It is all a secret until Christmas eve or Christmas morning."

"Yes, I know,--Metalka told me; but I forgot."

"Of course your sister must have known all about Christmas after she came back from school. Why didn't _she_ make you a Christmas present, then, Lula?"

"Metalka?" A cloud came over the little bright face. "Metalka didn't stay long after she came back. She didn't stay till Christmas; she went 'way--to--to heaven."

"Oh!"

"If Metalka had stayed, I might have gone to school this year."

"I thought you _had_ been to school, Lula."

"Oh, no! only to little school out here summers,--little school some ladies made; and Metalka tole me--taught me--showed me ev'ry day after she came back--ev'ry day, till--til she--went 'way. I can read and write and talk, talk, talk, all day in English,"--smiling roguishly, then more seriously and anxiously. "Is it pretty fair English,--white English,--Major Molly?"

"'White English'!" laughed back Major Molly. "You are such fun, Lula.

Yes, it's pretty fair--white English."

Lula dimpled with pleasure, then sighed as she said, "If I could go 'way off East to Metalka's school, two, three, four, five year, as Metalka did, then I could talk splen'id English, and I could make heap--no, all sort things, and help keep house nice, and cook like Metalka."

"But why don't you go, Lula?"

"Why don't I? Listen!" and Wallula bent forward eagerly. "I don't go because my father won't have me go. Metalka went. When she first came back, she was so happy, so strong. She was going to have everything white way, civ--I can't say it, Maje Molly."

"Do you mean civilized?"

"Yes, yes; civ'lized--white way. And she worked, she talked, she tried, and n.o.body'd pay much 'tention but my father. The girls, some o' them, wanted to be like her; but the fathers and mothers would n' help, and some, good many, were set hard 'gainst it; and then there was no money to buy white people's clothes, they said. It took all the money was earned to pay big 'counts up at agency store, where Indians bought things,--things to eat, you know; so what's the use, they said, to try to live white ways when everything was 'gainst them, and they stopped trying; and Metalka was so dis'pointed, for she was going do so much,--going help civ-civ'lize. She was so dis'pointed, she by-'n'-by got sick--homesick, and just after the first snow came, she--she went 'way to heaven. And that's why my father won't have me go to the school.

He say it killed Metalka. He say if she'd stayed home, she'd been happy Indian and lived long time. He say Indian got hurt; spoiled going off into white man's country."

"How came he to let your sister go, Lula?"

"Metalka wanted to go so bad. She'd heard so much 'bout the 'way-off schools from some white ladies up at the fort one summer, and my father heard too. A white off'cer tole him if Indian wanted to know how to have plenty to eat, plenty ev'rything like white peoples, they must learn to do bus'ness white ways, be edg'cated. So he let Metalka go; _he_ could n' go, he too old; but Metalka could go and learn to read all the books and the papers and keep 'counts for him, so 't he'd know how to deal with white men. When Metalka first took 'count for him, after she came back, my father so pleased. He'd worked hard all winter hauling wood, and killing elk and deer for the skins; and my mother 'n' I had made bewt'ful moccasins and gloves out o' the skins, all worked with beads; and so he'd earned good deal money, and he 'd kept 'count of it all,--_his_ way, and 't was honest way; and kept 'count, too, what he'd had out of agency store; and Metalka understood and reckoned it all up, and said he 'd have good lot money left after he'd paid what he owed at the store. But, Maje Molly, he didn't! he didn't! They tole him he owed _all_ his money, and when he said they'd made mistake, and showed 'em Metalka's 'counts, they laughed at him, and showed him big book of _their_ 'counts, and tole him Metalka didn't know 'bout prices o'

things. Then he came home and said: 'What's the use going to white people's schools to learn white people's ways, when white people can come out to Indian country and tell lies 'bout prices o' things?' And that's the way 't is ev'ry time, my father say; the way 't was before Metalka went to school. The bad white trader comes out to Indian country to cheat Indians. _He_ knows white prices, but he don't tell Indian white prices; he tell Indian two, three time more price. That's what my father say. And Metalka, when she see it all, she so disjointed, she never get over it, and my father say it killed her, like arrow shot at her."

