From the Improvement Era, March 1917 –

The Gift of Trapper’s Cave

By Elsie C. Carroll

The sun was sinking in a cloud of glory over the rim of the Buckskin Mountains as Ralph Woods turned into the trail leading from Mohava to the Good Luck mining camp. The vermilion ledges towering above Mohava were painted bronze and golden by the reflected splendor from the west. The line of shadowy firs bordering the copper-colored bluffs, resembled a magnificently wrought frieze beneath a master-panel in some grand old cathedral.

Young Woods was keenly attuned to all the subtle influences in this great Out-of-doors, — God’s own matchless cathedral, he was thinking to himself, as he drank in the early spring beauty, every fiber of his being aquiver with the ecstasy of its mystic touch upon his soul.

Lately graduated from the school of divinity at the Chicago University, his mind filled with splendid plans to be worked out in the field he was entering, his being touched with brotherhood, love, and a deep reverence for his “call,” he saw only beauty and wonder and promise in this new world about him.

Perhaps it was youth’s natural craving for adventure that had made Woods seize the opportunity of becoming circuit minister in this out-of-the-way district. Perhaps it was his
love for overcoming difficulties that had made him all the more determined to accept the “call” when he learned of the opposition and trouble which had made it impossible for the church to keep a regular parson in the vicinity. His immediate predecessor had been driven out on a threat of tar and feathers.

All this added to the young man’s determination to make good. He would succeed! He must succeed! He seemed to expand with the limitless possibilities before him.

As he went on up the rugged trail, the glory in the west gradually died away, leaving the ledges only their dull red hue. The air became a trifle chilly, and gray shadows began to creep down the mountain side. Emerging from a deep gully, Woods caught his first glimpse of the camp. The most conspicuous building was the big saloon bearing in gaudy letters the name, Tupple’s Bar. On one side of this was a long mess-house, and on the other a longer bunk house. On the other side of a little gulch to the left of these were a dozen or more shacks and cabins, the homes of the superintendent, foremen and some of the miners.

As Woods drew a little nearer, his ear caught the clear, sweet sound of a girl’s voice singing the familiar “Juanita.” When she reached the chorus a score of lusty male voices joined in, making the canyon ring with the echo. A bend in the road brought him where he could see the singers lounging about the door of the bunk-house. The girl, who strummed an old guitar, was ensconced in the rough step while the men were sprawled against the walls at her feet. While Woods could see the group plainly, he was hidden from their view by a clump of willows. He stopped his horse and waited till the song was ended, taking a mental inventory of the sort of sheep that would make up his flock.

The men were rough and grimy, just as they had come from the shift; some of their features were dull and bloated with drink. But the young minister was prepared for all this. What surprised him was the girl. There was something about the poise of her dark head and her strong, vivid face as she sat there surrounded by those burley miners, that made him think of a picture he had once seen of a young princess imprisoned on a savage island. The song ended and he started forward.

Just then the supper-bell sounded from the mess-house and the men scrambled away. The girl still sat strumming the guitar, her dark eyes wandering dreamily over the greening slope of the mountains. She started as Woods drew near and said,

“Good evening. Can you tell me where I could find Mr. Channing?” The girl did not answer. Instead her eyes traveled critically from his well-barbered head to his polished shoes. Something in the look made the young man feel like he was being weighed in the balance. He was relieved when the girl’s eyes finally met his with a frank, friendly smile.

“Yer the new minister, ain’t ye?” she asked naively, and Woods assented with a laughing,

“Yes. Will I pass?” The girl became suddenly serious.

“I’m afraid not,” she said shaking her head. “Ye see the boys have it in fer ye already. They don’t want no preacher. They say it only makes ’em worse an’ I’m ashamed t’ say it, but it shore does. Now, there’s Nick. He’s not half bad when we’re let alone, but jist let a preacher blow in sight an’ Nick kin beat the old Nick hisself fer mischief. I hate t’ discourage ye, parson. Ye look like ye meant well, but none of ye don’t understand the boys, so it’s just like they say, they’re better off without ye.” She looked at him like a sympathetic employer might look at a candidate who had failed to qualify. Before Woods could speak she went on,

“The boys hev made their threats about the next one that comes, an’ if you know’d the boys like I do, you’d reckon on ’em carrin’ ’em out. I hate t’ disappoint ye, but ye’d do well t’ hit the trail back t’ Mahavy before they ketch sight of ye.”

This was interesting, but the young minister was somewhat piqued to have his mission set aside so lightly by this peculiar mountain girl. He tried to think of something to say, but somehow each thing he thought of seemed the wrong one so at last he asked once more,

“Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Channing?” The girl ignored his question again and looked into his face with genuine concern.

