"Wanted:—Information about—John Sanbornwhosefatherislonesome,Mrs. Lizzie Higgins"mother"worried,Lester Goodwin"cousin"a widow,andJames Hunt"sister"very poor."
"If I find any of these people I'll convey all your messages to the best of my ability," promised the minister.
"Thank you. Then I'll go out now to the nasturtiums," sighed the girl, contentedly.
All too soon the visit came to a close, and all too soon Carlos appeared with the carriage. Then came hurried good-byes, full of laughter, tears, and promises, with all the Jones family except the mother, grouped upon the steps—and the mother's chair was close to the window.
"Oh, Happy Hexagons, Happy Hexagons,Come again another day.Oh, don't forget me, Happy Hexagons,When you are so far away!"
chanted Quentina, waving one handkerchief, and wiping her eyes with another.
"Girls, quick!—give her the Texas yell," cried Genevieve in a low voice; "only say 'Quentina' at the end instead of my name. Now, remember—'Quentina'!" she finished excitedly.
"Good!" exulted Tilly. "Of course we will! Now count, Cordelia."
A moment later, Quentina's amazed, delighted ears heard:
"Texas, Texas, Tex—Tex—Texas!Texas, Texas, Rah! Rah! Rah!Quentina!"
Then, amidst a chorus of shouts and laughter, the carriage drove away.
"Well, young ladies," demanded Mr. Hartley, when the tired but happy Hexagon Club trooped up the front steps of the ranch house late that afternoon, "how about it? What did you think of the fair Quentina?"
"Think of her! O Quentina, you should 'seen her!" sang Tilly, in so perfect an imitation of the minister's daughter that the girls broke into peals of laughter.
"She's lovely, Father—honestly, she is," declared Genevieve, as soon as she could speak.
"And so pretty!" added Cordelia, "and has such a sweet, slow way of speaking!"
"Such lovely dark eyes!"—this from Alma.
"And such glorious hair—all golden and kinky!" breathed Bertha.
"And she looks just as pretty in her high-necked apron as she does in her white dress," cried Elsie.
"Well, well, upon my soul! What is this young lady—a paragon?" laughed Mr. Hartley, raising his eyebrows.
"I'll tell you just what she is, sir," vouchsafed Tilly, confidentially. "Sheisa rhyming dictionary, Mr. Hartley, just as I said in the first place; and I'd be willing to guarantee any time that she'd finda rhyme for any word in this or any other language within two seconds after the gun is fired. If you don't believe it, you should hear her 'unearth 'em' on the 'nasturtium.'"
"Tilly, Tilly!" choked Genevieve, convulsively.
"Oh, but shesaidshe couldn't find one for petunia," broke in the exact Cordelia.
"You don't mean she actually writes—poetry!" ejaculated Mrs. Kennedy.
"Writes it!—my dear lady!" (Tilly had assumed her most superior air.) "If that were all! But she talks it, day in and day out. Everything is a poem, from a letter to a scraggly nasturtium. She carries an unfailing supply of her own verses in her head, and of other people's in her pocket. If you ask for the butter at the table, you're never sure she won't strike an attitude, and chant:
"'Butter, Butter, Oh, good-by!Better butter ne'er did—er—fly.'"
"I think I should like to see this young person," observed Mrs. Kennedy, when the laughter at Tilly's sally had subsided.
"Maybe you will sometime. She wants to go East," rejoined Tilly.
"She does? What for?"
"Principally to see Paul Revere's grave, I believe; incidentally to go to school."
"Oh, I wish she could come East to school!" exclaimed Genevieve.
"So do I—if she'd come to Sunbridge," laughed Tilly. "She takes things even more literally than Cordelia does. Sometime I'm going to tell her the moonismade of green cheese, and ask her if she doesn't want a piece. Ten to one if she won't answer that she doesn't care for cheese, thank you. Oh, I wouldn't ask to go toanothershow for a whole year if she should come to Sunbridge!"
"Tilly! I don't think you ought to talk like that," remonstrated Cordelia. "One would think that Quentina was a—a vaudeville show."
Tilly considered this gravely.
"Why, Cordelia, do you know?—I believe that isjustwhat she is. Thank you so much for thinking of it."
"Tilly!" gasped Cordelia, horrified.
Genevieve frowned.
"Honestly, Tilly, I don't think you are quite fair," she demurred. "Quentina isn't one bit of a show. She's sweet and dear and lovely, with just some funny ways to make her specially interesting."
"All right; we'll let it go at that, then," retorted Tilly, merrily. "She's just specially interesting."
"She must be," smiled Mrs. Kennedy. "In fact, I should very much like to see her, and—I don'tbelieve Tilly means her comments to be quite so unkind as perhaps they sound," she finished with a gentle emphasis that was not lost on her young audience.
One by one the long, happy July days slipped away. There was no lack of amusement, no time that hung heavy—there was so much to be seen, so much to be done!
Very soon after the trip to Quentina's home, Mr. Tim produced from somewhere five stout little ponies, warranted to be broken to "skirts"—which Genevieve had said would be absolutely necessary, as the girls would never consent to ride astride.
