“There’s no reason in the world why more than three of us should go back,” said Virginia. “I know just exactly where she left it. It’s on the table just back of the jars of raspberries. All right, Vivian, if you insist and are sure you’re not too tired. It’s all of six miles there and back, you know. It’s not a bit necessary, Carver, but we’d love to have you come if you want to. Sagebrush Point, Don—at the open place? All right, we’ll be there.”

“Be sure to make the Canyon Path before dusk,” warned Donald. “It’s bad there, you know. Signals all right? Better take my revolver. Malcolm has his.”

Virginia examined the revolver before securing the holster to her saddle.

“Two, if we need you; three, if everything’s all right. You probably won’t hear either. We’ll see you by six o’clock. Good luck!” 162

She turned Pedro, and, followed by Carver and Vivian, rode back up the trail, while the others kept on down the mountain side toward Sagebrush Point where they were to meet Malcolm and Aunt Nan.

They had ridden far up Bear Canyon, miles beyond the farthest bear-trap, to the Forest Ranger’s cabin. The trail was wilder than six of them had ever imagined a trail could be. Sometimes it was almost obliterated, but the blaze of the rangers with its U.S. brand told them that human beings had traversed it, and that they might safely follow. At noon they had reached the cabin—a lonely eyrie looking down into the gorge of the river. Behind it unbroken forests stretched for miles.

The ranger was away upon his beat, but his door stood hospitably open, and they had gladly entered, sure that a welcome was intended. In his little kitchen they had eaten dinner, leaving some of their bacon as a gift. Then an idea had seized Aunt Nan. Why not pick some of the raspberries which grew in profusion near by, and cook a quart of them as winter preserves for the ranger? It did not take 163 very long for nine pair of hands to pick three quarts instead of one, and within an hour, sugar having been found in the pantry, the berries were cooking on the little stove. Jars, too, were discovered, and at three o’clock when the boys had brought the horses, five cooks in khaki surveyed their gift with proud eyes. They had ridden hurriedly away, realizing that they were already late if they wanted Sagebrush Point for a camping-place; and three miles below the cabin Vivian had discovered the loss of her wrist-watch, a birthday gift from her father.

“Don’t you worry a bit, Vivian,” Virginia said, reassuringly, as she urged Pedro up the steep trail. “We’d just as soon ride back as not, and I wouldn’t have you lose the watch for the world. Of course the ranger would keep it safe for us, but there’s no knowing when we could get away up here again. It’s best to go now when we’re only three miles away.”

“I’m dead sure it’s right on the table,” said Carver. “I saw you put it there, Vivian, when you got ready to wash the dishes.” 164

Carver Standish was right. The watch was on the table where she had left it. The cabin seemed more lonely than ever as they hurried away. The rush of the river hundreds of feet below, the drowsy hum of the August insects, and the sound of their horses’ feet upon the stones alone broke the silence. Vivian shivered.

“I hate it here, now,” she said. “Let’s hurry back to the others.”

But it was impossible to hurry down the steep, rocky trail. The horses were tired, and a misstep or a stumble would be dangerous. Pedro, sure of himself on any trail, led the way, and Vivian and Carver followed, weaving right and left down the mountain side. More than once Carver glanced apprehensively at his watch. It was growing late—nearly five already!—and Virginia had told Donald they would be at Sagebrush Point at six! It was impossible. They could never make it!

Vivian was worried, too. She hated the shadows that began to creep in among the trees, the lonely call of a bird in the timber, the coolness that came as the afternoon waned. She shivered again, when 165 at the first ford, where they had separated more than an hour before, the rawhide thongs in one of her stirrups broke, and caused a second delay.

Carver’s none too agile fingers laced and re-tied the thong. Virginia allowed Pedro to nibble at the quaking-asps and tried to be patient while she watched the repairing. More than once she was tempted to jump from her saddle and do the work herself, but she knew that Carver would resent the intrusion. Carver Standish III heartily disliked any intimation that he was a tenderfoot. Safe and satisfied in the citadel of New England birth and ancestry, he still was averse to any suggestion of inferiority in Wyoming. Virginia liked Carver, though she knew him far better now than she had ever dreamed she should. She liked him in spite of the tinge of snobbishness which would creep in now and then, try as he did to conceal it. She even liked him during the ten minutes he took to lace the thong when she could have done it in three.

