88CHAPTER VIITHE VIGILANTES HOMESTEAD
“John, do you really think it’s safe?”
It was Aunt Nan who asked the question. Mr. Hunter laughed.
“Safe, Nan? They couldn’t be safer. There’s nothing in the wide world to hurt them out there on the mesa. They’re safer there, in my opinion, than any place I know, and if they want to know what homesteading is like, why let them homestead for a night! It won’t hurt them a bit. If they go back to school with a few of Jean MacDonald’s ideas, they’ll be very fortunate.”
“It seems as though I ought to go,” said Aunt Nan, “and still I don’t know that my being there would do any good.”
“Not a bit,” returned Virginia’s father. “Roughing it at seventeen and thirty are two entirely different experiences. Stay at home and be civilized,89but let them go and don’t worry for a moment. They’ll show up to-morrow safe and sound with another bran-new experience for their Thought Books. See if they don’t!”
So it happened that Aunt Nan was convinced and gave her consent to Virginia’s just-born and dearly-beloved plan—namely, that the four Vigilantes should homestead for Jean MacDonald during her absence of one night from her cabin on the mesa. Jean had ridden over that morning on her way to town to spend the night with a friend, and Virginia’s plan had sprung full-born like Athena from the head of Zeus.
“Don’t you want us to homestead for you, Jean, while you’re away?” she had asked.
Jean had gladly accepted the offer. “It would be just the thing,” she said. Then they could really see why she loved the mesa as she did, and especially her very own corner of it. The dogs would be glad of company, for she had driven the three cows that very morning to the neighboring homestead, and except for the chickens, Watch and King were all alone. The cabin door had no lock, and90they might go right in and make themselves at home. There was an extra cot in the kitchen, bedding in plenty, and loads of food supplies. She would simply love to have them do it!
Virginia had turned questioningly to the listening Vigilantes.
“Let’s!” said Mary.
“Oh, do let’s!” cried Priscilla.
“Of course,” faltered Vivian, insuperably buoyed up by company.
“All right,” said Jean MacDonald as she turned Robert Bruce toward the road. “It’s settled then! There’s plenty of butter and milk in the creek-refrigerator—I left them there—and lots of fish in the creek. You’ll have to rustle your own wood, I guess. Help yourselves to everything! Good-by!”
William, who was working among his flowers, had waited only for Aunt Nan’s approval. Now that it had come, he was off to saddle the horses, while the excited Vigilantes flew to get into their riding-clothes.
“I’m so glad you dared to suggest it, Virginia,”91said Priscilla, struggling with her boot lacings. “I thought of it, too—that’s what I meant by nudging you—but, of course, I wouldn’t have liked to propose it. In the two weeks I’ve been here, I’ve had the best time I ever had in my life, and I really believe this is going to be the best of all.”
“I suppose,” observed Virginia, “that the boys will be more or less disappointed because we won’t be here to go on the gopher hunt, but we can shoot dozens of gophers any day.”
“Of course,” returned Vivian, who had never shot one in her life.
“Of course,” echoed Mary, who was in the same class with Vivian.
“Besides,” continued Priscilla, “the experience of shooting a gopher, while doubtless thrilling in the extreme, doesn’t compare for one moment with homesteading. Do you know, girls, I believe I’ll take along my Thought Book. Something might come to me!”
“I would, if I were you,” acquiesced Virginia. “No, Hannah, dear,” she added, turning to the faithful retainer in the doorway, “we don’t want a thing92to eat. Thank you just as much. It wouldn’t be homesteading at all if we carried food. Jean says there are plenty of supplies out there. We’re just going to take our night-dresses and combs and tooth-brushes and Priscilla’s Thought Book.”
Hannah smiled dubiously.
“Supplies is all right, deary,” said she, “but who’s going to cook them?”
“I can make biscuits, I think,” offered Mary. “At least, I did once.”
Virginia thought for a moment, uncertain of her contribution.
“I’m sure I can fry fish,” she said. “I’ve seen you do it a hundred times, Hannah.”
Priscilla and Vivian, not being culinary experts, made no promises; but Virginia, even in the face of discouragement, still insisted that they take nothing.
“Then don’t go till after dinner,” called Aunt Nan from her room. “It will be ready in an hour.”
“Better wait,” reiterated Mr. Hunter. “William’s had to go on the range a piece for the horses, anyway.”93
So it was after dinner that the four homesteaders started for their borrowed claim, leaving behind three disgusted boys armed for a gopher hunt, an amused father, an interested William, a still doubtful Aunt Nan, and a much-worried Hannah.
“Can’t we even come to call?” asked Carver, holding Vivian’s horse for her to mount.
“No, Carver,” said Virginia sweetly, “you can’t. We want to see how it will really seem to be homesteading all alone. We’ll be back by noon to-morrow, and will go after gophers in the afternoon, if you want to wait. If you don’t, it’s all right.”
“Why not invite us to supper?” suggested Donald. “We’ll go directly afterward, and won’t come too early.”
“I should say not,” cried Priscilla, much to Hannah’s amusement as they galloped away. “Supper is to be an experiment for us, and we don’t want any guests.”
They rode south through the hills to Elk Creek Valley, where the pink and blue of the blossoms were fading a little in the August sun. It would94be a golden Valley soon, Virginia said—yellow with sunflowers and golden-rod. Then they climbed the foot-hills to the mesa, and rode eagerly toward their newly-acquired cabin in the southwest corner.
“I feel exactly like the owner,” confided Virginia, urging Pedro forward toward their goal. “I’m wondering if anything has happened since my trip to town.”
Apparently nothing had happened. The cabin was slumbering peacefully in the August sunshine. Watch and King, however, were wide awake. They came bounding around the corner of the house, ready to guard their mistress’ property from all intruders. But in their superior dog wisdom they soon remembered that these young ladies were the friends who a few days before had made their mistress happy, and they gave the Vigilantes a royal welcome—both for Jean and for themselves.
Virginia considered matters for a moment before dismounting.
“I think I’ll leave Pedro’s bridle on,” she said. “Then he won’t stray far, and the others will keep95near him. We’ll unsaddle and put the things on the porch. Then that will be done. It’s three o’clock now,” she continued, consulting her watch, “and I don’t think it would be a bad plan to get settled and consider supper, do you?”
No, they did not, they told her, as they dismounted. Virginia, with Pedro unsaddled and eager to feed, proudly watched Vivian as she tugged at Siwash’s saddle-straps, and took off his bridle. It was some time since Vivian had asked assistance. Her heart might be beating fearfully inside—it probably was—when Siwash shook his head impatiently and stamped a foot; but only an instinctive backward movement proved that the fear was still there.