“So yer goin’ t’ stay. Well, I’m sorry. Ye don’t know what a h—1 ye’ll be a lettin’ loose.” By this time Woods was irritated.

“Will you kindly tell me where Mr. Channings is?” he repeated, his feelings ill-concealed.

“In the biggest shack across the gulch,” she told him and he turned and rode away.

He was cordially greeted by the mine superintendent.

“If ever a place needed the influence of religion it is this place,” he confided in the course of their conversation. “I do hope you’ll be able to stick it out, but I’m not at all sure you will. Guess you heard how they drove Herrick out. Well, it’s been the same for five years, ever since they sent old Jerome out here, and he made such a fool of himself in the name of the church. I don’t know how we’d get along if it wasn’t for Harrie.”

“And who is he?” Woods asked with natural curiosity. Channing laughed.

“She is a little half-breed who has made herself mother-confessor to the boys. She can do more with them than I can or the whole police force of Mohava when it comes to real trouble. you’ll have to get on the good side of Harrie if you want to succeed. I think that is one reason the others have failed. They ignored her and the boys resented it.”

“I believe I have already met her,” said Woods recalling their interview with a fear that he had already started in wrong with this ally to be won.

“Who is the girl anyhow?” he asked after describing their meeting.

“That is what some of us who have known her ever since she was a little mite of five or six years find ourselves wondering every little while. When the Good Luck was first prospected by old Newman he ran onto a nutty old trapper living with an Indian woman in a little cabin on the other side of the ridge. There were two children, a little girl about three or four years old, in other words, Harrie, and a little fellow about a year old. The old trapper was killed in a snowslide the first year after we began to drill. No one had succeeded in learning anything about the old fellow. Seemed close and peculiar, but with a remarkable polish and education. The Indian woman lived until Harrie was thirteen years old. Since then the girl has taken care of herself and Billy. She’s really wonderful in more ways than one, as you’ll find out when you become better acquainted.”

“But she did not look to me like a half-breed,” objected Woods.

“No she doesn’t. Not nearly so much as her brother looks like a full-breed,” agreed Channing. “But then, they say that often when breeds are crossed it happens that way. Still it always seems to me that there is something mysterious about Harrie. You’ll feel it yourself when you know her better.”

“I think,” said Channing, changing the subject, “that you had just as well hold a meeting tonight. The boys have it in for you ministers on general principles, so the sooner you get acquainted and do away with their prejudice, the sooner you will be able to get at your real work.” Woods heartily agreed with this, so arrangements were made to turn the mess-house into a church.

Channing was unexpectedly called to Mohava early in the evening and Woods went to his first service alone. After all he had heard he was surprised at the number present. The men were gathered in the far end of the room and as the light was poor he could not see the expression of their faces, otherwise he might have proceeded with less assurance. After a short prayer he moved the smoky, coaloil lamp nearer and opened his Bible.

“My dear brothers,” he began in a low, earnest voice, “my text tonight is — .” But he got no further. There had been a subdued murmur at the back of the room. It changed to a low sort of growl. A big, dark, burly man stood up and called out savagely,

“X’ with your text! We don’t want none o’ yer brotherin’ neither. We give ye jist five minvites t’ hit the trail fer town, an’ we don’t want t’ see yer pie-face around here again.” The young minister was in a way prepared for this outburst. He was very calm as he replied,

“I do not wish to be offensive to anyone. But, you came here of your own accord. I stand before you as a friend to talk with you, and I intend to remain. If any of you wish to withdraw, I will give you time to do so before I begin.” He stopped with his arms folded across his chest and waited. The big voice at the back bellowed out,

“D’ye hear ‘im, boys? D’ye hear his holiness? He’ll give us time t’ leave. By gad! That’s a joke. Five minutes, sissy-boy. Ye heard our terms. Yer time’s agoin’, too.” The big clumsy hand held a watch. The murmur had ceased. The tick of the watch could be heard over the room. Ralph Woods still stood with his arms crossed on his broad chest facing that crowd of half drunken miners. He knew it was a critical moment but he did not flinch.

“One more minute,” warned the leader. “Hain’t ye goin’ t’ budge?”

“No, I am not going to budge,” the young man replied in a tone that would have moved a less brutal mob.

“Ye hain’t? Well, we’ll budge ye then! Come on, boys.” There was yell of savage satisfaction and the men rushed toward the minister.

In a quick movement at a side door Woods saw a young girl dart between him and his persecutors.

“For shame!” cried Harrie Lee. “Nick Tupple, don’t ye come another inch! Hain’t ye got a speck o’ decency left? Ye cowards, to pounce down on one defenseless feller like a pack o’ wolves!” The men had stopped in surprise, but soon an angry murmur filled the room again. The big leader turned to the girl.