It was a nervous morning, however, for five of the Happy Hexagons when the horses were led up to the door. Cordelia was frankly white-faced and trembling. Even Tilly looked a little doubtful, as she said, trying to speak with her usual lightness:
"Oh, weknow, of course, Genevieve, that these little beasts won't teeter up and down like Reddy's broncho; and we hope they'll bear in mind that Westerners ought to be politely gentle with Easterners, who aren't brought up to ride jumping jacks. But still, we can't help wondering."
"Genevieve, I—I really think I won't ride atall to-day," stammered Cordelia, faintly; "that is, if you don't mind."
"But I do mind," rejoined Genevieve, looking much distressed. "Of course, girls, I wouldn't urge you against your will, for the world; but we can't have half the fun here unless you ride, for we go everywhere, 'most, in the saddle. And, honestly, Mr. Tim says these horses are regular cows. Father told him he must get steady ones. Won't you please—try it? It will break my heart, if you don't. You see I've said so much to the boys, since I came, about your riding! They were so surprised to think you could ride, and I was so proud to say you did!"
"You—you were?" stammered Cordelia.
"Yes."
"Well, young ladies," called Mr. Tim, at that moment, "here's the steadiest little string of horses going! Who'll have the first pick?"
"I will," cried Cordelia, wetting her dry lips, and speaking with a stern determination that yet did not quite hide the shake in her voice. "That is—I don't care about my pick, but I'm going to ride—right away—quick!" she finished, determined that at least Genevieve should not be ashamed—of her.
After all, it was only the first five minutes that were hard. The little horses were politeness itself, and seemed fully to realize the responsibilities oftheir position. The girls, determined not to shame Genevieve, acquitted themselves with a grace and ease that brought forth an appreciative cheer from the boys as the young people rode away.
"Now I feel as if I were in Texas," exulted Tilly, drawing in a full breath of the fresh, early morning air.
"I'm so glad—so glad we're all in Texas," cried Genevieve, looking about her with shining eyes.
According to Tilly, there was always "something doing" at the ranch house. The boys—much to their own surprise, it must be confessed—had adopted "the whole bunch" (as Long John called the young people), and were never too busy or too tired to display their skill as ropers or riders. Always there was the fascinating morning start to work to watch, and frequently there was in the afternoon some wild little broncho that needed to be broken to the saddle, or to be trained to stop, wheel instantly, stand motionless, or to start at top speed, according to his master's wishes; all of which was a never-ending source of delight to unaccustomed Eastern eyes.
For pleasant days there were, too, rides, drives to Bolo, picnic luncheons, and frolics of every sort. For rainy days there were games and music in the living room, to say nothing of letters from home to be read and answered. Most of the twilights—iffair—were spent by everybody on the front gallery watching the golden ball in the west set the whole prairie, as well as the sky itself, on fire. In the early afternoon, of course, there was the inevitable siesta—Tilly's abhorred "naps."
There were callers at the ranch house, too. Sometimes a cowboy from a neighboring ranch came to look after a lost pony, or to see if his cattle had strayed off the range through a broken fence. Sometimes a hunter or trapper would stop for a chat on his way to or from Bolo. Once Susie Billings in her khaki suit and cowboy hat came to spend the day; and once, on Sunday, Mr. Jones came to hold service again. Much to the girls' disappointment, Quentina did not come with him. The mother's foot was better, Mr. Jones said, but the twins had come down with the whooping cough, and poor Quentina could not be spared to leave home.
Sometimes a score of men and teams and cowboys with their strings of horses would pass on their way to a round-up; and once two huge prairie schooners "docked in the yard," as Tilly termed it; and their weary owners, at Mr. Hartley's invitation, stopped for a night's rest.
That was, indeed, a time of great excitement for the Happy Hexagons, for under Genevieve's fearless leadership they promptly made friends with the sallow-faced women and the forlorn children, andsoon were shown the mysteries of the inside of the wagon-homes.
"Mercy! it looks just like play housekeeping; doesn't it?" gurgled Tilly.
"But it isn't play at all, my dear," replied one of the women, a little sadly. "Seems now like as if I ever had a home again what stayed put, that I'd be happy, no matter where 'twas. Ain't that the way you feel, Mis' Higgins?"
"Yes," nodded the other woman, dully, from her perch on the driver's seat. "But I reckon my man ain't never goin' ter quit wheelin', now."
Even Genevieve seemed scarcely to know what to reply to this; but a few minutes later she had succeeded in gaining the confidence of the several children hanging about their mothers' skirts. Laughingly, then, the young people trooped away together to look at the flowers—all but Cordelia Wilson. Cordelia remained behind with the two women.
"Please—I beg your pardon—but did you say your name was 'Mrs. Higgins'?" she asked eagerly, turning to the woman on the driver's seat.
"Why, no—I didn't, Miss. But that's my name."
"Yes, I know; 'twas the other lady who called you that, of course; but it doesn't matter, so long as I know 'tis that."
"Oh, don't it?" murmured the woman, a little curiously.
"No; and—you came from New Hampshire, once, didn't you?"
An odd look crossed the woman's face.
"Well, I ain't sayin' that."
"But you did—please say that you did," begged Cordelia. "You see, I'm so anxious to find you!"
A look that was almost terror came to the woman's eyes now.
"I don't know nothin' what you're talkin' about, and I don't want to know, neither," she finished coldly, turning squarely around in her seat.