“Vivian’s making new roots every day,” Virginia said to herself, “and deep ones, too.” And she smiled encouragingly into Vivian’s blue eyes, as, the horses freed, they carried the saddles, blankets, and bridles to the porch.
Jean MacDonald was right. The cabin door would not lock. Three Vigilantes looked somewhat askance at one another when this fact was made96known, though the fourth seemed not to consider it at all. The cot in the kitchen was examined and pronounced comfortable.
“At least as comfortable as one would wish, homesteading for one night,” said Priscilla.
Lots were drawn for beds and companions. Vivian and Virginia, it was thus decided, should sleep in the living-room, and Priscilla and Mary in the kitchen.
“Of course, we could move the kitchen cot into the living-room,” said Virginia, “but it really isn’t worth the trouble where the door is so small. Besides, you girls don’t feel the least bit frightened about sleeping out there, anyway.”
Mary looked at Priscilla and Priscilla looked at Mary. Not for veritable worlds would they have confided to Virginia the joy which would fill their hearts if that refractory kitchen cot could be moved into the living-room; not for untold riches would they have confessed the sinking feeling which attacked them upon the thought of sleeping in the kitchen nearest that unlocked door. A bear might push open that door, or a mountain lion roar97outside their window—they would be game to the end!
“Now,” announced Virginia, quite unconscious of the sensations which were agitating her friends, “I think we’d best begin to get supper. It may take some time. Mary, I see there’s a cook book in the kitchen. If you’ve made biscuits only once, it might be well for you to study up a little. Vivian can set the table, and get some lettuce from the garden. I’ll rustle the wood for the fire, and get the potatoes ready. Hannah told me to bake them about an hour. Priscilla, why don’t you take one of Jean’s rods and follow up the creek? There are some quaking-asps in a shady place up a little way, and it wouldn’t surprise me at all if you got a trout there. Use some of those little dark flies—they’re good this kind of a day. Come to think of it, Jean has some already on. You might add a grasshopper or two. There’ll be plenty of them hopping around. Pinch their noses and they’ll keep still.”
Priscilla, armed with Virginia’s directions, and a total lack of experience, took the rod and went her way. Never in her life had she caught a fish,98but the zest of a possible catch seized her. If she could only get one, it would be something more to tell Alden, and might elicit praise as high as the bear-trapping experience had done. She saw the quaking-asps some rods above the cabin, crawled under the wire fence, and went toward them. Something hopped out of her way. A grasshopper! She jumped, but missed him! Personally she did not care for thefeelof grasshoppers, and their kindred of crawly things, but if she would accomplish her purpose, she must procure one. She dropped on her knees, and began her search. There were grasshoppers in plenty, but they were of a very swift variety. Priscilla darted and dove on this side and that before she finally caught her prey. With loathing and disgust she proceeded to pinch his nose and render him helpless. She placed him awkwardly and none too securely on the hook beneath the little black fly, strode to the quaking-asps, disentangled her rod and line a dozen times, and at length managed to drop the baited hook into the creek. Then she straightened her weary form, grasped her rod firmly in her right hand and waited.99The question was—should she do anything more than wait? Were one’s chances of success greater if she wiggled the rod? Should one just stand still or walk back and forth, dragging the line after her?
If the trout in the dark pool under the shadow of the quaking-asps had seen the performance that preceded the appearance of that fly and grasshopper, he never would have deigned to approach them. But his late afternoon nap had fortunately prevented, and now supper was before his very eyes. He darted for the grasshopper and securely seized it. Priscilla, standing motionless upon the bank, felt a tremor go through the rod in her hand, saw the tip bend, felt a frightful tug as the fish darted downstream. Something told her that her dream was realized—that she had at leasthookeda fish!
Had the fish in question been less greedy, he would have assuredly made his escape. Priscilla knew nothing of the rules of angling. She only knew that she should never recover from chagrin and shame if that fish eluded her. She dropped the rod, grasped the line tightly in both hands, slid down100the bank, stood in the creek to her boot-tops, and pulled with all her might. The trout, hindered by surprise as well as greediness, surrendered, and Priscilla with trembling hands and glowing eyes drew him to shore.
It never occurred to her to take him from the hook. Her one thought was to notify the Vigilantes of her success. Holding the line in one hand, just above the flapping, defeated trout, and grasping the rod in the other, she ran with all her might to the cabin, burst in the door, and exhibited her fish and her dripping, triumphant self to the Vigilantes. Fears of unlocked doors had fled! It was still light, and she was a conqueror!
Supper that night, in spite of Hannah’s fears, was an unqualified success. Memory and the cook-book had sufficed to make very creditable biscuits, the trout, rather demolished by vigorous cleaning, lay, brown and sizzling, in a nest of fresh lettuce leaves, and the potatoes were perfect.
“Isn’t it fun?” cried Virginia, as they ate the last crumb. “It’s better even than I thought.”
“It’s lovely,” said Vivian, “only I feel just the101same way that I did about staying all alone as Jean does. Look outside, Virginia. It’s getting dark already!”
“Yes,” answered Virginia, going to the window, “it does in August, though the twilights stay like this a long time. See, there’s a star! Doesn’t it twinkle? You can actually see the points! Let’s wish on it. I wish—let me see—I wish for the loveliest year at St. Helen’s we could possibly have—a year we’ll remember all our lives!”
“I wish,” said Mary, “that college may be just as lovely, and that I’ll make as good new friends as you all are.”
“I wish,” said Priscilla thoughtfully, “I wish I may be just as good a Senior Monitor as you were, Mary.”
“I’m not going to tell my wish,” said Vivian softly. “It’s—it’s too much about me.”
Dishes were washed and dogs and chickens fed. Then they came out-of-doors in the ever-deepening stillness to watch the moon rise over the blue shadowy mountains, and look down upon the mesa, upon the horses feeding some rods away among the102sagebrush, and upon them as they stood together a little distance from the cabin.
“Isn’t it still?” whispered Vivian, holding Virginia’s hand. “You can just hear the silence in your ears. I believe it’s louder than the creek!”
“I love it!” said Mary, unlocked doors all forgotten in a blessed, all-together feeling. “See the stars come out one by one. You can almost see them opening the doors of Heaven before they look through. I never saw so many in all my life. And isn’t the sky blue? It’s never that way at home!”
