The Girl at the Halfway House A Story of the Plains   By: Emerson Hough (1857-1923)

THE GIRL AT THE HALFWAY HOUSE

A Story of the Plains

by

EMERSON HOUGH

Author of The Covered Wagon , 54 40 or Fight , North of 36 , etc.

Grosset & Dunlap Publishers New York

1900

TO EDWARD KEMEYS,

SOLDIER, HUNTER, AND SCULPTOR,

WHO KNEW AND LOVED THE WEST,

AND WHO HAS PRESERVED ITS SPIRIT IMPERISHABLY,

THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED WITH MANY GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

THE DAY OF WAR

CHAPTER

I. THE BRAZEN TONGUES II. THE PLAYERS OF THE GAME III. THE VICTORY

BOOK II

THE DAY OF THE BUFFALO

IV. BATTERSLEIGH OF THE RILE IRISH V. THE TURNING OF THE ROAD VI. EDWARD FRANKLIN, LAWYER VII. THE NEW WORLD VIII. THE BEGINNING IX. THE NEW MOVERS X. THE CHASE XI. THE BATTLE XII. WHAT THE HAND HAD TO DO XIII. PIE AND ETHICS XIV. THE FIRST BALL AT ELLISVILLE XV. ANOTHER DAY XVI. ANOTHER HOUR

BOOK III

THE DAY OF THE CATTLE

XVII. ELLISVILLE THE RED XVIII. STILL A REBEL XIX. THAT WHICH HE WOULD XX. THE HALFWAY HOUSE XXI. THE ADVICE OF AUNT LUCY XXII. EN VOYAGE XXIII. MARY ELLEN XXIV. THE WAY OF A MAID XXV. BILL WATSON XXVI. IKE ANDERSON XXVII. THE BODY OF THE CRIME XXVIII. THE TRIAL XXIX. THE VERDICT

BOOK IV

THE DAY OF THE PLOUGH

XXX. THE END OF THE TRAIL XXXI. THE SUCCESS OF BATTERSLEIGH XXXII. THE CALLING XXXIII. THE GREAT COLD XXXIV. THE ARTFULNESS OF SAM XXXV. THE HILL OF DREAMS XXXVI. AT THE GATEWAY

BOOK I

THE DAY OF WAR

CHAPTER I

THE BRAZEN TONGUES

The band major was a poet. His name is lost to history, but it deserves a place among the titles of the great. Only in the soul of a poet, a great man, could there have been conceived that thought by which the music of triumph should pass the little pinnacle of human exultation, and reach the higher plane of human sympathy.

Forty black horses, keeping step; forty trumpeters, keeping unison; this procession, headed by a mere musician, who none the less was a poet, a great man, crossed the field of Louisburg as it lay dotted with the heaps of slain, and dotted also with the groups of those who sought their slain; crossed that field of woe, meeting only hatred and despair, yet leaving behind only tears and grief. Tears and grief, it is true, yet grief that knew of sympathy, and tears that recked of other tears.

For a long time the lines of invasion had tightened about the old city of Louisburg, and Louisburg grew weaker in the coil. When the clank of the Southern cavalry advancing to the front rang in the streets, many were the men swept away with the troops asked to go forward to silence the eternally throbbing guns. Only the very old and the very young were left to care for the homes of Louisburg, and the number of these grew steadily less as the need increased for more material at the front. Then came the Southern infantry, lean, soft stepping men from Georgia and the Carolinas, their long black hair low on their necks, their shoes but tattered bits of leather bound upon their feet, their blankets made of cotton, but their rifles shining and their drill perfection. The wheat lay green upon the fields and the odours of the blossoms of the peach trees hung heavy on the air; but there was none who thought of fruitage or of harvest. Out there in front, where the guns were pulsing, there went on that grimmer harvest with which the souls of all were intimately concerned. The boys who threw up their hats to greet the infantry were fewer than they had been before the blossoming of the peach. The war had grown less particular of its food. A boy could speed a bullet, or could stop one. There were yet the boys.