The Brand: A Tale of the Flathead Reservation — A Closer Reading

ht a match in his vest pocket and excused himself, hoping to meet them both very often during the summer. Bess watched him as he slowly sauntered toward the end of the car with a look of inquiry.

“I think I would like him better if he would look directly at one. Who is he, James? A cattleman or cowboy, or what is it you called them—oh, yes, squaw man?”

“You’ll have to guess again, Bess. He is Dave Davis, the Indian agent of the Flathead Reservation. He is probably on his way to the sub-agency at Ronan.”

She gave a little sigh in answer, and asked how long it would be before the train reached Selish.

“I fear you are nearly worn out, James. You had better lie down and rest. It is now four o’clock, and at five you say we will reach the end of our train journey. It’s been rather long and tedious. How far away New York begins to feel, doesn’t it? Oh, I wonder if I shall really like it away out here in the West?”

James quietly settled down for a nap, and Bess went on with her mental soliloquy. The West! What had she not dreamed of the West! Its wonderful mountains, so great and bold, rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, verdant with the towering pines, and again, white and softened by the crown of winter. In fancy she had seen their rugged sides caressed by crystal streams, and had stooped to drink where deer had splashed. Then forth stretched the plain, far into the blue horizon. On she dreamed, till the porter warned her it was nearly time for them to leave the train. Hurriedly awakening her brother, he hastily gathered together their numerous grips and boxes. So busily engaged were her hands that she had to blow the persistent wisp of hair out of her eyes.

“For pity’s sake, Bess, can’t you pin that bunch of hair up?”

“It won’t stay up, James. I get so annoyed at the old forelock that sometimes I feel like pulling it out,” and all unconsciously she repeated the motion, at which they both laughed.

“Here we are, dearie, at last. I wonder if anyone will meet us. Come, let the porter help you off with a few of those bird cages.”

As they stepped from the train she felt to everything which came within her range of observation like a huge interrogation point. She glanced hurriedly about, hoping to see Henry West, and wondering if she would know him. Just then she saw Mr. Davis lifting his hat to her, both in recognition and farewell, as he walked to a man holding a beautiful saddle horse. The Indian agent glanced back at the tall, graceful girl, with her pretty traveling dress and hat of brown. She could not know that he noted with what an air she walked, head and shoulders erect, chin up aggressively, nor that he thought:

“Gad! but she is great! And what a treat after three years of Indians. I shall certainly see you often, Miss Fletcher.”

“Do you see him anywhere, James?” Bess was all animation.

“West? No, sister. We better hurry over here where there is the best little hotel you ever saw or heard tell of; so immaculately clean, and excellent food—plain, but cooked to the queen’s taste. That is, if it’s run by the same party who used to be here. My mouth still waters in recollection of some of the good trout and muffins which I have had at Mrs. Strong’s.”

Nestled closely to the hillside was the hotel, and as Bess was greeted by a sweet-faced girl and her mother she wondered if all Western hospitality were as cordial.

James had ordered their trunks brought over, and soon Bess came from her room fresh and clean and rested, dressed in a becoming tan-colored riding suit of corduroy.

It was early May. In the mountains the evenings were still cold, and a blazing fire crackled as they sat down to dinner. It seemed to Bess that she never was so hungry in all her life. Biscuits never tasted so good before. She saw, with gratification, that James ate as he had not in weeks.

“Did you ever feel, James, that you could eat everything in sight? That’s just the way I feel now, but I’ll try to leave enough for you, dear.”