“I can understand better than ever, Virginia,” said Priscilla, “how you used to feel at school when we would open the French doors and go out on the porch. You said it wasn’t satisfying someway. I thought I understood on the getting-acquainted trip, but now I know better than ever.”
“It makes you feel like whispering, doesn’t it?” Vivian whispered again. “It’s all so big and we’re so little. But it doesn’t scare me so much now.”
“I’ve been thinking,” said Virginia softly, “of Matthew Arnold’s poem—the one onSelf-Dependence, you know, Vivian, which we had in class, and103which Miss Wallace likes so much. Of course, he was on the sea when he thought of it, but so are we—on a prairie sea—and I’m sure the stars were never brighter, even there. I learned it because I think it expresses the way one feels out here. I used to feel little, too, Vivian, but I don’t any more. I feel just as though some strange thing inside of me were trying to reach the stars. It’s just as though all the little things that have bothered you were gone away—just as though you were ready to learnrealthings from the stars and the silence and the mountains—learn how to be like them, I mean. You know what he said in the poem, Vivian—the stanza about the stars—the one Miss Wallace loves the best:
‘Unaffrighted by the silence round them,
Undistracted by the sights they see,
These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.’”
Vivian sighed—a long, deep sigh that somehow drew them closer together.
“I don’t believe I’ll ever be like that,” she said. “I’m afraid I’ll always want sympathy and—love!”104
“But it doesn’t mean that, Vivian,” explained Virginia. “I’m sure it doesn’t. Of course, we all want those things—more than anything else in the world. But I think it means just as Miss Wallace said, that instead of demanding them we’re to live so—so nobly that they will come to us—unsought, you know. Doesn’t that make it a little easier, don’t you think?”
The August night grew cold, and soon they went indoors to a friendship fire in the stone fire-place. They watched the flames roar up the chimney, then crackle cheerily, and at last flicker away to little blue tongues, which died almost as soon as they were born. There was no other light in the cabin. Virginia had said that none was needed, and she did not notice the apprehensive glances which the other Vigilantes cast around the shadowy, half-lit room. At last Vivian yawned.
“Nine o’clock,” said Virginia. “Bed-time! I guess we can see to undress by moonlight, can’t we?”
“What shall we do about the door?” asked Mary hesitatingly. “It won’t lock, you know.”105
“That won’t matter,” said Virginia carelessly, while she covered the fire-brands with ashes. “There’s no one in the world around. Besides, Watch and King will take care of things. You don’t feel afraid, do you?”
“Oh, no!” announced Priscilla, trying her best to ape Virginia’s careless manner, and determined toactlike a good sport at least.
“Oh, no!” echoed Mary faintly.
Vivian was unspeakably glad that her lot had fallen with Virginia, and that their bed was in the farther corner of the living-room.
“I wish Dorothy were here!” Virginia called fifteen minutes later to the brave souls on the kitchen cot. “Then ’twould be perfectly perfect. Good-night, everybody. Sweet dreams!”
“Sweet dreams!” whispered Priscilla to Mary, while she clutched Mary’s hand. “I don’t expect to have a dream to-night! Mary, don’t go to sleep before I do! We’ll have to manage it somehow! I’ll die if you do!”
“I won’t,” promised Mary.
But they were tired from excitement, and sleep106came in spite of unlocked doors. A half hour passed and every homesteader was sleeping soundly. The night wore on, midnight passed, and the still, stiller hours of the early morning came. It was yet dark when Mary was rudely awakened by her roommate kicking her with all her might. She sat up in bed, dazed, frightened. Priscilla was clinging to her.
“Oh, Mary!” she breathed. “Listen! There are footsteps outside our window! There are, I tell you! Listen!”
Mary listened. Her heart was in her mouth and choking her. Yes, there were unmistakably footsteps outside. As they listened, the sound of breathing became apparent.
“Itisn’tour breathing, Mary,” Priscilla whispered. “I tell you itisn’t!It’s—oh, the steps are coming nearer! They’re on the path! Oh, Virginia! V-i-r-g-i-n-i-a! V-I-R-G-I-N-I-A!!”
The last word ended in a mighty shout, which awoke Virginia and the terrified Vivian. Before the shout was fairly completed, the cot in the living-room was groaning beneath an added weight, and107Virginia, striving to rise, was encumbered by three pair of arms.
“Let me go, girls!” she cried. “Let me go, I tell you! No one’s coming into this cabin unless I say so! Remember that!”
By this time the steps were on the porch. Virginia, finally free from embraces and on her feet, reached for Jean MacDonald’s gun, and started for the door, which she was just too late to open. Instead, the visitor from without pushed it open, and the terrified Vigilantes on the bed, hearing Virginia laugh, raised their frightened heads from the pillows to meet the astonished gaze of poor old Siwash!
“Don’t ever let the boys know,” warned Virginia, as she returned from escorting Siwash to the gate and out upon the mesa. “We’ll never hear the last of it if you do. ’Twas our own fault. We didn’t close the gate, that’s all, and Siwash has always loved company!”
So the boys never knew, though they wondered not a little at the significant and secret glances which the Vigilantes exchanged upon their arrival home108the next morning, and at intervals during the days that followed whenever homesteading became the topic of conversation. Once Aunt Nan, to whom also the secret was denied, attempted to probe the mystery, choosing Vivian as the most likely source of information.
“Did you really have a splendid time, Vivian?” she asked.
“We certainly did, Aunt Nan,” answered the loyal Vivian. “I never had a better time in all my life. Only one night of homesteading is enough for me. There are lots of things I envy Jean MacDonald, but homesteading isn’t one of them!”
109CHAPTER VIIIAUNT DEBORAH HUNTER—PIONEER
Aunt Deborah Hunter was driving from her ranch on Snake Creek to spend the day with her nephew, her grand-niece, and her grand-niece’s guests. Clad in her best black silk dress, her black bonnet with the red cherries on the front, and her well-darned black cotton gloves, she was sitting up, very straight and stiff, beside Alec on the front seat. One would have said that her dignity forbade her to rest her shoulders, doubtless tired from the fifteen mile drive. Still, it was not altogether dignity which made Aunt Deborah scorn the support of the cushions which Alec had placed behind her. A great part of it was eagerness.
It had been a long time since she had left her ranch even for a day. No one there could attend to things quite so well as she herself, she always insisted. But now, between shearing and threshing,110she had chosen a day upon which to accept Virginia’s and her father’s oft-repeated invitation, and it was a festive occasion for her. Truth to tell, she needed one day a year, she said, “to meet folks.” For the remaining three hundred and sixty-four, the hired man, her two dogs, an occasional visitor, her thoughts, and the mountains were quite enough.