"But your father doesn't think all white people bad; he doesn't dislike all their ways?"

"No; it's only white traders he thinks bad, and the white big chiefs who break promises 'bout lands. He like white ways that Metalka brought back, and he built nice log house to live in instead of tepee, 'cause Metalka wanted it; and he like all you here, Maje Molly, 'cause you good to me. But, Maje Molly"--and here the little bright face clouded over--"my mother say _all_ white peoples forget, and break promises to Indians."

"No, no, they don't, Lula; they don't, you'll see. _I_ sha'n't forget; _I_ sha'n't break _my_ promise, you'll see,--you'll see, Lula. On Christmas eve I shall send you a Christmas present, sure,--now remember!" answered Molly, vehemently.

CHAPTER II.

It was the day before Christmas,--a beautiful, mild day, very unlike the usual winter weather in the far West. At the Ellistons' windows hung wreaths of pine, and all about on tables and chairs tempting-looking packages were lying. Some of these were from their military friends, and most of them were directed to "Major Molly," the name that had been given to Molly when she was a little tot of a thing, and the pet of the fort where she lived. On this Christmas day, as she watched her mother fold up the pretty bright tartan dress that was to be her Christmas present to Wallula, she said gleefully,--

"Don't forget, mamma, to write on the box, 'Wallula's Christmas present from Major Molly.'"

It had been Molly's intention to have Wallula to tea on Christmas eve, and then and there to bestow upon her the pretty gift. But invitations to dine at the fort had frustrated this plan, and so it was arranged that Barney McGuire, one of the ranchmen, should come up and carry the box over to the reservation late that afternoon; and as the short winter day progressed, and Molly found that she must have a little more time to finish off the table-cover she wanted to take up to the Colonel's wife, she said to her mother,--

"Instead of going on with you and papa at five o'clock, let Barney escort me to the fort after he leaves Wallula's present; that will give me plenty of time to finish the cover, and plenty of time to get to the dinner in season."

"Very well," answered Mrs. Elliston; "but you must promise me to start with Barney as soon as he comes back for you, whether the cover is finished or not. You mustn't be late."

At five o'clock, when Captain Elliston and his wife rode off, Molly was working away at her cover with the greatest industry. Now and then, as she worked on, she glanced up at the clock. If everything went smoothly,--if the silk didn't knot or the lace didn't pucker,--she would be through long before Barney came back for her. But presently she thought, where _was_ Barney. He ought to be there for the box by this time. She worked on a little longer, her ear alert for the sound of Barney's horse. At last she went to an upper window and looked out. She could see, even in the gathering dusk, a great distance from that window, away across toward the sheep-corrals and cattle-pens; but n.o.body was in sight. What did it mean? Barney was punctuality itself.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes more she worked with flying fingers, and still there was no sight or sound of Barney; but her work was finished, and now--now, what then?

There was only Hannah and John, the two house-servants, at hand. Hannah couldn't go, and John had strict orders never to leave the premises in Captain Elliston's absence. She looked at the clock; every second seemed an age. If Barney didn't come, if _no one was sent in his place_, her promise to Wallula would be broken, and Molly remembered Wallula's words, "My mother say all white peoples forget, and break promises to Indians;" and her own vehement reply, "_I_ sha'n't forget; I sha'n't break _my_ promise, you'll see, you'll see, Lula!" Break her promise after that! Never, never! Her father himself would say she must not,--would say that _somebody_ must go in Barney's place, and there was n.o.body,--n.o.body to go but--herself!

"Yer goin' alone, yer mean, over to the Injuns!" demanded John, as Molly told him to bring her pony, Tam o' Shanter, to the door.

"Yes, yes, and right away, John; so hurry as fast as you can."

"Do yer think yer'd orter, Major Molly? Do yer think the Cap'n would like it?" asked John, disapprovingly.

"John, if you don't bring Tam 'round this minute, I'll go for him myself."

"'T ain't safe fur yer to go over there alone!" cried Hannah.

"Safe! I know the way, every inch of it, with my eyes shut, and so does Tam; and I know the Indians, and Wallula is my friend; and I told her she should have her present Christmas eve, sure, and I'm going to keep my promise. Now bring Tam 'round just as quick as you can."