It was growing dark when they at last swung into the easier, grass-grown trail of the lower mountains—dark and cold. The realization that they were 166 already two miles from supper and the others, together with the knowledge that there was still the Canyon Path to cross, made them all silent and very grave. They hurried their horses through the last of the tallest timber and out upon the bare summit of a mountain, which looked down across the valley and the river to a point beyond. As they gazed, flames shot up from the point where a newly-kindled fire was welcoming the first star. Dark specks were visible about the fire—persons moving here and there. Sagebrush Point—a mile across the valley, two by the trail!

Carver looked questioningly at Virginia, and found his answer in the smile she gravely gave him. They would go no farther. Carver knew it before Virginia discovered the paper. Vivian suspected, but would not know. They sat quietly in their saddles while she rode Pedro close to a great pine which bore a ranger’s sign, burned in a piece of wood.

“Two miles to Sagebrush Point,” read the sign.

“A good camping-place. Dangerous trailing!”

Below the sign was a folded piece of paper, 167 fastened by Donald’s scarf-pin to the tree, and bearing Virginia’s name. She read it silently and with difficulty in the fast-fading light.

“It’s just as I thought,” she explained. “When Donald reached here and saw what a long time it had taken, he knew we couldn’t make the Point. He says not to attempt it if it’s after six, and it’s a quarter of seven now. I wouldn’t try the Canyon Path for anything in this light, and there’s no other way to go. We’ll just have to camp here, that’s all! We’ve our blankets and matches and plenty of bacon and bread, and there’s a spring near by. It won’t be so bad. Quite an adventure!”

Her last words were spoken in an attempt to reassure Vivian, who was staring at her—the epitome of horror.

“Camp—here—Virginia! Alone! Here! In—this—wilderness!” Vivian was monosyllabic from terror.

Carver did not share Vivian’s fear, but he was a trifle overbearing in his judgment of those about the fire at Sagebrush Point.

“If Donald thought we weren’t going to make it, 168 why didn’t he camp here himself?” he asked. “Of course it’s all right for me, but it’s rather tough on you and Vivian. I should think he’d have thought of that.”

Virginia was quick to champion Donald. Indeed Carver Standish III would have given much for the place Donald held in Virginia’s estimation.

“Why, Carver,” she said, frank in her displeasure, “Donald’s one of the most thoughtful persons in the world. Malcolm and Aunt Nan were over at Sagebrush, and he couldn’t get word to them before dark. Besides, he knows I’m not afraid to camp by ourselves. They’re right across on Sagebrush, and there’s nothing in this world to harm us. Of course he wouldn’t have gone on for anything if you hadn’t been here, but he knew he could depend on you.”

The knowledge of New England ancestry could not keep Carver Standish from feeling small as he unsaddled the horses, and tied them in among the trees. Then, considering work a good antidote, he cut brush and brought dry sticks for a fire. A dead cedar promised logs enough for the night, and these 169 Carver cut, trimmed, and piled. Vivian, unable as yet to comprehend the situation, stood looking off toward the fire on the point, and wished with all her heart that she had wings. Virginia unstrapped the blankets and laid them upon a fallen log. Then, the big revolver in her hand, she waited only for the fire to give those watching on Sagebrush the signals agreed upon. At last the flame-colored smoke burst into tongues of fire, leaping, crackling tongues which told the anxious watchers on Sagebrush that the note had been found and that all was well. A moment later three shots from the mountain opposite tore away the stillness. Donald sent back an answering three. Then five in quick succession came from Virginia’s revolver.

“It’s the old signal we’ve always used in hunting,” Donald explained to Mary, Priscilla, and Jack who were standing beside him. “It means, ‘We’re going to camp here.’ I knew Virginia would decide on that. She always does the sensible thing anyway,” he added proudly.

Malcolm and Aunt Nan, standing near the 170 water’s edge, watched the flames of Virginia’s fire as they blazed skyward.

“I’ve never quite realized before what Virginia’s made of,” said Aunt Nan thoughtfully. “If her Grandmother Webster were here this minute, I think perhaps she’d realize that there are qualities which balance being born in New England.”

