That Girl Montana | Chapter One

Tonight's reading begins with Chapter One of That Girl Montana by Marah Ellis Ryan.

Recorded by candlelight for ink & ember-- an immersive storytelling podcast featuring atmospheric readings, classic literature, mystery, romance, and nighttime narration.

So dim the lights, settle in, and let the story begin.

This work is part of the public domain via Project Gutenberg.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:20

That girl Montana by Mara Ellis Ryan Chapter one A Strange Girl Well, by the help of either her red gods or devils, she can swim anyway. This explosive statement was made one June morning on the banks of the Kootenai, and the speaker, after a steady gaze, relinquished his field glass to the man beside him. Can she make it? he asked. A grunt was the only reply given to him. The silent watcher was too much interested in the scene across the water. Shouts came to them, the yells of frightened Indian children, and from the cone shaped dwellings up from the water the Indian women were hurrying. One, reaching the shore first, sent up a shrill cry as she perceived that from the canoe where the children played, one had fallen over and was being swept away by that swift, rushing, chill water, far out from the reaching hands of the others. Then a figure lolling on the shore farther downstream than the canoe sprang erect at the frightened scream. One quick glance showed the helplessness of those above and another the struggling little form there in the water, the little one who turned such wild eyes toward the shore, and was the only one of them all who was not making some outcry. The white men who were watching from the opposite side could see shoes flung aside quickly, a jacket dropped on the shore, and then down into the water a slight figure darted with the swiftness of a kingfisher and swam out to the little fellow who had struggled to keep his head above water, but was fast growing helpless in the chill of the mountain river. Then it was that Mr Maxwell Lister commented on the physical help lent by the gods of the Red People, as the ability of any female to swim thus lustily in spite of that icy current seemed to his civilized understanding a thing superhuman. Of course, bears and other animals of the woods swam it in all seasons when it was open, but to see a woman dash into it like that. Well, it sent a shiver over him to think of it. They'll both get chilled and drop to the bottom, he remarked with irritated concern. Of course there are enough of the red vagabonds in this new El Dorado of yours without that particular squaw. But it would be a pity that so plucky a one should be translated. Then a yell of triumph came from the other shore. A canoe had been loosened and was fairly flying over the water to where the child had been dragged to the surface, and the rescuer was holding herself up by the slow efforts of one arm, but could make no progress with her burden. That's no squaw, commented the other man, who had been looking through the glass. Why, Dan? It's no squaw, I tell you, insisted the other, with the superior knowledge of a native. Thought so the minute I saw her drop the shoes and jacket that way. She didn't make a single Indian move. It's a white woman. Queer place for a white woman, isn't it? The man called Dan did not answer. The canoe had reached that figure in the water, and the squaw in it lifted the now senseless child and laid him in the bottom of the light craft. A slight altercation seemed going on between the woman in the water and the one in the boat. The former was protesting against being helped on board. The men could see that by their gestures. She finally gained her point, for the squaw seized the paddle and sent the boat shoreward with all the strength of her brown arms, while the one in the water held onto the canoe and was thus towed back, where half the Indian village had now swarmed to receive them. She's got sand and scents. And Don nodded his appreciation of the towing process. For chilled as she must be, the canoe would more than likely have turned over if she had tried to climb into it. Look at the powwow they are kicking up. That little red devil must count for big stakes with them. But the woman who swam after him. See? They try to stand her on her feet, but she can't walk. There, she's on the ground again. I'd give half my supper to know if she has killed herself with that ice bath. Maybe you can eat all your supper and find out too, observed the other, with a shrug of his shoulders and a quizzical glance at his companion. Unless even the glimpse of a petticoat has chased away your appetite. You had better take some advice from an old man, Max, and swear off approaching females in this country, for the specimens you'll find here aren't things to make your you proud they're human. An old man repeated mister Lister with a smile of derision. You must be pretty near twenty eight years old, aren't you, Dan? And just about five years older than myself. And what airs you to do assume in consequence? With all the weight of those years, he added slowly, I doubt, mister Dan Overton, if you have really lived as much as I have. One glance of the dark eyes was turned on the speaker for an instant, and then the old felt hat again shaded them as he continued watching the group on the far shore. The swimmer had been picked up by a stalwart Indian woman and was carried bodily up to one of the lodges, while another squaw, evidently the mother, carried the little redskin who had caused all the commotion. I suppose by living you mean the life of settlements or to condense the question still more, the life of cities, continued Overton, stretching himself lazily on the bank. You mean the life of a certain set in one certain city New York, for instance? And he grinned at the expression of impatience of the face of the other. Yes, I reckon New York is about the one and a certain part of the town to live in. A certain gang of partners who have a certain man to make their clothes and boots and hats and stamp his name on the inside of them so that other folks can see when you take off your coat or your hat or your gloves that they were made at just the right place. This makes you a man worth knowing. Isn't that about the idea? And in the afternoon, at just about the right hour, you rig yourself out in a certain cut of coat and stroll for an hour or so on a certain street. In the evening, if a man wants to understand just what it is to live, he must get into other