Cordelia hesitated; then she stammered:
"If—if you think it's because your mother will scold you, I can assure you that she will not. She is very anxious to hear from you—that's all. She's been so worried! She wants to know if you're doing well, and all that."
"Whatareyou talking about?" demanded the woman, turning sharply back to Cordelia.
"Your—mother."
"My mother is—dead, Miss."
"Oh-h!" gasped Cordelia. "You mean youaren'tMrs. Lizzie Higgins—she that was Lizzie Snow of Sunbridge, New Hampshire, who eloped with Mr. Higgins and ran away to Texas years ago?"
The woman laughed. Her face cleared. Whateverit was that she had feared—she evidently feared it no longer.
"No, Miss. My name isn't 'Lizzie,' and it wa'n't 'Snow,' and I never heard of Sunbridge, New Hampshire."
"O dear!" quavered Cordelia. "Mrs. Snow will be so sorry—that is, of course she'll be glad, too; for you aren't—" With a little gasp of dismay Cordelia pulled herself up before the words were uttered, but not before their meaning was quite clear to the woman.
"Oh, yes, she'll be glad, too, no doubt," she cut in bitterly; "because I'm not exactly what a woman would want for a lost daughter, now, am I?"
Cordelia blushed painfully.
"Oh, please, please don't talk like that! I am sure Mrs. Snow would be glad to find any one for a daughter—she wants her so! And she's her—mother, you know."
The woman's face softened.
"All right," she smiled, a little bitterly. "If I find her I'll send her to you."
"Oh, will you? Thank you so much," cried Cordelia. "And there are some others, too, that I'm hunting for. Maybe you can find them—traveling around so much as you do. If you've got a little piece of paper and a pencil, I'll just write them down, please."
Thus it happened that when the prairie schooners"sailed away" (again to quote Tilly), one of them carried a bit of paper on which had been written full instructions how to proceed should the wife of its owner ever run across John Sanborn, Lizzie Higgins, Lester Goodwin, or James Hunt.
It was soon after this that the Happy Hexagons and Mr. Tim, returning on horseback from a long day on the range, met with a delay that would prevent their reaching the ranch house until some time after dark.
"Oh, goody! I don't care a bit," chuckled Genevieve, when she realized the facts of the case. "There is a perfectly glorious moon, and now you can see the prairie by moonlight. And you never really have seen the prairie until you do see it by moonlight, you know!"
"But we have seen it by moonlight—right from your steps," cried Tilly.
"Oh, but not the same as it will be out here—away from the ranch house," cried Genevieve. "You just wait! You'll see."
And they did wait. And they did see.
It did seem, indeed, that they never before had really seen the prairie; they all agreed to that, as they gazed in awed delight at the vast, silvery wonder all about them, some time later.
"Why, it looks more than ever like the ocean," cried Bertha.
"That grass over there actually ripples like water in the moonlight," declared Elsie.
"I didn't suppose anything could be so beautiful," breathed Cordelia. "But, Genevieve, won't Mrs. Kennedy be dreadfully worried, at our being so late?"
Genevieve gave a sigh.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Still, she has Father to comfort her, and he'll remind her that Mr. Tim is with us, and that delays are always happening on a day's run like ours."
"I wish she could see this beautiful sight herself," cried Alma. "She wouldn't blame us, then, for going wild over it and not minding if we are a little hungry."
Tilly, for once, was silent.
"Well?" questioned Genevieve, after a time, riding up to her side.
"I don't know any one—only Quentina—who could do justice to it," breathed Tilly. And, to Genevieve's amazement, the moonlight showed a tear on Tilly's cheek.
There was a long minute of silence. The moon was very bright, yet the many swift-flying clouds brought moments of soft darkness, and cast weird shadows across the far-reaching prairie.
"I think I smell a storm coming—sometime," sniffed Mr. Tim, his face to the wind.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to have it come while we were out here," gurgled Tilly.
"Hardly!" rejoined Mr. Tim with emphasis. "I reckon you needn't worry about that storm for some hours yet. I'll have you all safely corralled long before it breaks—never fear."
"I wasn't fearing. I was hoping," retorted Tilly in a voice that brought a chuckle to the man's lips.
A moment later Mr. Tim stopped his horse and pointed to the right.
"Do you see that black shadow over there?" he asked Bertha Brown, who was nearest him.
"Yes. From a cloud, isn't it?" Bertha, too, stopped to look.
"I think not. It's a bunch of cattle, I reckon. I think I make out the guards riding round them."
"What is it, Mr. Tim?" Genevieve and the other girls had caught up with them now.
"Cattle—over there. See?" explained Mr. Tim, briefly.
At that moment the moon came out unusually clear.
"I can see two men on horseback, passing each other," cried Bertha.
Mr. Tim nodded.
"Yes—the guard. They ride around the bunch in opposite ways, you know."
"Let's go nearer! I want to see," proposed Tilly, trying to quiet the restless movements of her pony.
"'FOLLOW ME—QUICK!' HE ORDERED""'FOLLOW ME—QUICK!' HE ORDERED"
The man shook his head.
"I reckon not, Miss Tilly. A stampede ain't what I'm looking for to amuse you all to-night."
"What's a stampede?" asked Tilly.
