Priscilla, sitting under the biggest cottonwood, was writing to Miss Wallace, in her best handwriting, on her best stationery, in her best style. One unconsciously brought forth the best she had for Miss Wallace. She was telling of the Emperor and of the Cinnamon Creek ranger, sure that Miss Wallace would be glad to add both to her collection of interesting people. Interruptions were many. Carver, moody and silent, rode over, looking for entertainment, and she did her best; Vivian, having reached a halt in her daily Latin review, asked assistance; little David, Alec’s adorable son, had come over with his mother for the afternoon, and Priscilla found him irresistible; and at last Donald, riding homeward, hot and tired from working on the range, had stopped for rest and refreshment. With Hannah’s help Priscilla had provided 252 the refreshment, and the ground beneath the cottonwood was giving the rest.

“Some stationery!” said Donald, raising himself on his elbow to look at the pile of sheets which Priscilla had placed in readiness on the grass. “A shield and an eagle and a lion and a unicorn all at once, to say nothing of Latin. What does it say? ‘Courage—my——’”

“Courage is my heritage,” translated Priscilla proudly. “It’s our family coat-of-arms, and that’s the motto. We’ve had it for years and years, ever since the Wars of the Roses. A Winthrop was shield-bearer for Edward, Duke of York, and Grandfather used to say we could be traced back to the Norman Conquest.”

“I see,” said Donald politely, but with something very like amusement in his blue eyes. “You New England folks are strong on crests and mottoes and that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

“No more than we should be,” announced Priscilla a little haughtily. “We are the oldest families for the most part, and I think we ought to remember all those things about our ancestors. It’s—it’s 253 very—stimulating. The West is so excited over progress and developing the country and all that,” she finished a little disdainfully, “that it doesn’t care about family traditions or—or anything like that.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Donald. “It isn’t so bad as that. We think a fine family history is a splendid thing. I venture I’m as proud of my Scotch forefathers as you are of the Duke of York’s shield-bearer, though we haven’t any coat-of-arms, and never did have any, I guess. Only back there you think it’s a necessity to have a good ancestry, and out here we just consider it a help. I like what Burns said about a man being just a man. That’s the way we feel out here. It isn’t what you come from; it’s what you are, and what you can do. Family mottoes are all right, if you live up to them. I knew a fellow at school when I was East two years ago. He roomed with me. He had the family coat-of-arms framed and hung on the wall. ’Twas all red and silver, and the motto was ‘Ne cede malis’—‘Yield not to difficulties.’ The funny part was that he was the biggest quitter 254 in school. You see, I think it’s you who have to uphold the motto—not the motto that has to uphold you.”

Priscilla ate a cookie silently. She wished Donald were not so convincing.

“For instance,” Donald continued, “suppose Courage is my heritage were Vivian’s family motto. Do you think that fact would give Vivian an extra amount of courage if she said it over a thousand times? I don’t. All the courage Vivian’s got she’s gained for herself without any motto to help her out. And I guess that’s the way with most of us in this world.”

He took his hat and rose to go.

“I’ve got to be making for home,” he said. “Dave’s gone, and I’ve an extra amount of work to do. Thanks awfully for the cookies, and don’t think I’m too hard on the family motto business. I can see where your motto means a heap to you, but you’re not a quitter anyway, Priscilla.”

He jumped on MacDuff and rode down the lane with a final wave of his hat as he galloped homeward across the prairie. Priscilla’s cheeks grew 255 red as she watched him. She was not any too sure that she was not a quitter. Disturbing memories came to trouble her—memories of occasions when she had not proven the truth of the motto, which had fired her ancestors. Donald was right, too, about ancestry and coats-of-arms and mottoes being only helps. Her New England conscience told her that, and her weeks in Wyoming corroborated her conscience. Still she was averse to admitting it—even to Donald.

She returned to her unfinished letter, but Genius seemed on a vacation. She could not picture the Emperor to Miss Wallace—could not give the impression which he had indelibly stamped upon her memory as he stood between Nero and Trajan at the palace entrance. The coat-of-arms seemed a disturbing element. She covered it with a strip of paper, but still thoughts would not come.

Disgruntled and out-of-sorts, she put away her letter, and started toward the house. Carver’s mood was contagious, she said to herself. In Hannah’s kitchen she found Mrs. Alec and little David, a roly-poly youngster of three who demanded too 256 much attention for just one mother. Priscilla, seeing in David a sure antidote for introspection, offered to play the part of the necessary other mother, and took him out-of-doors, much to the relief of tired Mrs. Alec. She had no more time to think of family mottoes or coats-of-arms. David clamored for attention, begged to be shown the horse, the dogs, and all the live-stock which the ranch afforded. Priscilla was an obedient guide. Nothing was omitted from the itinerary. When David, satisfied as to the other four-footed possessions, said “Pigs” in his funny Scotch way, pigs it was!