If the infrequent passer-by had paused long enough to look into Aunt Deborah’s gray eyes beneath the cherry-trimmed bonnet, he would have seen therein the eagerness that made their owner scorn the sofa-pillows. It sparkled and beamed, now on this side, now on that, as she spied blue gentians blossoming in a hollow, and the gold which was already creeping over the wheat; it glowed as she looked at the mountains, and shone as she drew long breaths of the clear, bracing air; it was the self-same eagerness which lay deep in the gray eyes of her grand-niece Virginia.
As they drew near their journey’s end, and came in sight of the white ranch-house behind the cottonwoods, Aunt Deborah made her final preparations.111With her handkerchief she brushed every speck of dust from her black dress, settled the old-fashioned brooch at her neck, gave a final straightening to her bonnet, and pulled her cotton gloves on more smoothly before again folding her hands on her lap. She sat up straighter than ever as Alec turned the horse down the lane.
She seemed a little troubled about something when she saw the group of young people gathered at the porch and waiting for her.
“Alec,” she whispered, “the cherries on my bonnet? They worry me. I want to be young, but being long toward eighty I mustn’t be childish. What do you think, Alec? I wouldn’t displease Virginia for anything!”
“Couldn’t be nicer, ma’am,” reassured Alec. “You need ’em for a touch o’ life to your black.”
Thus assured, the little old lady sat in state, her eyes glowing and her folded hands trembling with excitement.
“No, John,” she said a few moments later, as she declined Mr. Hunter’s outstretched arms. “No, thank you. When I get so I have to be lifted out,112I’m not coming any more. Turn just a little more, Alec. There! Here I am!”
It was her grand-niece whom she greeted first.
“My dear!” she cried, holding the tall, gray-eyed girl at arms’ length. “How you grow! John, she’s grown an inch since she rode over a month ago. I believe upon my soul she has. And looks more like you every day! Kiss your old aunt, dear! She’s plum proud of you!”
Then she turned to the others, whom Virginia proudly introduced one by one.
“It’s a blessed sight—all these young folks together,” she said, shaking hands with them all. “Except for Pioneer Reunions, I haven’t seen so many all to once for fifty years. And so you all come from away back East—the place we used to call home? It ain’t that any longer to us old folks—but the memories are dear all the same!”
She stepped briskly upon the porch and toward the chair Virginia had placed for her. The Vigilantes and Aunt Nan watched her, fascinated. Virginia had told them of her wedding journey across the plains in ’64; of the hardships and dangers she113had withstood; of lonely winter days in a sod hut, and of frightful perils from Indians. She seemed so little someway sitting there, so frail and wrinkled in the big chair. It was almost incredible that she had lived through such terrible things. They longed to hear the story of it all from her own lips. Virginia’s recital was thrilling enough! What then must Aunt Deborah’s be?
But Aunt Deborah was in no haste to talk about herself! She was far more interested in Virginia’s friends—their respective homes and families—their school life and their plans and dreams for the future. Somehow the Vigilantes found it the easiest thing in the world to tell Aunt Deborah their ambitions. Aunt Nan found it easy, too, to speak of Virginia’s mother to this dear old lady who had known and loved her. Virginia held Aunt Nan’s hand close in her own as they heard Aunt Deborah tell of Mary Webster’s coming to Wyoming; then a far rougher land than now; of her brave fight against homesickness; of her transformation of the Buffalo Horn School; and, finally, of the fierce struggle within herself over whether she should return114to Vermont or stay to marry a Wyoming ranchman.
“My nephew John,” finished Aunt Deborah proudly. “A good man. None other than a good man could have won Mary Webster.”
“Oh, I’m so glad she stayed!” cried Aunt Nan, a big lump in her throat and her eyes brimming with tears. “I’m so glad—Aunt Deborah!” She took one of the little old lady’s hands in hers. “We’re all together now,” she said, “New England and the West. There’s no difference any longer, is there, Virginia?”
“No, Aunt Nan,” said Virginia, choking down the lump in her own throat. “There’s not a bit of difference. And somehow I’m sure Mother knows. Aren’t you, Aunt Deborah?”
“Something inside of me says that she does,” said Aunt Deborah softly. “You see, dears, even Heaven can’t blot out the lovely things of earth! At least, that’s how it seems to me!”
A moment later, and Mr. Hunter came around the corner of the porch.
“John,” cried Aunt Deborah gayly, “don’t let’s115worry one bit about this old world! With these young folks to write the books, and teach the schools, and take care of the homeless babies, we’re safe for years to come! Come and tell me all about the wheat.”
So the morning passed, and at noon Malcolm and Donald, Jack and Carver rode over for dinner, and for Aunt Deborah’s stories, which Virginia had promised them. Aunt Deborah’s talent for listening won them also, and they told her their ambitions quite as eagerly as the Vigilantes had done. All but Malcolm—he was strangely silent! Dinner was served on the lawn beneath the cottonwoods. Joe and Dick brought out the large table, which was soon set by Hannah and her four eager assistants. It was a jolly meal, quite the merriest person being Aunt Deborah.
“It wouldn’t be so bad to grow old if you could be sure of being like that, would it?” whispered Carver Standish III to Malcolm.
“No,” said Malcolm absent-mindedly, looking at Aunt Nan. “No, it wouldn’t!”
“Now, Aunt Deborah,” began Virginia, when the116things were cleared away, “you know you promised you’d tell stories. You will, won’t you?”
Aunt Deborah’s gray eyes swept the circle of interested faces raised to her own.
“Why, of course I will, Virginia,” she said. “Where shall I begin?”
“At the very beginning,” suggested Carver and Jack together. “We want it all, please.”
“I’m glad William put marigolds on the table,” Aunt Deborah began. “They make it easy for me to get started. They take me back fifty years ago to the day before I was married back in Iowa. Robert came up that evening, and saw me with a brown dress on and marigolds at my waist. ‘Wear them to-morrow, Deborah,’ says he. ‘They’re so bright and sunny and a good omen. You see,we’regoing to need sunshine on our wedding journey.’ So the next day, when I was married, I wore some marigolds against my white dress. Some folks thought ’twas an awful queer thing to do. They said roses would have been much moreweddingy, but Robert and I knew—and it didn’t matter about other folks.117
“The very next day we started for our new home across the plains. That was to be our wedding journey. ’Twas in July, 1864. We went to Council Bluffs to meet the others of our train. That was just a small town then. In about three days they’d all collected together, ready to start. We didn’t have so large a party as some. There were about seventy-five wagons in all, and two hundred persons, counting the children.