"Mr. Tim, look—quick!" Genevieve's voice was urgent, a little frightened. But the man had not needed that. With a sharp word behind his teeth, he spurred his horse.
"Follow me—quick!" he ordered. And with a frightened cry they obeyed.
Genevieve obeyed, too—but she looked back over her shoulder.
The moon was very bright now. The black shadow to the right had become a wedge-shaped, compact, seething mass, sweeping rapidly toward them. There was a rushing swish in the air, and the sound of hoarse shouts. A few moments later the maddened beasts swept across their path, well to the rear.
"I'll answer your question, now, Miss Tilly," said Mr. Tim, as they reined in their horses and looked backward at the shadowy mass. "That was a stampede."
"But what will they do with them?" chattered Cordelia, with white lips. "How can they ever stop them?"
"Oh, they'll head them off—get them to running in a circle, probably, till they can quiet them and make them lie down again."
"And will they be all right—then?" shivered Elsie.
"Hm-m; yes," nodded Mr. Tim, "—till the next thing sets them going. Then they'll be again on their feet, every last one of them—heads and tails erect. Oh, they're a pretty sight then—they are!"
"They must be," remarked Tilly. "Still—well, I sha'n't ask you again what a stampede is—not to-night."
Mr. Tim laughed.
"Well, Miss Tilly, 'tain't likely I could show you one if you did. I don't always keep 'em so handy! And now I reckon we'd better hit the trail for the Six Star, and be right lively about it, too," he added, "or we'll be having Mis' Kennedy out here herself on a broncho after ye!"
Half an hour later a white-faced, teary-eyed little woman at the Six Star Ranch was trying to get her joyful arms around six girls at once.
It was the next morning, and just before Mr. Tim's predicted storm broke, that the girls found the injured man almost hidden in the tall grass near the ranch house. They had gone out for a short ride, but had kept near shelter owing to the threatening sky. Tilly saw the man first.
"Genevieve, there's a man down there," she cried softly. "He's hurt, I think."
Genevieve was off her horse at once. The manwas found to be breathing, but apparently unconscious. He lay twisted in a little huddled heap, with one of his legs bent under him. He groaned faintly when Genevieve spoke to him.
Genevieve was a little white when she straightened up.
"I think we'll have to get a wagon, or something, and two of the boys," she said. "I'll ride back to the house if some of you girls will stay here."
"We'll all stay," promised Cordelia; "only be quick," she added, slipping from her pony's back, and giving the reins to Bertha. "Maybe if I could hold his poor head he'd be more comfortable."
Cautiously she sat down on the ground and lifted the man's head to her lap. He groaned again faintly, and opened his eyes. They were large and dark. For a moment there was only pain in their depths; then, gradually, there came a look of profound amazement.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
"Sh! Don't talk. You are on the prairie. You must have got hurt, some way."
He tried to move, and groaned again.
"Please be still," begged Cordelia. "You'll make things worse. We've sent for help, and they'll be here right away."
The man closed his eyes now. He did not speak again.
It seemed a long time, but it was really a very short one, before Genevieve came with Carlos and Pedro and one of the ranch wagons. The man groaned again, and grew frightfully white when they lifted him carefully into the wagon. Then he fainted. He was still unconscious when they reached the ranch house.
August came. The first few days of the month were particularly busy ones as some of the boys were off to a round-up on the fifth, and Mr. Hartley was going with them for a week. To the girls the big four-horse wagon for the food and bedding—the "wheeled house" that was to be home for the boys—was always an object of great interest. Then there was the excitement of the start on the day itself, which this time was made particularly momentous by the going of Mr. Hartley.
The ranch house seemed very lonely without its genial, generous-hearted owner, and everybody was glad that he had promised to come back in a week. Meanwhile, of course, there was "the man."
The man was he who had been found by the girls in the prairie grass. He was still almost as much of a mystery as ever. Mr. Hartley had insisted upon his staying—and, indeed (though no bones were broken), he was quite too badly injured to be moved for a time. He was able now to sit in the big comfortable chairs on the back gallery; and he spent hours there every day, sometimes reading,more often sitting motionless, with his dark eyes closed, and his hands resting on his crutches by his side.
He had not seemed to care to talk of himself. He had merely said that his horse had thrown him, and that he had lain in the grass for some time before he was found. He was quiet, had good manners, and used good language. He said that his name was John Edwards. He seemed deeply grateful for all kindness shown him, but was plainly anxious to be well enough to be on his way again. Mr. Hartley, however, had won his promise to remain till he himself returned from the round-up.
All the young people did their best to make the injured man's time pass as pleasantly as possible; and very often one or another of them might be found reading to him, or playing a game of checkers or chess with him.
It was on such an occasion that Cordelia Wilson, at the conclusion of a game of checkers, found the courage to say something that had long been on her mind.
"Mr. Edwards, do—do you know Texas very well?"
The man smiled a little.
"Well, Miss Cordelia, Texas is rather large, you know."
Cordelia sighed almost impatiently.
"Dear me! I—I wish every one wouldn't alwayssay that," she lamented. "It's so discouraging!"
"Dis—couraging?"
"Yes—when you're trying to find some one."
"Oh! And are you trying to find some one?"
"Yes, sir; four some ones."
"Well, I should think that might be difficult—in Texas, unless you know where they are," smiled the man.