“Come off, Harrie. What ye givin’ us? Ye know we don’t want no long-faced piosity around here. Let us go. We’ll promise not t’ hurt ‘im if ye say. Come on boys. We’ll jist show his holiness the trail back t’ Mohavy.” There was another movement forward, but the girl stood her ground.

“Don’t ye come one inch. There’s the door. Git out, every one o’ ye!” She stood there in the dim light like a commanding genius. The men hesitated, then, with muttered dissatisfaction, followed their leader from the room.

Woods had watched the strange performance scarcely realizing that he was the cause of it all. When the last man had disappeared he turned to look at the girl who had such power over these hardened men. She had disappeared as suddenly as she had come. He waited a few moments hoping she would return. Standing there alone in the deserted mess-house he felt a sudden depression of spirits. What if he should fail in his mission as he had failed tonight. He straightened up, a gleam of determination lighted his splendid features. No, he would not fail! He would win those men no matter what the cost. He would not let himself be outdone by a simple mountain girl. He felt a vague resentment toward her for saving him. Where had she gone anyhow? He must at least thank her for her timely interference and he had hoped to win her as an ally. Evidently she was not coming back, so at last he walked disconsolately from the room.

A week after the attempted meeting found Woods comfortably located in a couple of small rooms in Channing’s cabin. He had not tried another meeting yet, having decided to get acquainted with the boys individually first, and convince them of his object and ability to help them. So far, however, he had met only rebuffs and tantalizing sneers. He was feeling just a little discouraged as he sat on the porch of the superintendent’s house and going over for the hundredth time, all that had transpired since his arrival at the camp. He must think of some new plan to help his cause.

The girl, Harrie, had persistently eluded him. Perhaps this contributed more to the young man’s unpleasant frame of mind than he would care to own. He had caught glimpses of her on several occasions and had hastened to join her, but always she had escaped. He had learned that she and her brother still lived in the old trapper’s cabin over the ridge, a half mile from the camp, and that she assisted Mrs. O’Hara who had charge of the bunk-house. Woods finally decided that he would visit the girl in her home and find out why she shunned him. It seemed strange, since she had such an interest in the miners herself and knew that his purpose was also for their improvement. He could see now that Channing had been right. If he wished to succeed, he must win the favor of Harrie Lee.

“Hello. Your face is long enough for two ministers. What’s the matter?” laughed Channing coming up to the porch.

“Oh, nothing, I guess. Only it seems like I’m wasting a lot of time. I have not made a single friend among my parish yet. That ‘s enough to make a fellow’s face long, isn’t it? A whole week and not a thing in my favor.”

“Oh, come now. You’re expecting too much. The very fact that you have been here a whole week without being invited to a tar-and-feather party is sign enough that you are good for the job. Besides, I have some good news for you. Harrie is on your side. I overheard some of the boys talking, today. She has really persuaded them to give you a chance. And a chance is all you need.”

“Well, she hasn’t given me a chance herself yet,” protested Woods. “I’ve been trying all week to find a chance to thank her for saving my scalp last Thursday, but she shuns me like I might be a leper.” Channing laughed.

“You’ll get used to Harrie,” he consoled. Just then there was a whoop and a snatch of a song as a half dozen of the miners came racing down from the works toward the bunkhouse. The young minister looked at them wistfully. He felt like he was an outcast instead of them. Behind the main crowd came Harrie between Nick Tupple and Loco Bill.

“I say,” began Woods, then paused as if wondering how to go on. “It is — do you think it — proper — that is — do you think it – -safe for that girl to go around with the miners alone like she does?” Channing looked at his friend and read the concern back of the inquiry.

“Of course, it would not be thought proper in a conventional circle, but it’s safe. The boys are a tough bunch, take them as a whole, but there is not a man among them that would not defend little Harrie’s virtue with his life. You haven’t heard about the Dude, I guess?” Woods shook his head and Channing went on.

