by. What are you going to do?"

"I don't know," said Stephen in a dazed way.

Philip towered over him fiercely.

"Well, you better know. Get up. It's five miles away, and the express is due now if it's on time."

M
argaret
Halstead stood alone on the narrow board platform that seemed to float like a tiny raft in a sea of plains and darkness.

The train on which she had come her long and interesting journey had discharged her trunks,
and taken
up some freight, and wound its snakelike way out into the darkness, until now even the last glimmer of its red lights had faded from the mist that lay around.

The night winds swept about her, touching hair and cheek and gown
, and peering solici
tously into her face as if to inquire who this strange, sweet thing might be that had dropped, ali
en, among them, and then, decid
ing in her favor, softly kissed her on the cheek and ran away to tell the river of her coming.

A few lights dotted here and there the murk
and gloom about her, and loud, uncultured voices sounded from the little shanty that served, she supposed, as a station. She dreaded to move a step toward it, for a strange new terror had seized upon her in the darkness since the friendly train had disappeared from view.

She remembered that the porter had been solicitous abo
ut leaving until her brother ar
rived to claim her, and had paused beside her until the last car swept slowly up and began to travel by; then, eying dubiously first the silver piece she had put in his hand, and then the fast-gliding train, he had finally touched his cap and swung himself onto the last car, calling back to her that he hoped she would be all right.
She had not realized
till
then what it was going to be to be left alone at night in this strange place, with no assurance whatever, save her own undaunted faith, that her brother had even received her letter, much less, would meet her.

Apprehension and alarm suddenly rose and began to clam
or for attention, while she sud
denly realized how rash sh
e had been to fol
low a fancy half across a continent, only to bring up in this wild way.

What should she do? She supposed she ought to go over to that dreadful group of
rough men and ask some questions. What if, after all, she
had been put off
at the wrong station? She ha
lf turned to walk in that direc
tion; but just then a wild shriek followed by a pistol-shot rang out in the air, and she stopped, frightened, a whispered prayer on her lips for help. Had she come all this way on what her heart had to
ld her was a mission, to
be for
saken
now?

The clamor was heard by Philip
as he rode through the night.

Stephen heard it also, and hastened his horse's footsteps.

Then from out the gloom and horror there came to the young girl's ears the soft regular thud, thud, thud, of horses' hoofs, and almost at once there loomed before her out of the mist two dark shapes which flung themselves apart, and appeared to be two men and two horses.

She started
back once more, her heart beat
ing wildly, and wondered which way to flee; but almost at once she heard a strong, pleasant voice say:

"Don't be afraid. We are coming!"
and
what seemed a giant landed before her. With a little gasp in her voice that sounded like a half-sob she said,

"O Stephen, you have come!" and put her
hands in those of Philip Earle, hiding her face against his shoulder with a shudder.

Philip felt a sudden gladness in his strength, and it
was revealed
to him in a flash that there were sweeter things in life than those he had counted upon.

Instinctively his arm supported her for just an instant, and a great wave of jealousy toward her brother went over him. His impulse was to stoop and give her the welcoming kiss that she was evidently expecting; but he held himself with a firm grasp, though the blood went in hot waves over his face in the darkness.

To hav
e the unexpected and most unwel
come guest of h
is partner thus suddenly precip
itated upon him, and to find that she was
not altogether undesirable
, after all, was
a circum
stance most embarrassing, as well as extremely delicate to handle. He blessed the darkness for its hiding. It was but an instant and Stephen was besi
de them, and he managed in
some
way
—he never could describe it to himself afterward— to get the young woman faced about toward the real brother and her attention turned in that direction, an
d then stood watching while Ste
phen, the impressible, welcomed the new sister
with open arms
.

It was like Stephen, though he had grumbled all the way to the railroad about what a nuisance it was going to be to have her come, that he should succumb at once to a sweet voice and a confiding way.

Philip's lips were dry, and his throat throbbed hot
and chokingly. He felt the pres
sure of little, soft, gloved hands in his hard ones. He turned away angry with himself that he should be
so easily affected and by some
one whom he had never met except in the pitch dark. Yet even as he said this to
himself
he knew the face would fit the voice and the hands when he should see them.

So
, after all, though Philip, because he rode the fleeter horse, had been the first to greet her, and though his was the cool head, and he had expected to have to explain why they had been so late to meet her, it was Stephen's eager voice that made the explanations.

"You see I never got your letter until an hour ago. It was miscarried or something, and then we
don't
get to the office often when we're busy. So, when I took it in that you were really
coming and looked at the time, your train was already overdue; and, if it had not been for their habit of being always two hours behind time, you might have stood here alone all this time."

Stephen said it
gayly
. He was beginning to think it a nice thing to have a sister. He had forgotten utterly how Philip had to insist on his coming at once to meet her, and that he had been most reluctant and ungracious.

It occurred t
o him
at this juncture
to intro
duce his partner.

