Kitabı oku: «Meg of Mystery Mountain», sayfa 7
Julie agreed that they would indeed and decided to be very patient during the remaining two days. So she went back to her cooking and, with Gerald’s help, soon had the lunch spread.
Jane ate but little, and again shut herself up in her room for all that afternoon. Dan was almost as glad as were the children that she was to go back to the East, but Jane, strangely enough, was deeply hurt because her brother, who had been her playmate when they were little, and her pal in later years, had actually chosen the younger children in preference to herself. That proved how much he really cared for her and, as for his health, he seemed to be recovering remarkably. He had coughed a while the evening before, and for a shorter time that morning.
Then he had evidently been on a long hike. Of all that had happened Dan had said nothing, knowing that Jane would not wish to hear about the mountain girl, toward whom she felt so unkindly.
That afternoon Dan gave the children another lesson at shooting cones from an old pine, far enough from the cabin to keep from disturbing Jane. Julie grew braver as she watched Gerald’s success, and at last she too tried, and when, after many failures, she sent a brown cone spinning, she leaped about wild with joy.
“Now we are both sharpshooters,” Gerald cried generously. Then, glancing over at the cabin, he added: “There’s Jane sitting out on the porch. She does look sort of sick, doesn’t she?”
Dan’s heart was touched when he saw the forlorn attitude of the sister he so loved. “You youngsters amuse yourselves for a while,” he suggested, “I want to have a quiet talk with Jane.” Dan neglected to tell the children not to wander away.
CHAPTER XVII
QUEER KITTENS
Left alone, Julie and Gerald scrambled to the road and looked both up and down. “Which way will we go?” Julie inquired.
“We’ve been down – or, I mean, we’ve been up the down road.” Then the boy laughed. “Aw, gee! You know what I mean. We came up the road yesterday in the stage; so now, let’s go on further up.”
Julie hopped about, clapping her hands gleefully. “Ohee, I know what! Let’s see if we can find that cabin the innkeeper lady said was about a mile up the mountain road from our place. Wouldn’t that be fun? And maybe that nice girl will be at home from school, and, if she is, I just know she’ll let me ride her pony.”
Gerald, nothing loath, fell into step by his sister’s side, the gun over his shoulder. After the fashion of small brothers, he could not resist teasing. “I bet you couldn’t stay on that pony, however hard you tried. It’s a wild Western broncho sort, like those we saw at Madison Square Garden that time Dad took us to Buffalo Bill’s big circus.” Then, in a manner which seemed to imply that he did not wish to boast, he added: “I sort of think I could ride it easy. Boys get the knack, seems like, without half trying.”
They had rounded the bend and were nearing the very spot where the mountain girl had shot the lion, when Julie clutched her brother’s arm and drew him back, whispering excitedly: “Gerry! Hark! What’s that noise I hear?”
The boy listened and then crept cautiously toward the bushes. He also heard queer little crying sounds that were almost plaintive. “Huh!” he said boldly. “’Tisn’t anything that would hurt us. Sounds to me like kittens crying for their mother.”
A joyful shout from the girl, closely following him, turned into “Gerry! That’s just what they are! Great big kittens! See how comically they sprawl? They haven’t learned to walk yet. Their little legs aren’t strong enough to stand on. See, I can pick one right up. He doesn’t seem to mind a bit.” The small girl suited the action to the word, and it was well for her that the mother lion had been killed, or Julie would soon have been badly torn, despite the fact that her brother still carried his small gun.
The boy had lifted the other weak creature, which had not been alive many days, and, with much curious questioning as to what kind of “pussy cats” they might be, they continued their walk and soon reached the cabin.
Meg Heger, who had remained long in the forest that day, having sought a rare lichen high on the mountain, was just descending from the trail that led into her “botany gardens” when she saw the two children entering the front yard of her home cabin. Unbuckling the basket which she carried much as an Indian squaw carries a pappoose, the girl leaped down the rocks and exclaimed: “Oh, children, where did you find those darling little mountain lion babies?”
Luckily she took the one Julie was holding in her own arms as she spoke, for if she had not, that particular “baby” would have had a hard fall, for when the small girl from the East heard that she was actually holding a mountain lion, she uttered a little frightened scream and let go her hold. But Gerald, being a boy, realized that even a future fierce wild animal was harmless when its legs were too weak for it to stand on, and so he continued to hold his pet, even venturing to admire it.