“He was a nephew or something of old Newman’s. Came ouv here for his health about four years ago. Harrie was about sixteen then, but as much the favorite of the boys as she is now. Well, young Newman, the Dude as the boys named him, got to blowing one night about the sport he was going to have with Harrie. Loco Bill I think it was, asked him if he intended to marry her and take her back east. The Dude haw-hawed at the very idea. He wanted to know what they took him for, if they thought he’d marry a squaw. That was enough. It was Nick Tupple himself who called the young Lothario. He brought his rough, dark face close to the pink and white of the Dude’s cheek. ‘If yer intentions wuz good, I wouldn’t hev nuthin’ t’ say agin yer goin’ t’ see Harrie, tho I’d pity ‘er taste if she let ye in. But yer intentions is rotten, that’s easy. So ye don’t go nary step toward the cabin.’ The Dude laughed. He was not used to having his motives questioned. He put on his coat and reached for his hat. ‘Whar ye goin?’ demanded Nick. ‘To spend the evening with Miss Lee,’ the Dude answered with a deep bow. ‘I guess not. Don’t ye take one step in the direction o’ the ridge.’ Well, the Dude took one step, but it cost him an arm. Nick’s bullet pierced his shoulder and his arm had to be removed as his system was in poor condition to fight a wound. That’s the nearest I ever knew of Harrie having unpleasant advances made to her. And she never knew of that. Later, when she was punishing Nick with her displeasure over what she thought was some drunken grudge, he took his dose with a meekness you would never suspect, and forbade the boys letting out so much as a hint of the real cause of the fracas.”

Channing left Woods to think over this new side to the characters of these rough miners, and the young minister was forced to admit there were some things in their code of morals above reproach; things that many polished men of his acquaintance might adopt with profit.

Three months had passed since Ralph Woods first made his way to the Good Luck mining camp. He was feeling less despondent now. Most of the men had let him through the wall of prejudice which had shut him out at first. There were Nick Tupple and a half dozen followers, however, who had not yet been reached, and they did all they could to make it unpleasant for the preacher. Woods and Harrie Lee were on excellent terms now, and worked together for the boys.

On Ralph’s first visit to the girl’s home he was surprised to find two sides of her largest room lined with books. There were the best works from the best authors on literature, history, philosophy and religion.

After his first exclamation of surprise and delight, he had turned to the girl half reproachfully.

“What a treasure you have hidden here! Why didn’t you tell me of your wealth? The one thing I hated to leave at home was my books and the libraries. However did you get such a collection in this out-of-the-way place?” For the moment he had forgotten the little part of the girl’s history he had heard and did not notice the dull flush that covered her face.

“They was my father’s,” she said simply and tried to draw her visitor away. But he was not to be cajoled from his find.

“How you must revel in them,” he went on, taking out first one volume, then another. The flush on the girl’s face grew deeper.

“I — I — can’t — read a word in — any of ’em,” she said with a slow effort. Then added as he looked at her in blank surprise, “Daddy died when I was four years old.” The man remembered now, and hated himself for the embarrassment he had caused her. He recovered from his astonishment quickly, and exclaimed earnestly, “What splendid times we will have while you are learning.” A pathetic wistfulness came into his companion’s face.

“Honest, could I learn? Hain’t I too old yet?” Woods laughed.

“You’ll be able to read in less than a month,” he promised her, and he was right.

Every day he spent a few hours with her, and in the evenings the boys would come up from the camp and listen while he read aloud. After that much was accomplished. He began special courses for the men. Channing and a couple of the shift-bosses assisted him and the night school flourished.

Still Nick Tupple remained on the outside and, as always with such a man, he had his following. There were probably two reasons for Nick’s attitude. In the first place he resented what he termed “the minister takin’ Harrie away frum the boys.” “She was as good as a minister herself, an’ all we needed,” he complained. “Now she’s started this fool readin’ business we don’t never git a sight o’ her.” The other reason was the falling off in the crowd that had always frequented Nick’s bar in the evenings. The night classes and reading circle at Harrie’s took in all but a few of Nick’s old standbys and he did not like the change.

One day, in early fall, Woods made his way to Harrie’s cabin intending to borrow a book and return to his rooms to look up a special subject for one of the night classes. It was a beautiful day, the beginning of the Indian Summer, and the
slope of the mountain seemed specially inviting. He had received the book and stood looking at the changing tints of the mountain. Harrie watched him.

“Sometime, when you are not busy,” she said presently, “I want to take you to a cave up yonder on the first ridge. It is full of dear memories to me. My father loved it. He used to spend hours with me there, reading and telling me stories. I go there often to dream them over. It seems to open another world to me.”

Woods followed the long statement with his critic’s ear, marveling at the advancement his pupil had made in so short a time. She seldom relapsed now, into the ungrammatical speech she had used when first he knew her. Every day she seemed more eager to learn.

“Why not go now?” he asked presently, forcing his mind from the comparison he had been making. She hesitated a moment, then said, “If you have time?”

“Sure. I was just wanting an excuse to go on a tramp. How the mountains call one this time of the year.”

Harrie went into the house for her hat. When she joined him, Woods noticed that she carried a book he had loaned her some time before. It was The Melting Pot, by Zangwill.