“I’ll never forget how I felt when I saw the last house go out of sight. I was sitting in the back of our wagon—we were near the end of the train that day—and Robert was ahead driving the oxen. But I guess he knew how I was feeling, for he came back and comforted me. There was comfort, too, in the way other folks besides me were feeling. There wasn’t many dry eyes on the day we swung into the plains, and yet we wouldn’t have turned back—no, not for worlds!”
Aunt Deborah paused now and then for the eager questions which her interested listeners asked. Yes, she told them, the wagons were great, white-covered prairie schooners—real houses118on wheels. Yes, the oxen were powerfully slow, but good, kind beasts. No, they were not all. There were mules in the train and a few horses. Most of those were ridden by scouts—men who received their food and bed for giving protection against the Indians. Yes, there were small children and tiny babies—whole families seeking new homes in this great land. Two babies were born on the journey. One lived to reach Montana and to grow into a strong, stout man; the other, a little girl, died on the way, and was buried somewhere in Nebraska.
“Yes, there were many hard things like that,” she said, “but we expected sadness and trouble and sorrow when we started out. We were not the first who had crossed the plains. There were pleasures, too. Nights when we stopped to camp there was a whole village of us. The men placed the wagons in a great circle, and within the circle was our fire and supper. We forgot to be lonely when the stars came out and looked down upon us—the only human things for miles around. We told stories and visited one another’s wagons, and were thankful to119be together. Friends were made then—real friends that always stuck!”
“Indians?” she asked in response to Jack’s interested questions. “Oh, yes, we found plenty of those to our sorrow! The first real hostile ones we met in Nebraska, six weeks after we started. Two days before they came I’d somehow felt as though we were having too smooth sailing for pioneers. One morning four of our men took horses and rode out searching for water. We never saw three of them again. At noon the only one left came riding up, half-dead from exhaustion and from wounds which the Indians had given him. He gave the alarm and soon we were ready for them, our wagons in a circle, and every man armed. Some women, too.” Aunt Deborah’s head rose proudly. “I shot my first shot that day, and I killed an Indian. Robert was proud of me that night!”
So the journey went on, she told them. The long, hot days of mid-summer on the plains shortened into the cooler ones of September and October. All were wearying, of course, but few actually dangerous. The attacks from Indians were rare. They seemed120to have learned that more could be gained by friendly bartering. By October the train had left the plains and was going higher into the mountains. The air grew more exhilarating. There was less sickness in the village on wheels. One October morning they found a light covering of snow.
“I can’t tell you how that snow made me feel,” said Aunt Deborah. “It made me afraid somehow. I thought of the days I must stay alone that coming winter while Robert was away. But my fears went later in the day when the sun once more made the land like summer.
“It was early November when we reached our journey’s end in a Montana valley. A few sod huts were there to welcome us, and the day after our arrival other pioneers drifted in from the south. The spot was chosen because it was near water, and because there seemed to be plenty of wild game. Some of our train pushed on to the gold mines, another day’s journey and more, but it was the gravel beds of the creek where we were promised gold, and we decided to stay in the valley.
“We built a sod hut like those around us, and121began to get settled. Our poor cows and horses were glad enough to rest and crop the grass in among the sagebrush. It was a forlorn-looking village enough when all our huts were done. I wish you could have seen it! There we spent our first winter—the happiest one of my whole life. Yes, my dears,” she said, looking into their doubtful, surprised faces, “itwasthe happiest. There were dangers, of course, and all kinds of hardships, but those made no difference. Of course there were lonely days when I longed for home. When Robert was there, I didn’t mind the smoky, crowded hut, but on the days when he had to be away I felt as though I couldn’t stand it much longer. We lived on meat and milk that winter. The flour gave out and there was no way to get more, so we had no bread. All the provisions had been used before February came, and we could get no more before spring. Buffalo meat and elk, we ate mostly. Yes, Virginia, what is it?”
“The story, Aunt Deborah, about the Indian coming into the hut?”
“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Deborah, “Virginia always122must have that. It happened on one day that Robert was away. He had ridden to the mining camp to try to get flour. I was all alone in the hut. There had been no news of Indians around, so imagine my surprise when the door was pushed open and an Indian walked in. I knew by his signs that he wanted food, so I gave him all I had. He drank all the milk in the hut, and some oat cakes which I had made from our last bit of oat-meal. I remember how angry I was, for I had been saving them especially for Robert, but I dared not refuse. Then he began admiring a rug which we had brought from home. It was on the bed in the corner. He asked me for it, and I refused. Then he insisted, and I still refused. But he wanted that rug, and was going to have it. At last he just grabbed it, and made for the door. That was too much for me. My grandmother had given Robert and me that rug for a wedding gift, and no Indian was going to take it away. I snatched Robert’s gun from the corner and raised it.
“‘Drop it, or I shoot you!” I screamed.
“I guess he knew I meant what I said, for he123dropped the rug and hurried out of the cabin. I don’t know how long I sat there facing the door. I was afraid he would bring others back, but he never came again. When Robert came that night, I was still facing the door with the gun. When I saw him, I burst out crying, and cried and cried. The strain had been too much for me.”
So Aunt Deborah’s stories went on—of the village attacked by night, and her fearful ride to the little fort for protection; of the Vigilantes and their determined hunting-down of robbers and road-agents; of a sickness which broke out in the town toward spring; of hunger and privations—the varied, fascinating, almost incredible tales of pioneer life. Then, like oases, would come stories of Christmas festivities, and of merry, laughing times all together. The minutes, half-hours, and hours flew by as they listened.
“My Thought Book will never hold them all,” Priscilla whispered to Virginia.
“But in the spring,” Aunt Deborah finished, casting an anxious glance at the sun, “all was different. A trail to Salt Lake had been opened and provisions124came through by stage. I’ll never forget the morning the first stage train came. Men had use for their money then, though many of them used gold weighed out in little scales. Flour was a dollar and a half a pound, calico fifty cents a yard, and eggs five dollars a dozen. Shoes were priceless. One man bought a pair for thirty dollars. I remember that Robert and I wanted to give our neighbor’s little girl a birthday present. After much thought we decided on an apple, and paid a dollar for it.”