“It’s a little beauty, ain’t – I mean, isn’t it?” He glanced quickly at Julie, but the slip had evidently not been observed, for she was intently watching the mountain girl, who was caressing the little creature she held as though she loved it, as she did everything that lived in all the wilderness.
But as Meg Heger held that helpless, hungry baby her heart was sad, for well she knew that it was unprotected and perhaps starving because she had shot and killed its mother. Of course she had to kill the lion to save the life of the lad who had gone too close to the place where the mother had her young; but, nevertheless, she felt that, in a way, her act had made her responsible for these helpless little wild creatures, since they had been brought to her.
Brightly she turned to the children. “Don’t you want to come with me to the hospital?” she invited. “We’ll give them some supper.”
She did not ask who the children were, nor from whence they had come. Perhaps she remembered having seen them the day before on the stage; or Sourface Wallace may have told her.
Julie and Gerald followed, wondering what the “hospital” might be.
Back of the cabin, on a rocky ledge, the children saw a queer assortment of wooden boxes, small cages and little runways. “This is the hospital.” Meg flashed a merry smile at them over her shoulder. “There aren’t many patients just now. Most of them have been cured. Here’s one little darling, and I’m afraid he never will be well. Some prowling creature caught him and had succeeded in breaking a wing when it heard me coming. Why it dropped its prey when it ran, I don’t know, but I brought the little fellow home and Pap helped me set its wing. It’s ever so much better, but even yet can’t fly, but it can scuttle along the ground just ever so fast.”
Gerald was much interested.
“What kind of a bird is it, Miss Heger?” he began, very politely, when the girl’s musical laughter rippled out. “Don’t call me that!” she pleaded. “It makes me feel as old as the thousand-year pine Teacher Bellows told our class about. It’s a little quail bird, dearie. You’ll see ever so many of them in flocks. There are sixty different kinds of cousins in their family. The Bob Whites with their reddish brown plumage have a black and white speckled jacket. They live in the grass rather than in trees and are good friends of the farmer because they devour so many of the insects that destroy grain and fruits. This one is a mountain quail; it is one of the largest cousins. The one that lives in the South is called a partridge.”
Gerald listened politely to the life history of the pretty bird, but his attention had been seized and held by what Meg had said about the very ancient pine. “Was there ever a tree that lived a thousand years?” he asked with eager interest. The girl nodded. “Indeed, there are many that have lived much longer, but this pine was blown over, and Teacher Bellows was allowed to cut it up to read its life history. He found that it had been in two forest fires, and about five hundred years ago an Indian battle had been fought near it, for there were arrow heads imbedded in the rings that indicated that year of its life.”
Then Meg concluded with her bright smile: “Some day, when Teacher Bellows is up here, I’ll have him tell you the names and probable ages of all our neighbor trees! It’s a fascinating study.”
Julie was not much interested in the length of a tree’s life and so she began eagerly: “Miss – I mean – do you want us to call you Meg?” she interrupted herself to inquire.
The older girl nodded. Every move she made seemed to express bubbling-over enthusiasm and interest. “Haven’t you any more patients?”
Gerry was peering into empty boxes in which there were soft, leaf-like beds.
“Only just Mickey Mouse. He’s a little cripple! His left foot was cut off in a trap, but he gets around nicely on one stump. That’s his hole over there. I put grain and bits of cheese in front of it. Keep ever so still and I’ll put a kernel of corn right by his door. Then perhaps you’ll see his bright eyes.” And that is just what happened. As soon as the corn kernel rolled in front of the hole, out darted a sharp brown nose with twitching whiskers and two beady black eyes appeared just long enough for their owner to drag his supper into the safe darkness of his particular box.
Meg laughed happily. “He’s the cunningest, Mickey is! I sometimes take him with me in my pocket. He likes to ride there, or so it seems. At any rate he is just as good as he can be. Often he goes to sleep, but at other times, he stands right up and looks out of the pocket, just as though he were enjoying the scenery.”