Philip came to himself as he heard his name mentioned, and was glad again for the darkness. Margaret Halstead blushed, and wondered whether this giant knew how extremely near she had come to greeting him with a kiss, and hoped that he had not noticed how her head had rested against his shoulder for an instant when she was frightened. What would he think of her?

Her voice t
rembled just a little as she ac
knowledged the introduction; but her words were few and frigid, and made Philip feel as if she had suddenly held him off at arm's length and bade him come no nearer. She said:

"I did not know you had a partner, Stephen. You never said anything about it in your letters. I am afraid I have been wrong in coming without waiting to hear from you before I started."

But
Philip had noticed the tremble in her voice, and he hastened to make her most welcome as far as he was concerned.

Nevertheless,
a stiffness
hung about the trio which made it hard for them to be natural; and, had it not been for another pistol-shot from the shanty down the road and another clamor of voices, they might have stood still some time longer.

Margaret started in spite of herself, and asked nervously:

"Oh!
what
can be the matter? What a dreadful place this must be!"
And
Philip found in himself a new instinct of protection.

"We must get your sister out of this, Steve," he said. "We must take her home."

And somehow
the word "home" sounded a haven as he pronounced it. The thoughts of the two young men galloping furiously on their way to the station had been but of how they should reach there as soon as the train. They had made no plans. It was impossible for them to realize the importance of the charge that was about to be put upon them.

But now
the manners of the world from which they had come some years before, and from which this young woman had but just come, suddenly dropped down upon them as a forgotten garment, and they knew at once the wretchedness of their limitations.

"It isn't much of a place to call home," said
the brother, apologetically, "but I guess it's better than this. If we had only known before, we'd have h
ad something fine fixed up some
way."

He made the statement airily, and perhaps he thought it was true. Philip found himself wondering what it would have been. There was not a house where she
might have been lodged
comfortably within fifty miles.

"How do you think we'd better arrange the journey?" said Stephen, suddenly brought face to face with a problem.

"You see," said he in explanation to his sister, "we had no time to hitch up, if we had thought of it, though I'm blamed if it occurred to me but that we could carry you in our pockets. Say, Phil, guess I'll go over and see if I can get
Foxy's
buckboard."

"
Foxy's
gone over to Butte in his buckboard with his mother. I saw him go this afternoon," answered Philip.

Stephen whistled.

"I'll ask Dunn for his wagon," said Stephen
starting off
.

"Hold on!" said Philip shortl
y. "I
’ll go myself. You
stay here."

"Couldn't we go down to the station and see after my trunk, Mr. Earle?" said Margaret
timidly.
And
to his ears the name never had so sweet a sound.

"Give me your checks, and stay here, please," he said in quite a different tone from that in which he had addressed Stephen; and, turning, he left them standing in the dark, while the mist closed in behind him and shut him from their sight as if he had left the world.

Alone with her brother, Margaret suddenly put out her hands appealingly to him.

"You are a little bit glad I've come, aren't you, Stephen?" she said.

"I'm no end of glad," he answered, rousing out of his sulkiness that Philip would not let him go. He knew that Philip had good reason for making him stay. "But we're a rough lot out here. I don't know how you'll stand it."

His voice had lost a shade of the gayety, and she thought it was touched with anxiety. She hastened to assure him.

"O, I shall not mind a bit.
And
I shall try to make things a little pleasanter for you. You think I can, don't you?"
This in an anxious voice.

"I'm sure you can," said Stephen heartily.
There was
something in her voice that ap
pealed to his better self, and reminded him strangely of his childhood.
It could not be his
father
;
for his
father had always been silent and grave, and thi
s voice was sweet and enthusias
tic, and flowed out as if it loved to speak.
And yet
it must be the likeness to the father's voice he noticed.

"I am so anxious to get you in the light and see how you look," she said ardently, and then added softly, "My dear brother."

Stephen slid his arm about her awkwardly, and kissed her
on the forehead. He felt embar
rassed in doing this; yet it was by no means the first time he had kissed a girl. Perhaps it was the memory of those other kisses hovering near that shamed him now. He half felt this, and it made him awkward. He was glad to hear Philip's step coming toward them.

"Dunn's wagon has broken down, and both the front wheels are off for repairs. There isn't a thing we can
get in town to
night," said Philip anxiously. "Miss Halstead, can you ride? Horseback, I mean."

"Why, I can tr
y," said Margaret a little trem
ulously. This was a rather startli
ng proposition to even her dauntl
ess courage. Involuntarily she glanced down at her city-made gown in the darkness. She felt hampered by it.

"It's too bad
, Miss Halstead," he said apolo
getically, while Stephen in the dark wondered
at his new tone and manner. "But there's no other way, and I think you'll enjoy getting out of this, anyway. There's going to be a big row over there,
" he added in a low tone to Ste
phen. "Jim Peters is on his high horse.
Hurry!"

Then in a cheery
tone
he said:

"It won't be so bad. You can rest your foot in the stirrup, and Steve and
I'll
take turns walking beside the horse.
She'd
better ride
your horse, Steve. He's the gentle
r
of the two."