



Produced by Peter Vachuska, Pat McCoy, Stephen Hope and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









    HOPE HATHAWAY


    [Illustration]




    _HOPE HATHAWAY_


    A Story of
    Western Ranch Life

    _BY
    FRANCES PARKER_


    [Illustration]


    BOSTON, MASS.
    C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. (Inc.)
    1904



    _COPYRIGHT, 1904_

    _by_

    _C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO. (Inc.)
    BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A._


    _Entered at Stationers Hall, London_


    _Rights of Translation, Public Reading and
    Dramatization Reserved_




HOPE HATHAWAY




CHAPTER I


Hathaway's home-ranch spread itself miles over an open valley on the
upper Missouri. As far as the eye reached not a fence could be seen, yet
four barbed-wires, stretched upon good cotton-wood posts, separated the
ranch from the open country about.

Jim Hathaway was an old-time cattle-man. He still continued each summer
to turn out upon the range great droves of Texas steers driven north by
his cowboys, though at this time it was more profitable to ship in
Western grown stock. He must have known that this was so, for every year
his profits became less, yet it was the nature of the man to keep in the
old ruts, to cling to old habits.

The old-time cowboy was fast disappearing, customs of the once wild West
were giving way before an advancing civilization. He had seen its slow,
steady approach year after year, dreading--abhorring it. Civilization
was coming surely. What though his lands extended beyond his good
eyesight, were not these interlopers squatting on every mile of creek in
the surrounding country? The open range would some time be a thing of
the past. That green ridge of mountains to the west,--_his_ mountains,
his and the Indians, where he had enjoyed unmolested reign for many
years,--were they not filling them as bees fill a hive, so filling them
with their offensive bands of sheep and small cow-ranches that his
cattle had all they could do to obtain a footing?

On one of his daily rides he had come home tired and out of humor. The
discovery of a new fence near his boundary line had opened up an
unpleasant train of thought, and not even the whisky, placed beside him
by a placid-faced Chinese servant, could bring him into his usual jovial
spirits. After glancing through a week-old newspaper and finding in it
no solace for his ugly mood, he threw himself down upon his office
lounge, spreading the paper carefully over him. The Chinaman, by rare
intuition, divined his state of mind and stole cautiously into the room
to remove the empty glasses, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed
upon the large man under the newspaper.

Hathaway generally took a nap in the forenoon after returning from his
ride, for he was an early riser, and late hours at night made this habit
imperative. This day his mood brought him into a condition where he felt
no desire to sleep, so he concluded, but he must have fallen into a
doze, for the sharp tones of a girl's voice directly outside his window
brought him to his feet with a start.

"If that's what you're driving at you may as well roll up your bedding
and move on!" It was spoken vehemently, with all the distinctness of a
clear-toned voice. A man replied, but in more guarded tone, so that
Hathaway went to the window to catch his words.

"You don't know what you're talking about," he was saying. "This is my
home as well as yours, and I'd have small chance to carry out my word if
I went away, so I intend to stay right here. Do you know, Hope, when you
get mad like that you're so devilish pretty that I almost hate you! Look
at those eyes! You'd kill me if you could, wouldn't you? But you'll love
me yet, and marry me, too, don't forget that