At that moment a sharp, almost impatient cry from the small creature she held recalled to the head doctor of the hospital the fact that she had started out to feed the baby lions. She brought milk from a cave-like room, only the front wall of which was wood, the rest being in the mountain. “That’s our cooler,” she told Gerald, whom she could easily observe was interested in all the strange things he saw. Dipping one corner of her handkerchief into the milk, she put it in the mouth of her tiny lion and the children were delighted to see how readily and joyfully the creature seemed to feast upon it. Having gathered courage, Julie wished to feed the other baby lion and then Meg suggested that they be put in a soft lined box on the rocks near, since they were used to being high up. The baby lions, being no longer hungry, cuddled down and went to sleep. Gerald’s conscience was troubling him. “We’ll have to be going,” he said. “Nobody knows where we are.” Then he hesitated. He knew that it would be polite to ask the mountain girl to call upon them, but he was afraid that Jane would not treat her kindly, so, in his embarrassment, he caught Julie by the hand and fairly dragged her away as he called, “Goodbye, Meg, I’m coming up often.” When they were on the down-road, the boy cautioned Julie to say nothing whatever of their adventure to their sister, but just to Dan.
CHAPTER XVIII
A YOUNG OVERSEER
Sunday dawned gloriously, and Dan declared that he felt better than he had supposed that he ever would again. Jane, too, though she did not voice it, was conscious of feeling more invigorated than she had been in the East, and yet, of course, she was very glad that she was going back again on the following Tuesday. She would go directly to Newport to visit Merry Starr, as had been their original plan. Her conscience would not trouble her, since it was Dan’s wish that she be the one to leave.
The two children, on the evening before, had failed to confide that they had visited the cabin up the mountain road. They were wild to tell Dan, but they wished to get him off by himself before they did so. They dragged him out into the kitchen after the Sunday morning work was done and asked him if he would go with them for a hike up along the brook to a natural bridge that they could see from their door-yard.
The older lad hesitated. “I’ll ask Jane if she would like to go,” he began, but the immediate disappointment expressed by the two freckled faces made him turn back to add, “Or, rather, I’ll ask Jane if she minds our going, just for a little while.” This suggestion was far more pleasing to the children.
They all entered the living-room where Jane sat reading. “My goodness, don’t go far,” she said petulantly. “Don’t you remember that the terrible overseer from the Packard ranch is coming to take dinner with you today? I intend to shut myself in my room and stay there until he is gone.”
“Hm!” Dan snapped his fingers as he ejaculated. “Queer I’d forget that visit, since I have been looking forward to it so eagerly.” Then he queried: “Why do you say that he is terrible, Jane? A foreman on a vast cattle ranch is not necessarily an uncouth specimen of humanity.”
The girl flung herself impatiently in the chair as she emphatically replied: “Of course he’ll be terrible! A big, rawboned creature who will speak with a dreadful dialect, or whatever you call it; and he will be so embarrassed at meeting people from the city, that he will stutter more than likely.”
Dan laughed at the description. “Maybe you are right, sister of mine, but we’ll be home to prepare the meal for our guest, long before the hour he is to arrive. Goodbye! Fire off the gun if you are frightened at anything.”
The girl merely shrugged her shoulders, and when they were gone she decided, since it really was very lovely out-of-doors, to take her book to the porch, and so she dragged thither the comfortable chair with the leather pillows. She was soon reading the story, which interested her so greatly that she did not notice the passing of time until she heard a step near by. Jane supposed that her family was returning, and did not glance up until she heard a pleasant, well-modulated voice saying:
“Pardon me if I intrude, but is this the cabin occupied by the Abbott family?”
Looking up in astonishment, Jane saw before her a handsome youth whose wide Stetson hat was held in one hand. He wore a tan-colored shirt of soft flannel, and his corduroys, of the same shade, were tucked into high, laced boots. Even before she spoke, Jane was conscious that the youth with the clean-shaven face, strong square chin, pleasant mouth, blue eyes with clear, direct gaze was not in the least embarrassed by her presence. He was indeed the kind of a lad she had always met in the homes of her best friends, the kind that Dan was. But that of which she was most conscious was the fact that he was very good looking, and that in his eyes there was an expression of sincere admiration for her.
Graciously Jane rose and held out a slim white hand. “We are the Abbotts,” she began; then, laughingly confessed that, unfortunately, she was the only one at home, as the others had gone on a hike – she really had not inquired where.
The lad did not seem to consider it unfortunate. “Please be seated again, Miss Abbott, and I’ll occupy the door-step, if you don’t mind. I’d heaps rather meet strangers one by one. It’s easier to get acquainted.”
Then, as he thought of something, he exclaimed: “I hope I have not come over much earlier than I was expected. I hiked all the way. I thought it might be easier to come cross-lots, so to speak, than to ride horseback to Redfords and then up your mountain road.”
“Was it?” Jane asked, wishing to appear interested.
“It was great! I adore mountain climbing, don’t you, Miss Abbott?”