“I don’t see how you did it,” said Vivian, who had not spoken a word since Aunt Deborah began. “I don’t believe girls of to-day could live through such terrible things!”
“Yes, they could, dear,” affirmed Aunt Deborah, “only the need hasn’t come. When it does, you’ll all be ready. Of course, the Pioneer Days are over, but there is always need of pioneers—for Vigilantes, like yourselves.”
A half hour later and Aunt Deborah was again in the wagon beside Alec—again very straight and very stiff. She had had a beautiful day, she said,125smiling upon them all. She had gathered thoughts and memories enough for another year.
William came up to the carriage just as Alec lifted the reins. His hands were filled with marigolds—brown and orange and yellow.
“I thought you might like ’em, ma’am,” he said shyly.
A light came into Aunt Deborah’s gray eyes.
“Like them, William!” she cried. “Like them! They’ll give me even more memories—the very sweetest of my life.”
126CHAPTER IXMR. CRUSOE OF CRIPPLE CREEK
Mr. Crusoe was washing an extra shirt in the ford between Elk Creek Valley and the Gap. The absence of soap was a distinct disadvantage, but water, a corrugated stone, and Mr. Crusoe’s diligence were working wonders. A short distance away among the quaking-asps smoldered the embers of a small fire; a blackened and empty bean-can on the hearth-stone, together with a two-tined fork, bore evidence of a recent breakfast.
His washing completed, Mr. Crusoe turned his attention to his personal appearance. Deep in the waters of Elk Creek he plunged his arms, bare to the elbow, and washed his neck and face. From one pocket he drew a soiled and folded towel, which upon being unrolled disclosed a diminutive brush and an almost toothless comb. With these he proceeded to arrange his somewhat long and dripping127black hair. His two weeks’ old whiskers apparently worried him, for he pulled them meditatively; but since he was far from a barber and carried no shaving appliances, the brush and comb must suffice for them also. Finally he took his battered old hat from a nearby branch, brushed it carefully, arranged the crown so that fewer holes appeared, and put it upon his head. His clean shirt, spread upon a quaking-asp but by no means dry, afforded the best of reasons why he should not hurry; so, drawing a stained and stubby pipe and sack of tobacco from another pocket, Mr. Crusoe lay beneath a friendly cottonwood at the water’s edge and gave himself to quiet contemplation.
The morning was perfect, and no one could appreciate it more keenly than Mr. Crusoe, wanderer that he was. He blew a great mouthful of blue smoke into the still air, watched it circle lazily upward, and blew another to hasten the progress of the first. His black eyes, peering from a forest of eyebrows and whiskers, looked long upon the blossoms that clothed Elk Creek Valley—sunflowers, early golden-rod and purple thistles—swept the128friendly, tumbling foot-hills and sought beneath the over-hanging trees for the secrets of the creek. It was a morning to love things, Mr. Crusoe thought to himself. He was glad that he had left his comrades of the railroad tracks; more glad that he had abandoned freight-jumping for a season; most glad that he had decided to work during the early fall months. Then with money in his pockets and a new suit of clothes upon his back, he might go back to Cripple Creek whence he had come.
A few minutes later his contemplations were broken by the sound of horses’ feet coming through the Gap. He sat up, interested, and removed his pipe. In another moment as he met the wide-open eyes of two very much startled young ladies, his hat followed. Mr. Crusoe was used to speaking to persons whom he met in his journeyings. It was one of the many joys of the road.
“Good-mornin’, comrades,” said he.
The hearts of Mary and Vivian leaped into their throats. Their eyes, leaving Mr. Crusoe’s, saw in one terrifying instant the shirt drying on the quaking-asp, the smoldering fire, the empty bean-can.129This man was a tramp! He belonged to that disgusting clan of vagabonds who asked for food at back-doors, and whom one, if frightened into doing it, fed on back stoops as one fed the cat! He, like his fellows, would inspire one to lock all the doors at noonday, and to tell one’s neighbors there was a tramp abroad!
“Good-mornin’,” said Mr. Crusoe again. “It’s a fine day.”
This time Mary answered. She did not dare keep silent. The tramp might become angry.
“Good-morning,” she faltered.
Vivian said nothing. She was waiting for Mary to plan a means of escape. Meanwhile Siwash and his companion, feeling their reins tighten, had stopped and were nibbling at the quaking-asps, quite undisturbed.
Mr. Crusoe rose, hat in hand.
“Was you plannin’ to ford, young ladies?” he asked politely.
The vanishing flanks of two horses, unceremoniously yanked away from their luncheon and turned toward the prairie, were his only answer. Mr.130Crusoe gazed wonderingly into a cloud of dust. Then he felt of his washing on the quaking-asp. It was dry enough. Laying his pipe and hat on the ground, he proceeded to get into the clean shirt.
“Poor little things!” he said from its somewhat damp depths. “They was plum scared of me!”
The shirt on, he did its mate into a bundle, cut a forked stick upon which to sling it, stamped out the last ember of his dying fire, took his hat and pipe, and started north up the creek trail.
Vivian and Mary did not stop their wild gallop until they were well in sight of the nearest house on the prairie. Blue gentians for Miss Wallace, which had been their errand, were quite forgotten. So also was the glory of the morning. Instead, there ever rose before their still startled eyes a black-whiskered, coatless man, smoking the stub of a dirty pipe beneath a cottonwood.
“Mary,” said Vivian, gathering courage as the Keith house came into view, and breaking a long, frightened silence, “Mary, did you ever see any one so villainous-looking in your life—outside of the131movies, I mean? I guess my heart will never stop thumping! I wish Virginia had been with us! She’s always saying there’s no one around here to harm any one. I just wish she had!”
“I sort of wish we hadn’t run so,” returned Mary, pulling her horse down to a walk. “Maybe he wasn’t any one harmful at all, only he scared me so I never stopped to think. I’d hate to be a snob, even to a tramp!”
“I wouldn’t! I glory in it! And, besides, you needn’t worry. It takes time to be a snob, and we didn’t waste a moment. Here’s the Keith house. Hadn’t we best go in for a moment? There’s Carver now playing with Kenneth.”
The Keiths, upon hearing the story, quieted Vivian’s fears, and confirmed Mary’s increasing regret. The man was only a hobo, Donald said, doubtless seeking work. They looked unmistakably rough, but were often good fellows inside. Probably he wouldn’t have frightened them for the world.
“I wish this fellow would stray our way,” he added. “We’re going to be in need of extra hands132when threshing comes, and it won’t be long now. Dad would welcome him all right.”