They climbed the steep trail saying little to each other. The man divined that there was something more than usual on the girl’s mind, and he knew she would tell him when she was ready. Perhaps it was some new plan about the boys. Most of the moves they had made had been first her inspiration. Just now they were figuring on a combined gymnasium and reading room to be built in connection with the new church.

“The cave is just around the next little bend,” the girl said finally, as if apologizing for taking him so far.

“Is it the one they call ‘Trapper’s Cave’?” he asked. He had learned that she did not like to talk of her parents, and he seldom alluded to them. She had never mentioned her mother, and Woods vaguely guessed why.

“Yes, it is the Trapper’s Cave. My father found it. It is called for him.”

They walked on again in silence. Soon it came in sight, a large opening into the red-brown side of the mountain. The formation was peculiar. The first layer of red sandstone gave way to a deeper one of white, so that the interior of the little room was almost as white as an enameled wall. Wild clematis made a drapery over part of the opening, and ferns grew at the side of the ledge. Indeed, it would be hard to find a more picturesque nook in the whole mountain.

“Why, this is a perfect little paradise!” Woods exclaimed appreciatively. “I don’t wonder that you love to come here.” They had gone inside, and Ralph led the way to a niche that had been hewn in one wall for a seat. He sat down but the girl remained standing.

He had never seen her so grave, and was about to ask for the cause, when she held out the book she had been carrying and demanded, “Is it true, Mr. Woods? Tell me, is there a Melting Pot where the black can be made white?” He looked up into her tragic young face and guessed what she was suffering. Somehow, he did not know what to say.

The girl burst out again, “You don’t understand. How could you? But surely you have heard, Mr. Woods, that my mother was — an — Indian woman.” He saw the shiver that passed over her frame. She went on passionately.

“She was a good woman. I know that I am not even worthy of her or I would not feel as I do. I love her, but oh, not as I should love a mother. You will hate me when I say it, but — I — I am — ashamed of my mother! You have known it all the time. You must have known it. I have never mentioned her before to you, but I knew you could not have been in the camp an hour without hearing the hateful words, ‘But she is a — half-breed.’ They have always been good to me, the boys, but they could never forget that. A half-breed! The hateful word has gnawed into my heart ever since I came to know what it meant. Sometimes I cannot believe it is so. I come here and recall every second of my life and I half convince myself that there is a deep mystery soinewhere. Then I know that such thoughts are but my imagination, and that all the dreams in the world cannot change it. I can never be anything but a — half-breed!” The man was touched and began to speak, but she gestured him to wait.

“When I read this book I began to look at it differently and to be ashamed of the way I had felt toward my race. Tell me, is it true? Can an Indian, a half-breed, become a real being, something of importance in the world? If that is so, I will work for my race. I will no longer be ashamed of Billie, all the time seeing new, disgusting Indian traits in him. I will work for him and my people to help make the dream of the Melting Pot come true.”

“Why, Miss Harrie, of course it is true,” the young minister began, keeping his voice steady with an effort. “What difference does race make? We are all God’s children. It is the individual, the soul that matters, and nothing else in the world should count.”

“Oh, but it does!” she protested vehemently. “If I had all the chance in the world that sentence would follow and condemn me, ‘But she is a half-breed.’ It is the sins of the fathers, and the children cannot get away from it, no matter how unjust it may seem. I’m sure the man who wrote this book was wrong, much as I’ve hoped and prayed he was right. There is no melting pot that can change the individual, that can make me anything but a despised half-breed.”

Slowly and earnestly the minister tried to show the girl the real meaning of the book; that it was not a question of individual gain, this refining in the great melting pot of the nations, but of the bringing forth from the mixture of races one finer than all. He saw that she understood. Her face had become very white and calm.

At last she spoke with a slow effort, “I see. I read into the book all my own tragedy. I am only one little drop in the great melting pot that does not really matter at all.”

He tried to protest, but she would not listen, “Don’t bother to try to make it seem different than it is. In your kind pity for me I can see you would like to make it easier. It does not matter, and I thank you for the book anyhow. I hope — it has made a better — half-breed of me, at least.” She gave a pitiful little laugh that made Woods long to comfort her.

“I shall try to stop minding,” she went on a little haltingly. “I shall try not to dream how it would seem to be like other people.” She turned and started from the cave.

“Please, Miss Harrie,” pleaded Woods, “don’t think of it like that. You are one of the finest women God ever made.

Do not hinder the noble work you are doing by brooding over an insignificant thing like race. Can’t you see that it is only the soul, the personality that matters?” She tried to give him a grateful smile, but he could see she was still fighting but her battle. They walked down to her cabin in silence.