clothes and drop into the theater, making a point of being introduced to any heavy swell within reach so you can speak of it afterward. You know? Just as your chums like to say they had a supper with a pretty actress after the curtain went down, but they don't go into details and own up that the actress maybe never did anything on a stage but walk on in armor and carry a banner. Oh scowl if you want to. Of course it sounds shoddy when a trapper outlines it, but it doesn't seem shoddy to the people who live like that. Then about the time that all good girls are asleep, it is just the hour for a supper to be ordered, at just the right place for the wine to be good, and the dishes served in A one shape with a convenient waiter who knows how to dim, how dim to make the lights, and how to effice himself and let you wait on your lady with your own hands. And she'll go home wearing a ring of yours, two if you have them, and you'll wake up at noon next day and think what a jolly time you had, but with your head so muddled that you can't remember where it was you were to meet her the next night, or whether it was the next night that her husband was to be home, and she couldn't see you at all. Overton rolled over on his face and grunted disdainfully, saying That's about the style of thing you call living, don't you, Sonny? Great Scott, Dan and the Sonny addressed stared at him perplexity. One never knows what to expect of you. Of course there is some truth in this sketch you make, but but I thought you had never ranged to the east. Did you? Well, I don't look as if I had ever ranged beyond the timber, do I? And he stretched out his long legs with their shabby coverings and stuck his finger through a hole in his hat. This outfit doesn't look as if the hands of a Broadway tailor had ever touched it. But my boy, the sketch you speak of would be just as true to life among a certain set in any large city of the states. Only in the West or even in the south, those ambitious sports would know enough to buy a horse on their own judgment, if they wanted to ride, or would bet on the races without hustling around to find some played out jockey who would give them tips. Well, to say the least, your opinion is not very flattering to us, remarked the young man moodily. You've got some grudge against the East, I guess. Grudge not any. And you're all right, Max. You will find thousands willing to keep your idea of life, so we don't split on that wedge. My old stepdad would chime in with you if you were here. He praits about civilization and eastern culture till I get weary sometimes. Culture wait till you see him. He's alright in his way, of course, but as I cut loose from home when only fifteen and never ran across the man, the old man again until two years ago. Well, you see, I can make my estimates in that direction without being biased by family feeling. And I reckon he does the same thing. I don't know what to expect when I go back this time. But from signs around camp when I left, I wouldn't be surprised if he presented me with a stepmother on my return. A stepmother Phew whistled the other. Well, that shows there are some white women in your region anyway. Oh yes, we have several. This particular one is a Pennsylvania product, talks through her nose and eats with her knife, and will maybe try to make eyes at you and keep you in practice. But she is a good square woman, simply one of the many specimens that drift out here. Came up from Helena with the boom and started a milliner store. A milliner store in the bush, mind you. But after the Indians had bought all of the bright feathers and artificial flowers, she changed her sign and keeps an eating house now. It is the high toned corner of the camp. She can cook some, and I reckon that's what catches the old man. Any more interesting specimens like that? Not like that, returned Overton. But there are some more. Then he arose and stood listening to the sounds back in the wild forests. I hear the caves bell, he remarked. So the others are coming. We'll go back up to the camp and after Chuck will go over and give you a nearer view of the tribe on the other shore. If you want to add them to the list of your sightseeing. Certainly I do. They'll be a relief after the squads of railroad section hands we've been having for company lately. They knocked all the romance out of the wildly beautiful country we've come we've been coming through since we left the Columbia River. Come back next year. Then a boat will be puffing up here to the landing, and you can cross to the Columbia in a few hours, for the road will be completed then. And you will you be here then? Well yes, I reckon so. I never anchor anywhere very long. But this country suits me, and the company seems seems to need me. The young fellow looked at him and laughed, and dropped his hand on the broad shoulder with a certain degree of affection. Seems to need you, he repeated. Well, mister Dan Overton, if the day ever comes when I'm necessary to the welfare of a section as large as a good sized state, I hope I'll know enough to appreciate my own importance. Hope you will, said Overton, with a kindly smile. No reason why you should not be of use. Every man with a fair share of health and strength ought to be of some use somewhere. Yes, that sounds all right, and is easy to grasp if you have been brought up with the idea. But suppose you had been trained by a couple of maiden aunts who only thought to give you the manners of a gentleman and leave you their money to get through the world with. I guess under such circumstances you too might have settled into the feathery nest prepared for you and thought you were doing your duty to the world if you were only ornamental. And the dubious smile on his really handsome face robbed the speech of any vanity. You are right, I tell you, returned the other. Don't growl at yourself so much. You'll find your work and buckle down on it some of these days. Maybe you'll find it out here. Who knows? Of course mister Selden would see to it that you got any post you would want in his district. Yes, he's a jolly old fellow and has shown me a lot of favors. Seems to be seems to me relatives mean more to folks out here than they do east. Because so few have their families or relatives along, I guess. If it had not been for Selden, I rather think I would not have had the chance of this trip with you. Likely not. I don't generally want a tenderfoot along when I've work to do. No offense, Max, but they're too often a hindrance. Now