She led him down the hill to the corral, then off toward the right where the pigs had their abiding-place. A pile of rocks, the crevices of which were filled with all weeds infesting the neighborhood of pigs, offered a vantage-ground from which they might view the landscape so alluring to little David. With his hand in hers, she was helping him mount the rocks one by one.

Suddenly a miniature saw-mill whirred at their feet. A swarm of bees filled the air! Priscilla, intent upon David, had not noticed the flat 257 surface of the rock where the sun lay warm and bright. Warned by the strange sound, her terrified eyes saw the snake, coiled and ready to spring! She had a fleeting vision of a flat, cruel head, and a thousand diamond-shaped yellow dots as she grasped little David by the neckband and pulled him from the rocks to the corral. It was a rattlesnake! The brakeman’s prophecy had come true! In spite of Virginia’s assertion that they never came near the house, she had seen one!

Little David was crying from surprise and a sore neck. He had not seen the snake. Priscilla was trembling in every muscle. There was no one whom she could call. The men were on the range and in the fields; Mr. Hunter and the girls, except Vivian, were in town; Aunt Nan was at the Keiths. The snake must not be allowed to live. Little David might be playing around there again, or some other child. She herself would never, never have the courage——! She started, for suddenly in place of the sound of the saw-mill and the vision of the diamond-shaped dots, came the memory of a lion rampant on a field of gold, an eagle perched upon 258 a shield, and a unicorn surrounded by stars. As the red came back into her white cheeks, Donald’s words came back also:

“You see, you’re no quitter anyway, Priscilla!”

Two minutes later Mrs. Alec and Hannah were surprised to receive into their midst a shrieking child, borne by a most determined girl, who was almost out of breath.

“He’s all right!” she gasped. “Except his neck, I mean! I dragged him. I had to! I’ll tell you why by and by. Keep him till I get back!”

Then she flew out of the house and down the path to the stables. A many-tined pitchfork rested against one of the sheds. It was one which William had used that morning in turning over sod for a new flower-bed. Priscilla in her hurried transit with David had marked the fork, and chosen it as her best weapon. Of all those cruel tines, one must surely be successful. Donald had told tales of forked sticks and heavy stones, but her hands were too inexperienced for those things.

She seized the fork and ran down the path toward the rocks, not daring to stop lest her resolve 259 should fail her; not even waiting to plan her attack lest the memory of that awful head should send her back to the kitchen.

The saw-mill whirred again as she neared the rock. Apparently the snake had not stirred since his last conquest. This time she saw his wicked little eyes, his flattened head, and the contraction of his diamond-covered muscles as he made ready to spring. But Priscilla sprang first. The tines of the heavy pitchfork pierced the coils, and the only whirr which sounded was the whirr of iron against the rock.

Priscilla, on the rock below, held the handle of the pitchfork firmly, and tried not to look at her victim as he writhed in agony. A sickness was creeping over her. There were queer vibrations in the air, and a strange, singing sound in her ears. Memory brought back the picture of an evening in Carver Standish’s room at the Gordon School when she had felt the same way. She would not faint, she said to herself, rallying all her forces. She would die first! The snake had ceased writhing. He was surely dead. Little David need be no 260 longer in danger, and she—perhaps she need not feel so unworthy when she thought of the Winthrop coat-of-arms.

She was very white when she reached the kitchen after depositing the pitchfork and its burden by the shed. Grateful Mrs. Alec cried and held little David closer when Priscilla, fortified by Hannah’s cider, told the story. Alec, who came in a few minutes later, was grateful, too, in his bluff Scotch way. The snake, he said, was a whopper. He had rarely seen a larger, and Miss Priscilla was a trump—the very bravest tenderfoot he’d ever seen!

She had been true to her heritage, Donald said that evening—worthy to bear the Winthrop coat-of-arms. But then he knew she wasn’t a quitter anyway. He had told her so that very afternoon.

But Priscilla’s honesty was equal to all the demands placed upon it that night. Donald’s praise was but the last straw!

“All the coats-of-arms and family mottoes in the world, Donald,” she said, “couldn’t have made me kill that snake. It was what you said about them, and about me not being a quitter that did it. I 261 think I was a quitter until this afternoon; but now I can go and write Miss Wallace without covering up the top of the paper. I’m going to do it before bed-time, if you’ll excuse me. Good-night!”