THE BRAND: A Tale of the Flathead Reservation

For two days the westbound train had hurried over the prairies as if it understood the heart of the girl and strove to gratify her impatience for a glimpse of the mountains. She sat at the car window and gazed fascinated at the scenes which were so new and strange that she forgot the coach with its tired people—forgot even her brother, who sat with his book, bored and indifferent to the flying panorama.

Her soul left the plush-covered seats and suit-cases to follow the wild creatures that moved in the gorges or climbed the wonderful mountain slopes. She did not hear the repeated “I’m going for a smoke, Bess.” Her soul was without, her eyes following a mysterious, half-hidden form.

“It’s a deer! Oh, Jim, it’s a deer!” she exclaimed excitedly, turning to her brother for corroboration. But the flashing brown eyes looked into the face of a stranger.

“Oh, I beg pardon,” she breathed, her cheek flushing. “My brother sat there only a moment ago, and I thought I was addressing him.”

The stranger smiled. “Then I infer that you are Miss Fletcher. I just now saw Mr. Fletcher going into the smoking room. Two years ago I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance when he was in the Flathead country.”

While he was speaking, she noted what a large man he was, how deliberately he spoke and in what an unusually musical voice. She saw the flush of health and strength in his face, contrasting so greatly to her brother’s pale, emaciated countenance. She wondered what color his eyes were, but as he looked at her with fleeting glances she could not tell. The thought flashed through her mind that he would be very handsome if only he would open his eyes frankly. In fact, so preoccupied was she reading the young man that she was scarcely aware of what he was saying to her. Just then she saw James coming.