  At the foot of the trail that led up the mountain, Dan, who had been in the lead with Meg, called: “Jean, we’re waiting for you to go ahead, since you have so often ridden this trail.” The boy, who had been silently riding at Jane’s side whenever it had been possible, turned to ask: “Will you ride on ahead with me?” The girl tried to smile at him, but her lips quivered. “No, thank you, Jean. I think I will stay with Merry.” A boyish voice called, “Ask me and hear what I’ll say.” It was Bob, and before Jean could express a desire for his companionship, the black horse which the younger lad rode was scrambling up the rocky trail following the leader. Julie and Gerald, on their agile ponies, were next; Meg and Dan followed, while Jane and Merry rode more slowly, each putting her entire trust in the horse on which she was mounted. “We do not need to try to guide them,” Merry had said. “Jean told me that the horses climb best without direction. Just pull up on the rein if it should happen to stumble.” Bob’s enthusiasm over all he saw was given such constant expression that Jane’s silence was not so noticeable. Dan, now and then, glanced back anxiously. He also had noted Jean’s apparent devotion to Merry on the two days previous, and he wondered if it had saddened Jane, and yet she had never said that she really cared for Jean. When they reached a wide rock plateau their guide whirled in his saddle to ask if any of the riders were tired and wished to rest for a while, but they all preferred to keep on. A few moments later they were passing through the deserted mining camp. There was not a breath of wind stirring and the only sounds they heard were the humming of insects and now and then a bird song. The cabins, many of them falling into ruins, looked as though they might be haunted with ghosts of the men who had given their lives trying to find gold. “Say, boy!” Bob drew rein to look about him. “This places gives one the shivers, all right! At any minute I expect to hear a ghost groan or——” “Hark! What was that?” Merry interrupted. “I did hear a groan! I am positive that I did.” They all listened and there was no mistaking the fact that a groaning noise was coming from a cabin that stood near a deep pit beside which was a pile of red and yellow ore. “What do you suppose it is, since we know there is no such thing as a ghost?” Dan turned toward Meg to inquire. Surely the mountain girl would know. But it was Jean who replied: “Don’t you believe that some wounded animal may have dragged itself into the cabin to die? They always do try to hide away when they are hurt, don’t they, Meg?” The girl nodded, her sweet face serious as she said: “I will ride over and see what it is. A moan like that always means that some creature needs help.” “You must not go alone,” Dan told her. “I will ride over there with you.” Meg turned to the others. “Please wait here,” she said. “If it is a hurt animal, so many of us would frighten it.” In silence the group waited, watching the two who rode toward the yawning pit. When they were near the place, Meg dismounted and Dan did likewise. Together they approached the door of the isolated cabin. Dan swung his gun from his shoulder and held it in readiness if harm were to threaten them. Meg glanced at the door, then turning, motioned the lad to put up his gun. Wondering what the girl had seen, the boy hastened to her side. Meg entered the old cabin and Dan, standing at the door, saw on the rotting floor the twisted form of the old Ute Indian. His wrinkled, leathery face showed how cruelly he was suffering, but when he saw Meg, who at once knelt at his side, his expression changed to one of eagerness, almost of gladness. He tried to reach out his shriveled arm, but groaned instead. Dan stepped inside and looked down pityingly. Meg, glancing up with tears in her wonderful eyes, said, “Poor old Ute. He has had another stroke, and this one is his last.” They both knew that the old Indian was making a great effort to speak, and the lad bent to whisper, “Perhaps he is trying to tell you something.” “Oh, if he only would! If he only could.” Meg was rubbing the poor limp hand that was crusted with dirt in her own. Then, close to his ear, she asked clearly: “Could you tell me about my father?” Again there was a lightening of the eyes that were beginning to dim. “Fadder he die—hid box——. Dig, dig, no find box. You find box, then you know——” The old Ute could say no more, for another contortion had seized him and it was the last. Meg was trembling so that Dan had to assist her to rise. The others, having been eager to know what had happened, had approached the cabin and dismounted. Jane saw that, for the first time in their acquaintance, the mountain girl was nearly overcome with emotion, and going to her, she slipped an arm about her, saying sincerely, “Meg, dear, what is it? Can we help you?” But almost at once Meg regained at least outward composure. “It is the old Ute Indian who has died,” she told them. “How thankful I am that we came this way, for he has told me about my father. Perhaps I shall know more, but that much is enough.” Turning back, she looked thoughtfully at the cabin, then said, “Dan, will you help me bar the door that no wild creature can get in? The windows were long ago boarded up. The old Ute shall have it for his tomb.” When this was done, a solemn group of young people rode away. Meg said little, and Dan, riding at her side, understood her thoughtfulness. When the Abbott cabin was reached, Meg said goodbye to the friends who were to remain there, but Dan insisted upon accompanying her to her home. When they were quite alone the lad rode close to her, and placed a hand on hers as he said, “Meg, dear, how much, how very much this means to you.” Such a wonderful light there was in the dusky eyes that were lifted to his. “O, Dan, now I can feel that I have a right to accept your friendship; yours and Jane’s.” But with sincere feeling the lad replied: “It is for your sake only that I am glad. Your parentage mattered not at all to me, nor, of late, has it to Jane.” Then, although Dan had not planned on speaking so soon, he heard himself saying: “Meg, you are all to me that my most idealistic dreams could picture for the girl I would wish to marry. Do you think that some day you might care for me if I regain my health and am able to make a home for you?” There was infinite tenderness in the dark eyes, but the girl shook her head. “Your companionship means very much to me, Dan, but I must teach. I want to care for the two old people who took me in out of the storm and who have given me all that I have had.” “You shall, dearest girl. That is, we shall, if you will let me help you.” Then before Meg could refuse, Dan implored, “Don’t answer me yet. I can wait if you will try to love me.” They had reached the cabin and saw Ma Heger, wiping sudsy hands on her apron, hurrying out to greet them. Dan detained the girl. “Promise me that you will try to care,” he pleaded. “I won’t have to try,” she said, then turned to greet the angular woman who had been the only mother she had ever known. |
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