Then, not waiting for her reply, he continued with boyish enthusiasm: “I tell you, it means a lot to me to have you Abbotts here. I love the West, but I’ve missed my friends. We’ll have great times! How long are you going to stay?”
Jane hesitated. She should have replied that she was leaving on Tuesday, but now she was not sure that she wished to go.
For a merry half hour these two chattered. The lad seemed to be quite willing to talk of everything but his home, and Jane was too well bred to ask questions. Jean told of his college life, and when she asked if he regretted that his days of study were over, he laughingly declared that they never would be. “Mr. Packard is a great student,” he looked up brightly to say, “and our long winter evenings, that some chaps might call dull, are the most interesting I have ever spent. We take one subject after another and go into it thoroughly. We’re most interested in experimental inventions and we have rigged up all sorts of labor saving contrivances over on the ranch.” Recalling something which for the moment had been forgotten, Jean exclaimed: “Mr. Packard wished me to invite you all to visit us as soon as you are quite settled here.”
Then with that unconscious admiration in his eyes, he concluded: “For myself I most eagerly second the invitation.” Jane’s vanity was indeed gratified. She laughed a happy musical laugh which sounded natural, although it had really been cultivated. “I am greatly flattered that you should be so anxious to entertain the Abbotts,” she told him, “since I am the only one of us whom you have met.”
“True!” he confessed, merrily, “but you know we scientists can visualize an entire family from one specimen. How could the other three be undesirable when one is so lovely? Maybe it’s because I am a blonde that I admire the olive type of beauty.”
Just why she said it Jane could not have told, unless the memory of what that awful Gabby at the station had said still rankled. Be that as it may, almost without her conscious direction she heard herself saying: “I suppose, then, that you must be a great admirer of Meg Heger?” There was a note in the girl’s voice which made the lad look up a bit puzzled. What he said in reply was both pleasing and displeasing to his companion. With a ring of sincerity he assured his listener that there were few girls finer than Meg Heger.
“I do not know her personally very well,” he told Jane. “She seems to shun the acquaintance of all young people. I sometimes think that she may believe her friendship would not be desired since she is supposed to be the daughter of that old Ute Indian, but this is not true. We in the West ask not the parentage but the sincerity of our friends. It’s through her foster-father that I know the girl, really. I often go with him to the timber line and above it, when I am not needed on the ranch. It’s a beautiful thing to hear him tell how Meg has enriched their lives.”
Then, as his direct gaze was again lifted to the olive-tinted face of the girl near him, he said frankly: “Many of the cowboys and others of our neighbors rave about Meg’s beauty. But I do not admire the Spanish or French type as much as I do our very own American girl.”
Jean did not say in words which American girl he thought wonderfully lovely to look upon, but his eyes were eloquent.
Jane could have sat there basking in the lad’s evident admiration for hours, but the position of the sun, high above them, suggested to her that something must be amiss. “I wonder why Dan and the children do not return,” she said, rising to look up the brook trail. Jean leaped to his feet and together they went around the cabin and scanned the mountain-side and the lad yodeled, but there was no response.
“Of course, nothing could have happened to them all,” Jane assured him. “They have gone farther than they planned, I suppose.” Then, turning with a helpless little laugh, she said in her most winning way (and Jane could be quite irresistible when she wished), “I have a terrible confession to make. You will have to starve if they do not return, for I have never learned to cook.”
“Great! I’m glad you haven’t, because that will give me an opportunity of shining in an art at which I excel.” The lad seemed brimming over with enthusiasm. Jane smiled up at him. He stood a head taller than she, with wide, square shoulders that looked so strong and capable of carrying whatever burden might be placed upon them.
“How did you happen to learn how to cook?” the girl inquired, and then wondered at the sudden change of expression in his handsome face. The joyful enthusiasm of the moment before was gone and in its place was an expression both tender and sad. “The last year of my little mother’s life we two went alone to our cabin on the Maine coast. Mums wanted to take our Chinaman, but I begged her to let me have her all alone by myself, and so under her direction I learned to cook. Miss Abbott,” the boy turned toward her, seeming to feel sure of her understanding sympathy, “that was the happiest summer of my life, but it had the saddest ending, for, try as I might to keep her, my little mother faded away and left us.” Then abruptly he exclaimed, as though he dared not trust himself to keep on: “Won’t you lead me to the kitchen, and when the wanderers return we will have a feast ready for them.”