that you have come, though, I'll confess I'm glad of it. The lonely trips over here over this wild region tend to make a man silent a bear among people when he does reach a camp. But we've talked most of the time, and I reckon I feel the better of it. I know I'll miss you when I go over this route again. You'll be on your way east by that time. The Cayus bell sounded nearer and nearer, and directly from the dense forest a pack horse came stepping with care over the fallen logs, where the sign of a trail was yet dim to any eyes but those of a woodsman. A bell at its neck tinkled as it walked, and after it four others followed, all with heavy loads bound to their backs. It looked strange to see the patient animals thus walk without guide or driver through the dense timber of the mountains, but a little later voices were heard, and two horsemen came out of the shadows of the wood and followed the horses upward along the bank of the river to where a little stream of fresh water tumbled down to the Kutinai. There a little camp was located, an insignificant gathering of tents, but one that meant a promising event to the country, for it was to be the connecting point of the boats that would one day float from the states onto the river, and the railroad that would be earlong lead westward over the trail from which the pack horses were bringing supplies. The sun was settling, the sun was setting, and all the ripples of the river shone red in its reflected light. Forests of pine loomed up black and shadowy above the shores, and there, higher up, up where the snow was, all tips of the river range were tinged a warm pink, and where the shadows lay the lavender and faint purples drifted into each other, and bit by bit crowded crowded the pink line higher and higher until it dared touch only the topmost peaks with its lingering kiss. Lister halted to look over the wild beauty of the wilderness, and from the harmony of river and hills and sky his eyes turned to Overton. You were right, Dan, he said, with an appreciative smile, a smile that opened his lips and showed how perfect the mouth was under the brown mustache. You were right enough to keep close to all these beauties. You seem in some way to belong to them. Not that you were so much a thing of beauty yourself, and the smile widened a little, but you have in you all the strength of the hills and the patience of the wilderness. You know what I mean? Yes, I guess so, answered Overton. You want someone to spout verses or make love to and And there is no subject handy. I can make allowances for you though. Those tendencies are apt to stick to a man for about a year after a trip to Southern California. I don't know whether it's the girls down there or the wine that is accountable for it, but whatever it is, you have been back from there only three months. You've three quarters of a year to run yet, maybe more. For I've a notion that you have a leaning in that direction even in your most sensible moments. Hmm. You must have made a trip to that wine country yourself sometime, observed Lester. Your theories suggest practice. Were there girls in wine there then? Plenty, returned Overton briefly. Come on, there's the cook shouting supper. And after supper we're to go over to the Kutenai camp. Say, what is the meaning of that name anyway? You know all their jargons up here. Do you know that too? Nobody does, I reckon. There are lots of theories flying around. The generally accepted one is that they were called the Court Nes by the French trappers long ago, and that cootinai is the result after generations of Indian pronunciation. They named the Nes Perse to the pierced noses, you know. But that name has kept its meaning better. You'll find the trail of the French all through the Indian tribes up here. Think that was a French woman in the river back there? You said she was white. Yes, I did. But it's generally the Frenchmen you find among the reds and not the women. Though I do know some square white women across the line who have married educated Indians. But they are generally a lazy shiftless set? The tone was half inquiring, and Overton grimaced and smiled. They are not behind the rest when it comes to a fight, he answered. And as to lazy, well, there are several colors of people who are that under some circumstances. I have an Indian friend across in the States who made eight thousand dollars in a cattle deal last year and didn't sell out either. Now, when you and I can do as well on capital, we've earned ourselves, then maybe we'll have a right to criticize some of the rest for indolence. But you can't do much to improve Indians or anyone else by pinning them up in so many square miles and bribing them to be good. The Indian cattlemen I speak of kept clear of the reservation and after drifting around for a while settled down to the most natural civilized calling possible to an Indian stock raising. Diggin' the ground? No, they won't do much of that just at first. But I've eaten some pretty good garden truck they've raised. Lister whistled and arched his handsome brows significantly. So your sympathies run in that direction, do they? Is there a Kutinai Pocahontas somewhere in the wilderness accountable for your ideas? That is about the only ground I could excuse you on, for I think they are beastly except in pictures. They had reached a gathering of men who were seated at a table in the open air, some longboard laid on trestles. Overton and his friend were called to the seats at the head of the table, where the boss of the construction gang sat. The rough pleasantries of the men and the way they made room for him showed that the big bronzed ranger was a favorite visitor along the works. They looked with some curiosity at his more finely garbed companion, but he returned their regard with a good deal of careless audacity and won their liking by his independence. But in the midst of the social studies he was making of them, he heard Overton say, And you have not heard of a white girl in this vicinity? Never a girl. Are you looking for one? Old Okomi, the Indian, has gone into camp across the river, and he might have a red one to spare. Perhaps, agreed Overton. He's an old acquaintance of mine, a year old, but I'm not looking for red girls just now. And I'm going to tell the old man to keep the families clear of your gang too. Then to Lister, he remarked, Whether these people know it or not, there is a white girl in the Indian camp, a young girl too. And before we sleep, we'll see who she is.