"I don't; and that's what's the matter," sighed Cordelia. "That's why I was going to ask you, to see if you didn't know, perhaps."
"Askme?"
"Yes. That is, if you had been around any—in Texas. You see I ask everybody, almost. I have to," she apologized a little wistfully. "And even then it looks as if I should have to go back to Sunbridge without finding one of them. And I'd so hate to do that!"
The man started visibly.
"Go back—where?"
"To Sunbridge."
"Sunbridge—?"
"Sunbridge, New Hampshire; home, you know."
An odd expression crossed the man's face.
"No—I didn't know," he said, after a moment.
"Why, didn't any of us ever tell you we were from the East?" cried Cordelia.
"Oh, yes, lots of times. But you never happened to mention the town before, I think."
"Why, how funny!" murmured Cordelia.
The man did not speak. He seemed to have fallen into a reverie. Cordelia stirred restlessly in her seat.
"Did you say you would help me?" she asked at last, timidly.
"Help you?" The man seemed to have forgotten what she had been speaking of.
"Help me to find them, you know—those people I'm looking for."
"Why, of course," laughed the man, easily. "Who are—" He stopped abruptly. For the second time an odd expression crossed his face. "Are they—Sunbridge people?" he asked, stooping to pick up a dried leaf from the gallery floor.
"Yes, Mr. Edwards. There are four of them—three men and one woman. They are John Sanborn, Lester Goodwin, James Hunt, and Mrs. Lizzie Higgins. Maybe you know some of them. Do you?"
"Well, Miss Cordelia,"—the man stopped a minute, as he reached for a leaf still farther away—"is that quite to be expected?" he asked then, lightly.
"No, I suppose not," she sighed; "for, of course, Texasisbig. But if you would please just put theirnames down on paper same as the others have, that would help a great deal."
"Why, certainly," agreed the man, reaching into his pocket and bringing out a little notebook not unlike the minister's. "Now suppose you—you give me those names again, Miss Cordelia."
"John Sanborn, Lester Goodwin, James Hunt, and Mrs. Lizzie Higgins. And I am Cordelia Wilson, you know. Just 'Sunbridge, New Hampshire,' would reach me—if you found any of them."
"I'll remember—if I find any of them," murmured the man, as he wrote the last name.
"And thank you so much!" beamed Cordelia.
There was a moment's silence. The man was playing with his pencil.
"Did you say you wereaskedto find these people?" he inquired at last, examining the lead of his pencil intently.
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Indeed! And may I inquire who asked you?"
"Why, of course! The people who belong to them—who are so anxious for them to come back, you know."
"Oh, then they want them?" The man was still examining the point of his pencil.
"Indeed they do, Mr. Edwards," cried Cordelia, glad to find her new audience so interested. "Mrs. Lizzie Higgins eloped years ago, and her mother,Mrs. Snow, is terribly worried. She's never heard a word from her. Mrs. Granger is a widow, and very poor. Her husband died last year. She hasn't any one left but her cousin, Lester Goodwin, now, and she so wishes she could find him. Lester's had some money left him, but if he isn't found this year, it'll go to some one else."
"Oh!" The man gave a short little laugh that sounded not quite pleasant, as he lifted his head suddenly. "I begin to see. Mrs. Granger thinks if she had Lester, and Lester had the money, why she'd get the money, too, eh?"
"Oh, no, sir—not exactly," objected Cordelia. "You see, if heisn'tfound the money goes toher, so she thinks she ought to make a special effort to find him. She says she wouldn't sleep a wink if she took all that moneywithouttrying to find him; so she asked me. Of course the lawyers are hunting, anyway."
"Oh-h!" said the man again; but this time he did not laugh. "Hm-m; well—are there any fortunes left the other two?" he asked, after a moment's silence. He had gone back to his pencil point.
"Oh, no, sir," laughed Cordelia, a little ruefully. "I'm afraid they won't think so.They'rewanted tohelpfolks."
"To help folks!"
"Yes, sir. You see John Sanborn's father isvery poor, and he lives all alone in a little bit of a house in the woods. He's called 'Hermit Joe.'"
"Yes—go on," bade the man, as Cordelia stopped for breath. The man's voice was husky—perhaps because he had stooped to pick up another dried leaf.
"There isn't much more about him, only he's terribly lonesome and wants his boy, he says. You see, the boy ran away years and years ago. I don't think that was very nice of him. Do you?"
There was no answer. The man sat now with his hand over his eyes. Cordelia wondered if perhaps she had tired him.
"And that's all," she said hurriedly; "only Sally Hunt's brother, James. If he isn't found she'll have to go to the Poor Farm, I'm afraid."
"What?"
Cordelia started nervously. The man had turned upon her so sharply that his crutches fell to the floor with a crash.
"Oh, sir, I beg your pardon," she apologized, springing to her feet. "I'm so afraid you were asleep, and I startled you. I—I will go now. And—and thank you ever so much for writing down those names!"
The man shook his head decidedly.
"Don't go," he begged. "You have not tired me, and I like to hear you talk. Now sit down,please, and tell me all about these people—this James Hunt's sister, and all the rest."
"Oh, do you really want to know about them?" cried Cordelia, joyfully. "Then I will tell you; for maybe it would help you find them, you know."