When they reached the door, she turned to him with well feigned brightness and said, “I have invited Nick up to supper, Thursday. Won’t you come, too? Maybe if we double our attack we’ll win him.” She laughed, but Woods felt that the laugh was not genuine, and his heart ached for her.

Ralph came to Harrie’s cabin Thursday, as she had directed, but Nick did not appear. They spent most of the afternoon reading a new book on modern Christianity.

Woods reached into his pocket for pencil and paper to make a note when he exclaimed suddenly, “Why, bless my soul, if I didn’t forget to tell you the news. My Uncle and Aunt are coming out to spend Christmas with me,” and he drew a letter from his pocket. Harrie was all interest.

“We must begin right now to get ready,” she declared. “We will show them how indispensable you are to the camp, and maybe convert them to remain.” Ralph laughed as he tried to picture his Aunt Polly giving an afternoon tea in Good Luck.

Thanksgiving had passed, and the boys at Good Luck were looking forward to Christmas. The church had made an appropriation to help build the new gymnasium-reading-room. The president of the mine and Channing had made liberal contributions, and the boys, not to be outdone had gone into their wallets with very satisfactory results. Harrie had begged to donate her library and the minister intended to contribute a splendid organ. They hoped to have the building ready for the Christmas celebration that was being planned. Already the boys from two nearby camps had been invited, and many friends from Mohava had promised to come out. Mrs. Channing had returned from a summer’s visit with her people in the east and she with Harrie and the other women of the camp were enthusiastically working out their part of the program.

And through it all, Nick Tupple and his gang became more troublesome with each step of progress taken by the camp. Even Harrie had apparently lost all influence with them. Their chief grudge was still against the minister, though they “had it in,” as the boys said, for the whole camp. Harrie did all she could to show Nick that her friendship was just as true and warm as it had been in the old days, but he had become sullen and secretive and she could no longer understand him.

It had been an open autumn. Although Christmas was only two weeks distant, no snow had yet fallen. On the mountain, small patches of brown and golden foliage were still visible. The air was just sharp enough to send the blood hurrying through the veins, giving an added tang to life.

“Let’s climb to that ledge and see what that bed of crimson is,” said Woods, one afternoon as he encountered Harrie coming from Mrs. Channing’s.

“Why, that’s a patch of wild raspberries,” she told him. “I picked enough berries from there this spring to make five quarts of jam. But come on. I’ll go with you. The leaves are gorgeous.”

They scrambled up the steep trail like a couple of school children. Woods could not help noticing the rich color in the girl’s cheeks, and the free, graceful swing of her hody. He was conscious in a vague, unanalyzed way, that his friendship with this strange girl of the mountains was different to any he had ever known before. He found himself making minute comparisons between her and the delicate beauty of Madge Warwick, the girl he had most been thrown with in his aunt’s circle, at home. He could not even imagine Madge climbing any sort of a mountain, much less scrambling up a rocky precipice with the agility and grace of a young fawn. He was thinking now of the warm glow of happiness he always felt in Harrie’s presence. But it was not strange; she had helped him so much in Iiis work. He would, in all probability, have been driven from the camp that first night if it had not been for her. A sudden wave of gratitude swept over him as he recalled these facts, and all the subsequent support she had given him. They were almost to their prize. One cliff had been scaled, but another, still more perpendicular remained. Woods clambered up the steep rocks and reached down for the girl’s hand. When she was by his side, he still kept the small brown hand and pressed it warmly. She looked up in confused embarrassment, trying to draw her hand away.

“You have helped me so much, Miss Harrie,” he said hurriedly, to excuse this uncalled for demonstration. “I don’t believe I have ever thanked you for saving me that first night.”

“Please don’t then,” she said, withdrawing her hand, “for how could I ever thank you for what you have done for me?” He knew she meant his opening for her the door to education.

“Oh, but that was just a pleasure to me. You have worked so hard to help me succeed. Why have you done it? Was it all because you liked the boys?” He saw a deeper color spring to her cheeks, and he felt alarmed at the sudden impulse that had prompted the question. Still he waited impatiently for her answer.

The girl stood a moment with downcast eyes. He saw a quiver pass over her slender body. It recalled that day in Trapper’s Cave. He felt an overwhelming desire to take her in his arms. The girl looked up into his face for a second, then, instead of replying to his question, she darted away with the challenging call that she could beat him to their goal.

He did not accept the challenge, but followed slowly, alarmed at his own behavior. Why had he been so indiscreet? He felt that he had nearly destroyed a very precious thing, — his simple, sacred comradeship with this wonderful girl.

When he joined her she had her arms full of the red-brown leaves, and as if to convince him that he must not allude to a forbidden subject, she began a lively chatter about the various shrubs about them. They soon started down the hill.