Vivian stared at Donald, incredulous and speechless. There was no need of asking him if he meant what he had just said. Apparently that horrible creature back there by the creek, the very remembrance of whom caused cold shivers to run over Vivian, would be given a welcome by the Keith family. Vivian’s nose, already a trifle high, rose higher. Democracy was unquestionably a splendid attribute. Since knowing Virginia and coming West, she was more inclined to believe in it than ever. But this was too much!
An hour later they were riding homeward, their hands filled with gentians. Donald and Jack had ridden back with them to the ford to act as protectors, and, Vivian secretly believed, to interview the hobo, were he still there, upon the subject of threshing. But only an empty bean-can and the charred remnants of a fire bore evidence of the wayfarer. He had gone! Reassured, they had gathered gentians to their hearts’ content, left the boys upon the prairie, and ridden homeward.133
Mr. Hunter came to meet them as they rode beneath the cottonwoods.
“Crusoe,” he called to some one on the other side of the porch, “here’s your first job! Take these horses to the corral.”
An attempt to describe the sensations which swept over Mary and Vivian when they recognized their acquaintance of the morning would be impossible. Unable for a moment to dismount, they sat in their saddles and stared. Mr. Crusoe, undoubtedly sensible of their surprise, patted Siwash, who responded gladly in spite of black whiskers and a battered hat. Mr. Hunter, thinking that the flowers might be the reason of their delay, relieved them of the gentians. Mary and Vivian, thus assisted, finally fell from the saddles, and followed Mr. Hunter to the porch.
“Mr. Hunter,” gasped Vivian when the new man had taken the horses, “do you know who he is? He’s a hobo! Donald said so! We met him this morning down at the ford—Mary and I. He scared us almost to death! He had washed a shirt and it was drying on the bushes, and he ate canned134beans for breakfast right out of the can with a dirty, bent, old fork. He was lying under a tree and smoking a hideous pipe as we rode up! I never was so horrified in all my life! And, Mr. Hunter, he took off his hat and spoke to us! I thought we’d die! Siwash would eat the bushes, and I thought we’d never escape! He’s not going to stay here after he has something to eat, is he, Mr. Hunter? You don’t know how awful he is!”
Vivian stopped—merely for breath. Mr. Hunter with a mighty effort repressed a smile. Mary was torn between a desire to play fair and the awful remembrance of her fright. She said nothing.
“Vivian,” said Mr. Hunter, “out here we’ve learned not to judge persons by whether or not they wash in the creek and eat canned beans. I’m sorry Crusoe frightened you. He isn’t exactly captivating in appearance, I’ll admit, but, from what I can gather, he seems to be a pretty good sort. Any man’s worth a try-out, you know. He’s looking for work, and now that threshing is coming on I’m looking for an extra man, so he’s going to stay135here a spell. These fellows who take to the road, you see, fill a great need out here in this country. We depend on one or more of them showing up about this time of year.”
Vivian was still staring, unable to speak. Mary, desirous that Mr. Crusoe should not misunderstand their flight, explained the affair to Mr. Hunter, a little more rationally than Vivian had done.
“You see,” she finished, “it’s just that we aren’t used to seeing persons like that, and hedidlook fierce, Mr. Hunter. I wish you’d explain to him how it was. I shouldn’t want to be rude even to a hobo.”
Mr. Hunter smiled.
“He’ll understand, Mary,” he said. “In fact, he does already, for when he saw you riding home he told me about how frightened you were at the ford. Don’t be at all alarmed, Vivian,” he called, for Vivian was hurrying into the house, her head high. “He’s a gentleman—underneath the whiskers and the shirt.”
So Mr. Crusoe stayed on at the Hunter ranch. The men liked him—that was plain to be seen.136Every evening their laughter echoed from the bunk-house where Mr. Crusoe was entertaining them with his songs and stories. Even the silent William was loud in his praise, and Mr. Weeks, the foreman, in speaking of his ability and readiness to work, suggested a permanent position. Mary allowed but a day to go by before apologizing for her flight from the ford, and after Mr. Crusoe’s courteous acceptance became his firm adherent, much to Vivian’s disgust. Even Aunt Nan found him interesting, while Virginia and Priscilla listened eagerly to his tales of Cripple Creek. They were collecting theme material, they told the disdainful Vivian.
Apparently Mr. Crusoe had stormed and taken the Hunter ranch. Only one member of the family remained his enemy. Vivian was still unconvinced. To her every one else on the ranch had taken his place among the number of those condemned by the apostle, “who, having eyes, see not.” In her suspicious eyes Mr. Crusoe was a “ravening wolf” of whom she should beware. When she had an infrequent occasion to address him she used an offended dignity, tinged with scorn; when his name137was brought into the conversation she remained silent, secure in the knowledge that some day they would all see this tramp in his true light!
In three days Vivian had worked herself into a state from the eminence of which she looked down with protecting pity upon Aunt Nan, the other Vigilantes, and Mr. Hunter. They were being hoodwinked, and she alone was left to guard their interests. Harrowing memories of tales she had read, terrifying visions of escaped criminals whom she had witnessed in the “movies,” and who exactly resembled Mr. Crusoe, came to disturb her rest and haunt her dreams. She was a quaking detective, watching Mr. Crusoe’s every act, and discovering treachery and evil design in the most innocent of them.
On the fourth day following Mr. Crusoe’s advent matters approached a climax. In the early afternoon Mr. Hunter, driving to town on business, had taken the other Vigilantes with him. Vivian, with letters to write, had remained at home, feeling safe with Aunt Nan. In her stimulated imagination Mr. Crusoe had been behaving peculiarly all138the morning, and not for worlds would she have stayed alone.
Hannah left soon after the others, going for raspberries up the canyon; Aunt Nan, thoughtful and strangely silent, was in the living-room, where within an hour she was joined by Malcolm Keith; Vivian sat beneath the vines in the corner of the porch, and tried to center her attention upon a letter she was writing to Dorothy. She was not eminently successful. Grave apprehensions, strange forebodings, filled her heart. Once Mr. Crusoe passed empty-handed before the porch. He did not see Vivian, although he might easily have detected the beating of her heart. She watched him pause, study for a brief moment the house, its doors and windows, and then pass on. He was seizing the opportunity while they were all away, Vivian told herself, to become better acquainted with his surroundings. Then some day, not far distant, or some night, he——!