"Yes, maybe it would," agreed the man, in a curiously vibrant voice, as Cordelia seated herself again at his side. "Now talk."
And Cordelia talked. She talked not only then, but several times after that, and she talked always of Sunbridge. Mr. Edwards seemed so interested in everything and everybody there, though specially, of course, in the relatives of the four lost people she was trying to find—which was natural, certainly, thought Cordelia, inasmuch as he, too, was going to search for them in the weeks to come.
Mr. Edwards improved in health very rapidly these days. He discarded his crutches, and seemed feverishly anxious to test his strength on every occasion. Upon Mr. Hartley's return from the round-up, the injured man insisted that he was quite well enough to go away; and, in spite of the kind ranchman's protests, he did go the next day after Mr. Hartley's return. Carlos drove him to Bolo, and the Happy Hexagons stood on the ranch-house steps and gave him their Texas yell as a send-off, substituting a lusty "MR. EDWARDS" for Genevieve's name at the end.
"That is the most convenient yell," chuckledTilly, as the ranch wagon with Carlos and Mr. Edwards drove away. "It'll do for anything and anybody. And didn't Mr. Edwards like it!"
"Of course he did! He couldn't help it," cried Genevieve.
"I think Mr. Edwards is a very nice man," observed Cordelia, with emphasis, "and I wish he could have stayed for the party."
"Why, of course he's a nice man," chimed in the other girls, eyeing her earnest face a little curiously.
"Who said he wasn't?" laughed Tilly. "My! but it is hot, isn't it?" she added, dropping into one of the big wicker chairs near her.
"Oh, of course we have to have some warm weather," bridled Genevieve, "else you'd be homesick for New Hampshire!"
"The mean annual temperature of the country near—" began Tilly, mischievously; but Genevieve put her hands to her ears and fled.
The fourteenth of August was to be a gala occasion at the Six Star Ranch, for there was to be a supper and dance to entertain the friends from the East.
"But where'll you get your guests?" demanded Tilly, when she first heard of the plan. "Whom can you have, 'way off here like this?—all will please take notice that I said 'whom'!"
Genevieve laughed and tossed her head a little.
"Well, we'll have the boys here on the ranch, of course, and Susie Billings, and some of the other Bolo girls. We can't have Quentina, of course—Poor thing! Isn't it a shame about that whooping cough?—and Ned's got it, too, now, you know!—but I think the Boyntons will come. Their ranch is only thirty-five miles away, and they could stay all night, of course."
"Only thirty-five miles away," repeated Tilly, airily. "Of course nobody'd mind a little thing like that, for a party!"
"No, they wouldn't—in Texas," retorted Genevieve. "There's the Wetherbys, too. They live five miles out from Bolo on the other side. Maybe they'll come. We'll ask them, anyhow. Oh, we'll have a party—never you fear!"
When the night of the fourteenth arrived, things looked, indeed, very like "a party." Everywhere were confusion and excitement, even to the saddle room and blacksmith's shop, and to the two big tents that were being put up for extra sleeping quarters. Everywhere, too (Mrs. Kennedy declared), were dishes heaped with chocolate candies. Mr. Edwards, who had left the ranch only the day before, had sent back by Carlos twenty-five pounds of the best candy Bolo could supply; and the girls had been lavish in its disposal.
Five Wetherbys and six Boyntons had arrivedtogether with a dozen cowboys on horseback. Susie Billings, minus her khaki and cartridges, looked the picture of demureness in white muslin and baby-blue ribbons. There were other pretty girls, too, from Bolo, in white, and in pale pink and yellow. And everywhere were the Happy Hexagons, wildly excited, and delighted with it all.
The big hall and the living-room had been cleared for dancing. The galleries and the long covered way leading to the dining room had been decorated with flowers and lanterns. The long table in the dining-room was decorated, too, and would later be loaded with all sorts of good things: sandwiches, hot biscuits, tamales, cakes, and black coffee without sugar. In the center of the table already there was a huge round white something that called forth delighted clappings from the Happy Hexagons as they flocked in at seven o'clock to look at the table decorations.
"Oh, what a lovely cake," gurgled Tilly, "and such a big one!"
Genevieve laughed mischievously.
"I'll give you the whole cake—if you'll cut it," she proposed.
With manifest alacrity Tilly reached for a knife.
"Done!" she cried.
Before the knife descended, Genevieve caught her hand.
"Wait! Look here," she parleyed. Taking theknife, she thrust its point through the elaborate white frosting, with two or three gentle taps.
"Why, it's hard!—hard as stone," ejaculated Tilly, trying for herself.
"Itisstone," laughed Genevieve.
"Stone!" cried a chorus of unbelieving voices.
"Yes, stone—frosted with sugar and the whites of eggs. Oh, if you'd lived in Texas as long as I have you'd have seen them before," nodded Genevieve.
"Well, I've got my opinion of Texas cakes, then," pouted Tilly, with saucy impertinence.
"Oh, you'll change it later, I reckon—when you see the real ones," rejoined Genevieve, comfortably, as they left the dining-room.
There never had been, surely, such a party. All the Happy Hexagons agreed to that. So, too, did all the guests. Perhaps on no one's face was there a look of anxious care except on Cordelia's. Possibly Mr. Hartley noticed this look. At all events he watched Cordelia rather closely, as the evening advanced, particularly after he chanced to overhear some of her remarks to his guests. Then he sought his daughter.