“Wait,” said Woods presently. “Let’s go to the Trapper’s Cave while we are up so near it. It will soon be winter and we will have to give up these rambles.” But the girl shook her head. He felt instinctively that she had some delicate reason of her own for not wishing to visit the spot. Their conversation of that other day had never been referred to, and the man found himself often wondering if she still regarded her origin as such a tragedy.

A week later the minister was standing with Mr. and Mrs. Channing and some of the boys on Channing’s porch looking at the new church that was now all but completed. It was a splendid little structure providing, aside from the assembly room, a good gymnasium and a couple of comfortable reading rooms.

Across the gulch in front of the bunk-house Harrie was standing with Mrs. O’Hara and Nick. Presently someone drew attention to a covered carriage that had just come in sight on the road leading up from Mohava. Woods strained his eyes for a moment, then sprang down the steps exclaiming, “I do believe that’s Uncle Phil!”

A few moments later the carriage drew up in front of Channing’s cabin, and the distinguished looking man who was sitting by the driver got to the ground and seized both of the minister’s hands.

“You see, my boy, we came a little early, taking advantage of this splendid weather. How are you? You never looked so well in your life. Preaching must agree with you.” With a chuckle, he turned to the carriage and assisted a stout, rosy cheeked lady, who rushed to Woods and took him in her motherly arms.

“Aunt Polly, I can’t tell you how good it is to see you,” he said kissing affectionately the woman who had taken his mother’s place in his orphaned life.

“But you’ll be more glad to see someone else,” his Aunt replied roguishly. “You can’t guess the surprise we brought you.”

“No, really, I can’t, but don’t keep me in suspense.”

His uncle opened the carriage door again, and a slender girl, with great masses of yellow hair and a skin as fair as a lily, stepped to the ground.

“Why, Madge!” he exclaimed. “How good of you to come!” He took the two hands she extended and looked for a moment into the fair face.

The miners discreetly left the porch, and the guests were presented to Mr. and Mrs. Channing and taken into the house.

It was Christmas Eve. The week just passed had been a busy one for Ralph Woods, but not altogether a happy one. Besides his regular work, there were his friends to entertain, and preparations for the coming festival. These should only have been pleasant tasks, however. Finally, after studying himself for some clew to his own ill humor, the young man was forced to admit, it was because he had not seen Harrie Lee since the arrival of his guests. Since that day on the mountain, he had analyzed his feelings very carefully and come to some definite and important conclusions.

He hoped to see the girl in a few minutes now. The boys were going to decorate the new church for the services in the morning. She would be there, of course, as the plans for the decorations had all been hers. He was trying to decide just bow he would say the things he had to tell her.

“I must go over and help the boys awhile now,” he told his friends. “You will make yourselves at home, and if I’m a little late don’t wait up for me.” He expected to accompany Harrie to her home when they were through.

“Oh, Ralph, do let me go with you,” pleaded Madge.

“No, Madge, I really don’t think you would better go. I’m afraid the boys would not feel free if you were there. This is their work, you know, and I have no right to spoil it.” He knew very well this was not the real reason, and he hurried away leaving Madge Warwick with a pout on her pretty face.

When he reached the church he found the work already done, and the boys rehearsing some of their parts for the next day.

“Why, I thought we were to meet at seven!” he exclaimed, looking for Harrie.

“Harrie had something else she had to do, so we done it earlier,” they told him. “How do you like it?”

“It is fine,” he answered half-heartedly, and soon left them, in a very uncertain frame of mind. Harrie was evidently purposely avoiding him. Did she guess his own feelings, and was she trying to repulse them in this way to keep from openly wounding him? Well, whatever the cost, he must see her and speak what was in his heart. He started toward her cabin. Then, suddenly, he changed his mind and climbed instead, to the ledge where they had gone for the red leaves.

It was late when he came down to the camp and the moon was just beginning to peep over the mountain top. As he crossed the gulch he thought he saw something moving in the shadow of the church. After a moment, however, he decided that it was nothing but Mrs. O’Hara’s dog, and passed on.

He was soon in bed and was just dozing off when he heard a peculiar tap on his window. He got up and, slipping into his clothes, went out. No one was in sight. He was just turning into the house thinking he had been dreaming, when his eye caught something white on the window sill. He picked up the note and going into the house read:

“Don’t visit the mines with your friends as you have planned for tomorrow. It may mean death if you do. There is often mischief afoot. Keep your eye on Nick Tupple.” The note was not signed, but Woods felt sure it had been written by Harrie. He went ovit and walked almost to her home hoping to see her. At last he went back and to his bed again. He did not sleep for a long time. He had his plans fully made for the next day first.

