Helen's face wreathed itself in smiles.

"I know," she declared. "You felt your fate was somehow linked with it all."

Kate was gently rocking herself, listening to the light-hearted inconsequent talk of these two. Now she checked the movement of the rocker and leaned forward.

Her eyes were smiling, but her manner was half serious.

"It's not at all strange to me that that old pine inspired you with--superst.i.tious feelings," she said. "It has the same effect on most folks--right back to the old Indian days. You know, there's a legend attached to it. I don't know where it comes from. Maybe it's really Indian. Maybe it belongs to the time when King Fisher used to live in the old Meeting House, before it was a--saloon. I don't know."

Helen suddenly raised herself to a seat upon the table. Her eyes lit, and Big Brother Bill, watching her, reveled in the picture she made.

Now he knew her, his first feelings at sight of her on the trail had received ample confirmation. She surely was one of the most delightful creatures he had ever met.

"Oh, Kate, a legend," cried the girl, as she settled herself on the table. "However did you know about it? You--you never told me."

Kate shook her head indulgently.

"I don't tell you everything," she said with mock severity. "You're too imaginative, too young--too altogether irresponsible. Besides, you might have nightmare. Anyway most folk know it in the village."

"Oh, Kate!"

"Say, tell us, Miss Seton," cried Bill, his big eyes alight with interest. "If there's one thing I'm crazy on it is legends. I just love 'em to death."

"I don't think I ought to tell it in front of Helen," Kate said mischievously. "She's----"

Helen sprang from her seat and stood threateningly before her sister.

"Kate Seton," she cried, "I demand your story." Then she went on melodramatically, "You've said too much or too little. You've got to tell it right here and now, or--or I'll never speak to you again--never," she finished up feebly.

Kate smiled.

"What a dreadful threat!" Then she turned to Bill. "Mr. Bryant, I s'pose I'll have to tell her. You don't know what an awful tempered woman it is. I really believe it would actually carry out its threat for--five minutes."

Bill's good-natured guffaw came readily.

"I'll back Miss Helen up," he declared promptly. "If you don't tell us we'll both refrain from speech for--five minutes."

Kate sighed.

"Oh, dear. Then I'll have to tell. It's bullying. That's what it is.

But--here goes."

Helen beamed upon Bill, and the man's blue eyes beamed back again.

While he settled himself in his chair Helen returned to her less dignified seat upon the table.

"Let's see," began Kate thoughtfully. "Now, just where does it begin?

Oh, I know. There's a longish rhyme about it, but I can't remember that. The story of it goes like this.

"Somewhere away back, a young chief broke away from his tribe with a number of braves. The young chief had fallen in love with the squaw of the chief of the tribe, and she with him. Well, they decided to elope together, and the young chief's followers decided to go with them, taking their squaws with them, too. It was decided at their council that they would break away from the old chief and form themselves into a sort of nomadic tribe, and wander over the plains, fighting their way through, until they conquered enough territory on which to settle, and found a new great race.

"Well, I guess the young chief was a great warrior, and so were his braves, and, for awhile, wherever they went they were victorious, devastating the country by ma.s.sacre too terrible to think of. But the chief of the tribe, from which these warriors had broken away, was also a great and savage warrior, and when he discovered that his wife was faithless and had eloped with another, stealing all his best war paint and fancy bead work, he rose up and used dreadful language, and gathered his braves together. They set out in pursuit of the absconders, determined to kill both the wife and her paramour.

"To follow the young chief's trail was an easy matter, for it was a trail of blood and fire, and, after long days of desperate riding, the pursuers came within striking distance. Then came the first pitched battle. Both sides lost heavily, but the fight was indecisive. The result of it, however, showed the pursuers that they had no light task before them. The chief harangued his braves, and prepared to follow up the attack next day. The fugitives, though their losses had been only proportionate with those of their pursuers, were not in such good case. Their original numbers were less than half of their opponents.

"However, they were great fighters, and took no heed, but got ready at once for more battle. The young chief, however, had a streak of caution in him. Maybe he saw what the braves all missed. If in a fight he lost as many men as his opponents, and the opponents persisted, why, by the process of elimination, he would be quietly but surely wiped out.

"Now, it so happened, he had long since made up his mind to make his permanent home in the valley of Leaping Creek. He knew it by repute, and where it lay, and he felt that once in the dense bush of the valley he would have a great advantage over the attacks of all pursuers.

"Therefore, all that night, leaving his dead and wounded upon the plains, he and his men rode hard for the valley. At daybreak he saw the great pine that stood up on the horizon, and he knew that he was within sight of his goal, and, in consequence, he and his men felt good.

"But daybreak showed him something else, not so pleasant. He had by no means stolen a march upon his pursuers. They, too, had traveled all night, and the second battle began at sunrise.

"Again was the fight indecisive, and the young chief was buoyant, and full of hope. He told himself that that night should see him and his squaw and his braves safely housed in the sheltering bush of the valley. But when he came to count up his survivors he was not so pleased. He had lost nearly three-quarters of his original numbers, and still there seemed to be hordes of the pursuers.

"However, with the remnant of his followers, he set out for the final ride to the valley that night. Hard on his heels came the pursuers. Then came the tragedy. Daylight showed them the elusive pine still far away on the horizon, and his men and horses were exhausted. He was too great a warrior not to realize what this meant. There were his pursuers making ready for the attack, seemingly hundreds of them.

Disaster was hard upon him.

"So, before the battle began, he took his paramour, and, before all eyes, he slew her so that his enemy should not wholly triumph, and incidentally torture her. Then he rose up, and, in a loud voice, cursed the pine and the valley of the pine. He called down his G.o.ds and spirits to witness that never, so long as the pine stood, should there be peace in the valley. Forever it should be the emblem of crime and disaster beneath its shadow. There should be no happiness, no prosperity, no peace. So, too, with its final fall should go the lives of many of those who lived beneath its shadow, and only with their blood should the valley be purified and its people washed clean.

"By the time his curse was finished his enemies had performed a great enveloping movement. When the circle was duly completed, then, like vultures swooping down upon their prey, the attacking Indians fell upon their victims and completed the ma.s.sacre.

"There!" Kate exclaimed. "That's about as I remember it. And a pretty parlor story it is, isn't it?"

"I like that feller," declared Bill, with wholesome appreciation. "He was good grit. A bit of a mean cuss--but good grit."

But Helen promptly crushed him.

"I don't think he was at all nice," she cried scornfully. "He deserved all he got, and--and the woman, too. And anyway, I don't think his curse amounts to small peas. A man like that--not even his heathen G.o.ds would take any notice of."

Kate rose from her chair laughing.

"Tell the boys of this village that. Ask them what they think of the pine."

"I've heard Dirty O'Brien say he loves it," protested Helen obstinately. "Doesn't know how he could get on without it."

"There, Mr. Bryant, didn't I tell you she kept bad company? Dirty O'Brien! What a name." Kate looked at the clock. "Good gracious, it's nearly eight o'clock, and I have--to go out."

Bill was on his feet in a moment.

"And all the time I'm supposed to be investigating the village and making the acquaintance of this very Dirty O'Brien," he said. "You see, Charlie had to go out, as I told you. He didn't say when he'd get back. So----." He held out his hand to the elder sister.

"Did Charlie say--where he was going?" she inquired quickly, as she shook hands.

Bill laughed, and shook his head.

"No," he replied. "And somehow he didn't invite me to ask--either."

Helen had slid herself off the table.