"Dearie," he began in a low voice, leading her a little to one side, "what in the world ails that little Miss Cordelia?"
"Ails her! What do you mean? Is she sick?"
"No, I don't think so; but she looks as if she'dgot the weight of the whole outfit on her shoulders, and she seems to be going 'round asking everybody if they knew John somebody, or Lizzie somebody else."
Genevieve laughed merrily; but almost at once she frowned and shook her head.
"No, I don't know, Father, what is the matter. But Cordelia is capable of—anything, if once her conscience is stirred. Why don't you ask her yourself?"
"I believe I will, dearie," he asserted at last.
Five minutes later he chanced to find Cordelia without a partner.
"Miss Cordelia, will you accept an old man for this dance?" he asked genially. "And shall we sit it out, perhaps?"
"Oh, thank you! I'd love to," cried Cordelia in a relieved voice. "And I shall be so glad to rest!"
"Tired—dancing?" he asked.
"Oh, no, not dancing; that is—well—" She stopped, and colored painfully.
Mr. Hartley waited a moment, then observed with a smile:
"You seem to be looking for some one to-night, Miss Cordelia. Didn't I hear you asking Mr. Boynton and Joe Wetherby if they knew John somebody or other?"
Again a pink flush spread over Cordelia's face,"Yes, sir; I am looking for somebody—four somebodies."
"You don't say! Found them yet?"
She shook her head. To the man's surprise and distress, her eyes filled with tears.
"No, Mr. Hartley, and that's what's the trouble. That's why I'm trying so hard to-night to ask all these people—there's such a little time left!"
"Time—left?"
"Yes. I'd like to tell you about it, please. I think I may tell you. Of course I haven't said a word to the girls, because the people—back in Sunbridge—didn't want me to talk about it. I'm looking for John Sanborn, Lester Goodwin, James Hunt, and Mrs. Lizzie Higgins. They're all Sunbridge people who came to Texas years ago, and are lost."
Mr. Hartley gave a sudden exclamation.
"Did you say—Lester Goodwin was one?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Who wants him, and what for?"
Patiently Cordelia told him. She wore a hopeless air. She had ceased, evidently, to expect anything that was good.
Mr. Hartley gave a low whistle. For a moment he was silent, then he chuckled unexpectedly.
"Well, Miss Cordelia, if you hadn't looked so far away for your pony you might have seen histracks nearer home, perhaps. As it happens, Lester Goodwin is right here on the ranch."
"Here? Lester Goodwin?" gasped Cordelia.
"Yes. Oh, he isn't known by that name—he preferred not to be. He came to me fourteen years ago, and he's been here ever since. He said he wanted to be a cowboy; that he'd always wanted to be one ever since when, as a little boy, he used to rope his rocking-horse with his mother's clothes-line. His uncle had wanted him to be a teacher, but he hated the sight of books; so when his uncle died, he ran away and came here. He said there wasn't anybody to care where he was, or what he did; so I let him stay."
"And to think he's here now!"
"He certainly is. You see he came here because he knew me once a little when I was in Sunbridge visiting relatives, years ago, and he knew I had become a ranchman in Texas. He begged so hard that I should keep his secret that I've always kept it. Besides, there was nothing to keep. Nobody ever asked me, or suspected he was here."
"Why, how strange!" breathed Cordelia, with shining eyes. "And only think how I've asked everybody but you—and now I've found one of them right here!"
"Yes—though we mustn't be too sure, of course. We'll tell him; but maybe he won't want to go back, even now. I reckon, however, thatwhen he hears of the money, Reddy won't mind his real name being known."
"Reddy!" cried Cordelia.
"Oh!—I didn't tell you, did I?" smiled Mr. Hartley. "Yes, Reddy is Lester Goodwin."
"Why, Mr. Hartley! And I never thought of such a thing as askinghim!I only looked for the cowboys who were called 'John' or 'James' or 'Lester'—and there weren't many of those. And so it's Reddy—why, I just can't believe it's true!"
"I reckon Reddy can't, either," laughed Mr. Hartley. "And now we'll let you go back to your dancing, my dear. I've already encountered at least four pairs of glowering eyes unpleasantly pointed in my direction. I'll go and find Reddy—or rather, Mr. Lester Goodwin," he finished impressively, as he rose to his feet.
Two days after the party at the ranch house, Mr. Hartley made a wonderful announcement at the dinner table.
"What do you say, young ladies, to a visit to San Antonio?" he began.
"Father, could we? Do you mean we can?" cried Genevieve.
"Yes, dear, that's just what I mean. It so happens I've got business there, so I'm going to take you home 'round by that way. We'll have maybe a couple of days there, and we'll see something of the surrounding country, besides. You know Texas is quite a state—and you've seen mighty little of it, as yet."
"Oh, girls, we'll see the Alamo!" cried Genevieve. "Did you realize that?"
"Will we, truly?" chorused several rapturous voices.
"Yes."
"And what do you know about the Alamo, young ladies?" smiled Mr. Hartley.
"We know everything," answered Tilly, cheerfully."Mr. Jones's daughter, you know, was our Latin teacher, and she had the History class, too. Well, we couldn't eventhinkBunker Hill but what she'd pipe up about the Alamo. Now I think Bunker Hill is pretty good!"