“Perhaps,” returned Malcolm, a little doubtfully. “Perhaps she would. I’ve known New Englanders to realize several things. The trouble is they’re very much averse to admitting it.”

Meanwhile the three on the summit across the valley had dined, frugally to be sure, and somewhat silently on bread and bacon. Now sweater-clad they sat before the fire, and munched at some sweet chocolate which Carver had discovered in his coat pocket. With every nibble Vivian peered among the trees behind her, glanced fearfully right and left, and ended by gazing with longing eyes at the fire on Sagebrush Point. Carver hugged his knees, and rocked idly to and fro. Virginia gazed thoughtfully into the flames. To her a night in a mountain forest was a privilege, whether three 171 or nine shared its glories. To be sure, a tent would be a distinct addition, but since they had none they must do without it. Its absence was but an incident, and gave her little anxiety—far less, in fact, than the fear which she detected in the blue eyes of Vivian. For to Vivian the approaching night was a terrible ordeal through which she must go. Her reason fled away to parts unknown, and only imagination remained to create a mountain lion in every thicket, and mysterious, unearthly, disembodied presences in the air, behind her back, at her very elbow. She was grateful when Carver came to sit beside her. With Virginia on the other side, two less avenues of approach were opened. At all events she would not talk about her fear; and, acting upon her resolve, she did her best to join in the conversation on school and books and athletics.

Ten o’clock came, and Carver brought wood for the fire. Then he unrolled their blankets, spreading them over pine boughs already cut and placed upon the ground. The ground itself was a good enough mattress for him, he said, as he 172 rolled in his blanket Indian-fashion, and lay down under a great pine. They need have no anxiety as to the fire. He probably should sleep but little, and would replenish it whenever wood was needed. If they wanted a thing or became frightened in the night, they should speak to him.

Vivian, sleepy in spite of her fears, lay down upon the boughs, her head in Virginia’s lap. She knew she should not close her eyes, but she might as well rest. If a bear or a mountain lion came, it would make little difference whether she were sitting or reclining. Virginia was not sleepy. She preferred to sit up.

In half an hour a long, resigned snore from the neighborhood of the great pine proved that Carver Standish had forgotten all about fires and protection. Virginia smiled to herself as she reached for more wood. There was bacon in camp and undoubtedly bears on the mountain. The combination made a big fire desirable. Moreover, she was determined that the Sagebrush Point fire, replenished from time to time by a black dot, should not eclipse her own. 173

“Sit up a minute, Vivian,” she whispered, trying to rise. “I want to get one of those big logs which I can’t reach from here. I’ll be back in a moment.”

But when she returned with the log, Vivian’s head had dropped upon the blankets, and the flames which leaped up a moment later showed her, to Virginia’s joy, to be fast asleep.

So the founder of the Vigilantes was the only one left to guard the fortunes of the camp. She took her station near the edge of the slope, a little distance from the fire, drew her blanket close around her, and began her vigil. There was so much to see and to think about! She was glad she felt wide-awake.

Deep in the gorge below her, the river called with a thousand voices. Down in the valley the pine trees reared their heads—little spear points pricking the purple blackness of the night. The fire on Sagebrush sparkled like a single jewel in a vast setting. Far above and beyond the valley rose the opposite height, dark and indistinct—a bridge between two worlds. To Virginia she was like an eagle, secure 174 in his nest on the topmost pinnacle of a cliff, and looking forth upon his domain.

Now she turned her face upward toward the deep, almost transparent blue of the midnight sky. It was set with myriads of stars—great arc-lights, beacons at sea, flickering candle-flames. A star fell—it was one of the beacons—and came earthward, trailing glory in its wake. Then, the path blazed, another followed, and a third. The last was a little candle-flame, almost too tiny to find its way alone. The Milky Way was a great, golden trail across the sky. If souls traversed it on their way to the Great Throne, as she had believed when she was a little girl, they would have no difficulty to-night in finding their way. She traced its triumphant course across the heavens. It seemed to begin on earth, she thought to herself, and come back to earth again after its journey skyward. That might break in pieces her childhood dream. But perhaps there were Great Thrones on earth, too, if one only searched far enough. Who knew that there were not?