When Good Luck Camp arose next morning thev found the new church a mass of burning embers. After the first wild excitement was over, they began to look for the incendiary. Nick Tupple was missing and suspicion settled upon him. The big celebration, so carefully planned, was changed to a day of gloom and disappointment.

“Well, let us go to the works and see what is there anyhow,” said Madge Warwick petulantly as the afternoon wore on.

“You seem to have lost heart in everything,” she continued complainingly to Ralph, and indeed it was true.

“We can’t visit the mines today,” he told her, and hoped she would not press him for a reason. But that was too much to expect of any woman, and especially of this young lady who felt she was losing out in some unexplainable way with the man she had such a particular interest in.

“Well, I have been warned that a visit there today may cost us our lives?”

“And who warned you, may I ask?” the girl insisted. “Was it that queer little half-breed who seems to have such an influence over you?”

Woods flushed angrily but managed to answer civilly, “I was warned through an unsigned note.” With this, he seized his hat and left the house. He walked rapidlv to Harrie’s cabin, onlv to find it deserted. Instinctively, he climbed the mountain to the Trapper’s Cave. When he pushed the drv clematis aside, he saw the girl sitting on the rough seat within, her frame shaking with convulsive sobs. With a quick stride he reached her and gathered her in his arms. She looked up in alarm and tried to free herself, but he held her close.

“Harrie, little Harrie,” he whispered tremulously in her ear. “I love you. Tell me you will be my wife.” She held him back so she could read his face.

“But — but — the girl with your aunt?” she faltered questioningly.

“She can remain with my aunt. She is Aunt Polly’s protege, not mine. We have never been more than good friends. Now we are scarcely that.” Still the girl hesitated. He felt her quiver in his arms and she asked falteringly, while the blood rushed to her face, “Would you — marry a — half-breed?”

“I will marry no one but you.”

There was a sound like thunder and they felt the ground beneath them tremble.

“Nick’s blast meant for you!” the white-faced girl whispered with trembling lips. There was another roar and just back of them a piece of the cave wall fell to the floor. To their surprise the hole left was a carefully chiseled box from which a pile of letters and papers were falling to the ground. Curiously they began to examine them.

From the top of the pile, Woods picked up a photograph.

“Why it is you!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“No, no, I never had one in my life,” Harrie cried staring wonderingly at the familiar face. The man picked up a small book and opening it read,

“Diary of Edward W. Lee.”

Harrie sank limply into the seat, still clutching the photograph in her nerveless fingers.

“Read!” she whispered hoarsely, and Woods went on:

“My wife Harriet Rochester Lee died a month ago of tuberculosis. I was distracted with grief. There was nothing else to live for but my baby girL and she showed symptoms of the same dreaded disease. I have buried myself here with her in the mountains to fight for her life. Yesterday I ran onto a poor Indian woman lost from her tribe and carrying a small infant. I have persuaded her to become my housekeeper.”

“That will do,” breathed the girl. “I will read the rest when I have tasted to the full this first great joy.” Happy tears were streaming over her face down upon the picture which she was pressing passionately to her lips, as she breathed over and over in little catching sobs, “Mother! My beautiful mother!”

Woods began to gather up the papers, his brow wrinkled in thought. At last it cleared, and he turned to the girl and said, “Harrie, your father must have been the friend my Uncle Phil spent so many years trying to find. To think, dear, that after all these years I should have come out here and found you.” Slowly they made their way down the mountain side.

The wedding took place on New Year’s day. Ralph’s uncle and aunt remained for the occasion and Madge Warwick, with surprising good grace, begged to be bride’s maid.

The day after the wedding a large number of workmen arrived from Mohava and began to work about the big saloon. The people of Good Luck watched curiously. The first thing they did was to cover the big, gaudy front with coat after coat of white paint. Then they wrote in clear gold letters, The workmen refused to answer any questions, but proceeded to transform the building into all that the new name implied.

One day, a short time after this, the mail brought Harrie a strange letter. It read:

“Deer hary, sometim im comin bak t see if u kin fergiv me the men’ll build the church agin an mak it finer if my doe lasts i knowed u wuz gon on the precher and i thot he woodnt hev u cuz u was part squaw

“when that sity gal kum i seen how it hurt u an i didnt kar whut i dnn thats why i burnt the church an put the blast in the min i wuz in the cav when the preacher kum an u found them papers i gess the blast dun som good an im glad it didnt kill nobudy im sory i was so ornery to the preacher now i no he wuz ok. i hop u’ll both fergiv me an alius be hapy

“Someday i’m comin’ back an’ be decent. Gudby. Nick.”