She jumped from her seat and ran indoors. At that moment she wanted company more than anything else in the world. Sunny as it was139outside, the silence worried her. There was something portentous even in the singing of the August insects. Aunt Nan’s genuine interest in Mr. Crusoe and his welfare would probably prevent Vivian from giving expression to her new-born fears; but at least nearness to some one might quiet the misgivings which were tormenting her.
She reached the living-room door, and stood still, unable to make her presence known, and, for a moment, unable to run away. Aunt Nan and Malcolm Keith were standing by the big western window which faced the prairie and the distant mountains. Malcolm’s arm was around Aunt Nan, and her head was on his shoulder. As Vivian stood transfixed to the spot by a strange Something, Malcolm bent his head, and—Vivian fled, unperceived!
That same strange Something, stronger than her fear of the silence or even of Mr. Crusoe, was making her breath come in gasps as she sank into her chair and tried to collect her scattered senses. Truly Life was being too generous to her that day! So Malcolm and Aunt Nan loved each other! That140was clearly unmistakable. She was sorry she had intruded, though she knew they had not heard her. In that last moment before she had found strength to run away she felt as though she had come unbidden into a sacred place. Her cheeks burned at the thought. How surprised the girls would be when she told them! No, she would not tell! It was Aunt Nan’s secret—hers and Malcolm’s!
Fifteen minutes later, still unperceived and to all appearances quite forgotten, she sat in her chair and watched Aunt Nan and Malcolm go down the lane beneath the cottonwoods, and on toward the foot-hills. They had forgotten her very existence. She was all alone—alone with Mr. Crusoe and the silence. At that very instant Mr. Crusoe again passed before the porch—again paused to study the house. This time he held a key in his hand—a large key on a string which he twisted and untwisted as it swung from his big, brown finger. Vivian knew that key. It belonged to the root-cellar just beyond the kitchen, and it hung in Mr. Hunter’s office above his desk. She had seen Hannah take it a dozen times, and once Mr. Hunter had given it to Virginia, asking141her to get some papers from a desk he kept down there. Why should Mr. Crusoe want to go to the root-cellar?
Something told Vivian that the time for her to act had come; that only she could save the Hunter fortunes from oncoming disaster. As Mr. Crusoe rounded the farther corner of the porch, and started in the direction of the root-cellar, Vivian ran through the house and into Hannah’s spotless kitchen. A new sense of responsibility gave birth to a bran-new sense of courage. Vivian, watching from the kitchen window, saw Mr. Crusoe go into the cellar. That was enough.
Running to Virginia’s room, she grasped the little rifle which stood in the corner. It was the only gun in the house which Vivian had ever used, and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent power and dignity to one’s bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded. Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her142thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot.
She ran down the hall and out the back door toward the root cellar. Her heart was in her mouth, her breath came in gasps, her wide-open blue eyes were filled with terror. When she reached the stone steps leading down to the cellar she looked far less a heroine than a much frightened little girl. Still, there was the gun! Vivian’s nervous fingers kept pushing the safety on and off—a rather terrifying sound to the ears of a much surprised man, who, papers in hand, was coming up the steps.
Vivian saw the papers. She was right! Mr. Crusoe had been rifling Mr. Hunter’s private possessions. She raised the gun with a trembling hand.
“Mr. Crusoe,” she faltered, “this gun is loaded, and if you try to pass me, I—I’m very sure I shall shoot you. You sit down there in the cellar and wait for Mr. Hunter.”
Mr. Crusoe sat down. He was too surprised to do anything else. He had faced guns many times before in his varied existence, but never had he been confronted by a shaking .22 in the trembling hands143of a very nervous young lady. Moreover, the sound of a safety clicking nervously back and forth is not conducive to peace. Mr. Crusoe did not expect Vivian to shoot him, but he did entertain a fear that the gun might go off in his direction and in spite of her. Considering silence the better part of valor, he accordingly sought the farthest corner of the cellar and hoped for the best.
Vivian sat upon the top step, the gun upon her knees. She had not looked for such non-resistance on the part of Mr. Crusoe. Indeed, he looked less fierce than she had ever seen him. Could she have observed the amused smile which was quivering beneath Mr. Crusoe’s black whiskers as he began more fully to understand this peculiar situation, she would have been much puzzled. To her, he was a cringing suppliant, and she a distinct conqueror.
Still the minutes dragged themselves very slowly away. It seemed two hours, though it was in reality but ten minutes before conqueror and conquered heard the roll of returning wheels, the sound of voices calling for Vivian, the approach of hurrying footsteps. Mr. Crusoe stirred uneasily. He144would have willingly saved Vivian from the embarrassment which he knew was bound to follow, but it had been impossible. Vivian’s heart beat wildly. Now, at least, they would understand that she had been right all along; now, perhaps, they would no longer think her such a coward!
Embarrassment did follow! Embarrassment and tears and explanations and not a little ill-concealed amusement. For one long hour Vivian, in spite of sympathy and understanding and genuine admiration, wished she had never been born. In that hour she discovered that a finer courage is necessary to admit a mistake and to begin anew than to besiege a hobo in a root-cellar. But she proved equal to the task, and Mr. Crusoe in the part he played showed himself the gentleman he really was. For when Vivian was convinced that Mr. Crusoe had been given the key by Mr. Hunter, that he had been told to fetch the papers, and that he really was trustworthy after all, she dried her tears, donned a fresh middy, and went quite alone to offer her apologies.
She found Mr. Crusoe by the bunk-house. He145had shaved in the meantime, and when Vivian saw his clean firm chin, she knew it was partly the whiskers which had made her level the gun at him.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Crusoe,” she stammered. “You see, I thought you were just a tramp, and at home we are always afraid of them. But I know now you aren’t. I know I’ve been wrong all the time, and—oh, I’m awfully glad the gun didn’t go off!”
Mr. Crusoe removed his battered old hat and offered his freshly-washed hand.
“I’m glad, too, Miss Vivian,” he said. “If it had, perhaps I couldn’t have told you how much pluck I think you’ve got stored away inside of you. And as for your being suspicious of the likes o’ me, I don’t wonder a mite. Only, you see, there are tramps and tramps. To the best of us, I guess trampin’ just means followin’ roads that lead to shelters—tohomes, you see! And now you know I’m not the kind you thought I was, this here ranch looks like a mighty good home to me.”
“Then you won’t go back to Cripple Creek?” asked Vivian. “If I were you I’d stay right here.”
“That’s what I’m plannin’ on,” said Mr. Crusoe.