After all, Life was a search. She was beginning to realize that more every day. It meant a 175 seeking after the best things. What were those best things, she wondered? Had she discovered the trail which, like the Milky Way, led to them? Friendship was one, she concluded—the real friendship which never demanded more than it was willing to give. And Service was another—the desire to help people over the hard, rocky places—to be a comrade, not just a spectator. Dorothy had discovered that. Then the Love of Beautiful Things must surely be a third—the love of books and pictures and of all the wonderful treasures of the out-of-doors. These were not all. There were others to be found far ahead, Virginia knew—treasures more wonderful than any yet discovered—if one searched and were worthy of finding them.

At least she knew she had discovered the key which would open the gate to the trail. She felt of it upon her waist. To be “Ever Vigilant” would open the door. To be watchful of one’s opportunities; never to scorn a chance to serve; to guard against the cheap and the unlovely in books and thoughts; to keep the windows of one’s soul shining and clean, so that the light of all things 176 beautiful might shine in. She held the little pin close in her hand. She and Priscilla and Dorothy and Mary and Vivian would keep to the trail together.

Life was such a great, big thing she said to herself. Her breath sobbed in her throat at the thought. It was like a day in April—cloudy and sunny and wind-blown and rainy. She wanted her own life to be like that. Then she could understand the storms and clouds in other lives, and prove she was a comrade and not just an onlooker!

The fire died down and she went for more wood. As she placed a big log on the glowing embers and turned away from the heat as it burst into flame, she saw that the fire on Sagebrush was rekindled also. She could discern a shadowy shape in the light of it. Donald, perhaps. He loved the night, too. She had forgotten Donald for the moment when she chose her comrades for the Long Trail, but he must go. She had followed trails with Donald all her life, and on this great journey she needed his comradeship more than ever. 177

It was one o’clock, her little watch said—time to sleep. The great log with another added would last till morning. She rolled the second against the first, and lay down beside Vivian. The heat from the fire made her drowsy, and she soon slept. The flames leaped against the darkness; Pedro awakened and neighed questioningly; another star fell from the sky. Carver, Virginia, and Vivian were all in lands of their own. All at once a hideous yell shattered the night silence. It shrieked and quavered and moaned, and at last died away in an echo that encircled the valley. Virginia, mounting a rocky hill with Donald, sat up suddenly. A figure enshrouded in blankets stood beside her. Vivian mercifully slept on.

“Gee!” screamed the half-asleep and wholly frightened Carver Standish III. “What was that?”

“A mountain lion,” said Virginia, shaking in spite of herself. “But he’s miles away across the valley. I’m glad Vivian didn’t wake up. She’d have been scared to death.”

“I shouldn’t blame her!” replied Carver in a stentorian whisper. “I never heard anything like it 178 in my life. My! I’m sleepy! It’s most eleven, isn’t it?”

Virginia smiled into the darkness. Not for worlds would she have told Carver of his unsuccessful vigil.

“Yes, Carver,” she said. “It’s—it’s past eleven!”

Alone she watched the day come as she had watched it go. She saw the last stars fade away, and the half-light of early morning greet the eastern mountains. She felt in a strange silence the mystery and majesty of dawn. A mourning dove in a far-away thicket said farewell to the night; an early morning wind stirred the quaking-asps; an orange and yellow bird left his nest and mate to fly across the valley toward a sky-line of his own hue. The trees stood expectant. Then the light came in long, golden rays. It was day.

By six they were on their way to breakfast with their fellow-campers at Sagebrush—Vivian, incredulous that the night was really over and that she had slept; Carver, secretly much disturbed over his protecting powers; Virginia, eager, radiant, buoyant. 179 Donald waited for them on the other side of the Canyon Path, and watched their safe transit. Aunt Nan and the others were ready at the camp with welcomes and words of genuine admiration.

“I’d have been worried to death about you,” said Priscilla with her arm around Virginia, “if it hadn’t been for Carver’s being there. Yes, I would, Virginia. I don’t care how much you know about camping. A man’s being around makes a heap of difference. You know it does!”

“Of course,” agreed the loyal Virginia.

But Carver Standish III drank his coffee in silence, glad for once that the cup was large enough to hide his face.