"Oh, but we want to see the Alamo, just the same," interposed Bertha, anxiously.
"Of course!" cried five emphatic girlish voices.
"All right," laughed Mr. Hartley. "You shall see it, all of you—if the train will take us there; and you'll see—well, you'll see a lot of other things, too."
Cordelia stirred uneasily. The old anxious look came back to her eyes. When dinner was over she stole to Mr. Hartley's side.
"Mr. Hartley, please, shall we see an oil well?" she asked, in a low voice.
"Bless you, little lady, what do you know about oil wells?" smiled the man, good-naturedly. "You haven't got any of those to look up, have you?"
To his dumbfounded amazement, she answered simply:
"Yes, sir—one."
"Well, I'll be—well, just what is this proposition?" he broke off whimsically.
"If you'll wait—just a minute—I'll get the paper," panted Cordelia. "Mr. Hodges wrote down the name."
Very soon she had returned with the paper, and Mr. Hartley saw the name. His face hardened, yet his eyes were curiously tender.
"I'm afraid, little girl, that this won't come out quite so well as the Reddy affair—by the way, Reddy left an extra good-by for you this morning. He went away before you were up, you know. He feels pretty grateful to you, Miss Cordelia."
"But I didn't do anything, Mr. Hartley. I do wish I could see Mrs. Granger when he gets there, though. I—I'm afraid she doesn't like cowboys much better than Mrs. Miller does."
There was a moment's silence. Mr. Hartley was scowling at the bit of paper in his hand.
"Did you say youdidn'tknow where that oil well was, Mr. Hartley?" asked Cordelia, timidly.
"Yes. I don't know where it is—and I reckon there doesn't anybody else know, either," he answered slowly. "I know where itclaimsto be, and I know it is just one big swindle from beginning to end."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," sighed the girl.
"So am I, my dear. I'm sorry for Mr. Hodges, and lots of others that I know lost money in the same thing. But it can't be helped now."
"Then there aren't any oil wells here at all in Texas?" asked Cordelia, tearfully.
"Bless you, yes, child—heaps of them! You'llsee them, too, probably, before you leave the state. But—you won't see this one."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," mourned Cordelia, again, as sadly she took the bit of paper back to her room.
It was not many days before the Happy Hexagons said good-by to the ranch—a most reluctant good-by. It was a question, however, which felt the worst: Mammy Lindy, weeping on the gallery steps, Mr. Tim and the boys, waving a noisy good-by from their saddles, or Mrs. Kennedy and the Happy Hexagons—the latter tearfully giving their Texas yell with "THE RANCH" for the final word to-day.
"I think I never had such a good time in all my life," breathed Cordelia.
"I know I never did," choked Tilly. "Genevieve, we can't ever begin to thank you for it all!"
"I—I don't want you to," wailed Genevieve, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. "I reckon you haven't had any better time than I have!"
Quentina was at the Bolo station; so, too, was Susie Billings.
"O Happy Hexagons, Happy Hexagons, I just had to come," chanted Quentina, standing some distance away, and extending two restraining hands, palms outward. "Don't kiss me—don'tcome near me! I don't think I've got any whooping germs about me, but we want to be on the safe side."
"But, Quentina, how are you? How are all of you?" cried Genevieve, plainly distressed. "I think it's just horrid—staying off at arm's length like this!"
"But you must, dear," almost sobbed Quentina. "I wouldn't have you go through what we are going through with at home for anything. Such a whoop—whoop—whooping time!"
"Couldn't you make a poem on it?" bantered Tilly. "I should think 'twould make a splendid subject—you could use such sonorous, resounding words."
Quentina shook her head dismally.
"I couldn't. I tried it once or twice; but all I could think of was 'Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound'; then somebody would cough, and I just couldn't get any further." Her voice was tragic in spite of its drawl.
"You poor thing," sympathized Genevieve. "But we—we're glad toseeyou, even for this little, and even if we can'tfeelyou! But, Quentina, you'll write—sure?"
"Yes, I'll write," nodded Quentina, backing sorrowfully away. "Good-by, Happy Hexagons, good-by!"
"So that is your Quentina?" said Mr. Hartleyin a low voice, as the girls were waving their hands and handkerchiefs. "Well, sheispretty."
"Oh, but she wasn't half so pretty to-day," regretted Genevieve. "She looked so thin and tired. I wanted to introduce you, Father, but I didn't know how to—so far away."
"I should say not," laughed Mr. Hartley. "'Twould have been worse than your high handshake back East," he added, as he turned to speak to Susie Billings, who had come up at that moment.
Susie Billings was in her khaki suit and cowboy hat to-day, with the cartridge belt and holster; so, as it happened, the last glimpse the girls had of Bolo station was made picturesque by a vision of "Cordelia's cowboy" (as Tilly always called Susie) waving her broad-brimmed hat.
The trip to San Antonio was practically uneventful, though it was certainly one long delight to the Happy Hexagons, who never wearied of talking about the sights and sounds of the wonderful country through which they were passing.
"Well, this isn't much like Bolo; is it?" cried Tilly, when at last they found themselves in the handsome railroad station of the city itself. "I shouldn't think Texas would know its own self half the time—it's so different from itself all the time!"