John obeyed, though with evident reluctance, and Hannah showed her disapproval by scolding and protesting; but they had both of them lived on the frontier for years, and their disapproval therefore was not what it might have been under different circ.u.mstances. Molly, they knew, could ride as well as a little Indian, and was familiar with every inch of the way, as she had said, and Wallula was her friend.

"And 't wouldn't 'a' done the least bit o' good to hev set myself any more against her. If I had, just as like as not the Cap'n would 'a'

sided with her and been mad at me, for he thinks the Major's ekal to 'most anything," John confided to Hannah, as he brought the pony round.

The pony shied a little as Wallula's Christmas present was strapped to his back. But at Molly's whispered, "Tam! Tam! be a good boy. We're going to see Wallula,--to carry her something nice, just as quick as we can go," the little fellow whinnied softly, as if in response; and the next moment, at Molly's "Now, Tam," he started forward at his best pace,--a pace that Molly knew so well, and knew she could trust,--firm and even and a.s.sured, and gaining, gaining, gaining at every step.

"Good boy, good boy!" she said to him as he sped along. But as he began to hasten his pace, it occurred to her that it was only about half an hour's easy riding to the reservation, and that after leaving there she could easily reach the fort in another half-hour,--so easily that there was no need of hurrying Tam as she was doing; and she pulled him up with a "Take it easy, Tam dear." As she spoke, Tam flung up his head, p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, and made a sudden plunge forward. What was it? What was the matter? What had he heard? He had heard what Molly herself heard in the next instant,--the beat of a horse's hoofs. But the minute it struck upon Molly's ear she said to herself, "It's Barney; for that's old Ranger's step, I know." Ranger was an old troop horse of her father's that Barney often rode. But in vain she tried to rein Tam in. In vain she said to him, "Wait, wait! It's Ranger and Barney, Tam!"

The pony snorted, as if in scorn, and held on his way. What _was_ the matter with him? He was usually such a wise little fellow, and always knew his friends and his enemies. _And he knew them now_! He was wiser than she was, and he scented on the wind something that spurred him on.

But, hark! What was that whirring, singing sound? Was that a new signal that Barney was trying? Was it--Whirr, s-st! Down like a shot dropped Tam's head, and like an arrow he leaped forward, swerving sideways to escape the danger he had scented,--the danger of a lariat flung by a practised hand.

Oh, Tam, Tam! fly now with all your speed, your mistress understands at last. She is a frontier-bred girl. She knows now that it is no friendly person following her, but some one who means mischief; and that mischief she has no doubt is the proposed capture of Tam, who is well known for miles and miles about the country as a wonderful little racer. Yes, Molly understands at last. She has _seen in the starlight_ the lariat as it missed Tam's head, and she knows perfectly well that only Tam's speed and sure-footedness can save them. Her heart beats like a trip-hammer; but she keeps a firm hold upon the rein, with a watchful eye for any sudden inequalities of the road, while her ears are strained to catch every sound. Tam's leap forward had given him a moment's advantage, and he keeps it up bravely, his dainty feet almost spurning the ground as he goes on, gaining, gaining, gaining at every step. In a few minutes more they will be out of the reach of any lariat, then in another minute safe at Wallula's door.

In a few minutes! As this thought flashes through Molly's mind, wh-irr, s-st! cuts the still air again. Tam drops his head, and plunges forward.

Though the starlight is brighter than ever, Molly does not _see_ the lariat, but there is something, something,--what is it?--that prompts her to fling herself forward face downwards upon Tam's mane; and the lariat that was about to drop over her head once more falls harmless to the ground, and Tam once more seems to know what danger has been escaped, and starts forward again with an exultant bound. They are almost there! Molly sees the smoke from the tepees of the reservation, and a light from a log cabin, and draws a breath of relief. But not yet, O brave little frontier girl, O gallant little steed, is the race won and the danger pa.s.sed! Not yet, oh, not yet! for just ahead there is a treacherous pitfall which neither Tam nor his mistress sees,--a hollow that some little animal has burrowed out, and into this Tam plunges a forefoot, stumbles, and falls!

CHAPTER III.