TWO LETTERS FROM TOM
“A letter from an outlaw,” Margaret laughingly exclaimed as the two
girls curled up on the window seat, one to read and the other to
listen to their very first letter from Tom.
“Virginia, isn’t this the strangest thing you ever heard of?”
Margaret added. “What would my primly and properly brought up
friends in Vine Haven Seminary think if they knew that we were
corresponding with a young man labeled an outlaw whose last name we
do not even know?”
Virginia laughed. “I suppose your Miss Pickle would be frigid with
horror, but luckily she knows nothing of your present misdemeanors
and cannot make you go without dessert for a week for breaking a
rule. Now for the letter:
“Dear Virginia and Margaret:
“Greetings from a sheep ranch. Virginia, when I was outlawed from
your home, I felt that I was leaving the sunshine of the world
behind me and I didn’t much care what happened, but you will be glad
to know that my destination proved to be a real home where I was
kindly welcomed by a motherly woman, her big hearted, splendid
husband and their son, Harry, who is just my age. I offered at once
to tell them who I really am, but they would not permit me to do so.
Luckily for me, Mr. Wilson was in great need of help and within an
hour after my arrival, his son Harry and I started to ride to the
Red Canyon Camp where the sheep herder, Juan, was alone with several
hundred ewes.
“A very small Mexican boy with a very big name, it being Francisco
Quintano Mendoza, is ranch rider. It is his duty to visit each of
the four outlying camps, which he does on his brisk little burro,
finding out the needs of each herder and then he returns to the main
ranch house. It takes him a week to make the round trip. He had
ridden in that morning with a message from Juan of Red Canon Camp.
The flock was being nightly attacked by wild animals, and, try as he
might, the herder had been unable to capture the invader.
“‘Of course even a sheep herder must sleep part of the time,’ Harry
declared as we rode through a valley that was covered with dry grama
grass. Close to the mountains we came to the herder’s hut, which
consisted of one earth-roofed adobe room, a stove, two bunks, a rude
table and bench were the only furnishings, while strings of dry red
peppers were the decorations. Juan was farther up the valley with
the flock, but toward sundown, he came driving the sheep into the
sheltered corral. Harry at once saw that something was wrong with
the herder. The faithful shepherd had broken his arm and was
enduring much pain, but he would not leave his flock until someone
came to care for it. Harry skilfully bandaged the broken arm and
then bade Juan ride at once to a physician in Red Riverton. He is to
leave now as soon as he has his supper, which Harry is preparing; so
I must end this letter that I may send it by Juan.
“Harry and I are going to take turns watching the flock. How I do
hope that I will be able to catch the wolf or mountain lion that is
killing the sheep. I would like to prove my gratitude to Mr. Wilson
by some helpful deed.
“Virginia, how may I show my gratitude to you? Will you let me know?
Your outlaw, Tom.”
“What an interesting letter!” Virginia exclaimed; “I am so glad that
the Wilsons are being so kind to him.”
Several days later the girls were surprised to receive another
letter from Tom. They were riding on the mesa trail when Slim came
from town with the mail. There were several letters for each of them
and so eager were they to read them that they dismounted and bidding
their ponies return to the home ranch, the girls sat on the
sun-warmed sand and looked over the mail.
“A letter from Babs!” Margaret exclaimed happily.
“And another from Tom, so soon!” Virginia said. “Which shall we read
first?”
“Tom’s, of course,” Margaret replied, “Babs won’t mind waiting.” So
Virg began to read aloud.
“Dear Virginia and Margaret: I have had such an exciting adventure
and I want to tell you about it. Last night Harry permitted me to
watch the flock, as he had done the night before, but without
discovering the invader. In fact, when he came to the cabin to
breakfast, he told me that nothing had happened to disturb the
sheep, and yet, an hour later, when he drove the flock to the valley
pasture we found that two of the best ewes had been killed on the
far north side, so it was there that I determined to hide and watch.
That part is nearest the Red Canyon which is a narrow gorge of red
rock leading into the mountains.
“I crouched in the shelter of an overhanging ledge behind a scrub
pine and waited. The hours dragged by but nothing happened. It must
have been about midnight when I thought that I heard soft, stealthy
footfalls as though made by padded feet. Too, the sheep nearest me
became fidgety and stood up facing the canyon. The wind evidently
had brought a scent to them that they feared.
“I arose, and leaning on one knee with my gun ready to fire, I
watched the opening of the canyon intently, expecting to see a dark
figure appear, or, cat-like eyes gleaming in the dark, but nothing
happened. Suddenly something impelled me to look up, and it was well
that I did, or I would not be writing this letter to you, for there
on the jutting ledge, was a lion crouched to spring, not at the
sheep, but at me. I whirled to shoot, but in that moment the
creature leaped. By turning, however, I had changed my position and
the lion leaped beyond me.
“Instantly it was upon me, however, but I had time to lift my gun,
and it leaped against the muzzle. ‘What if the gun should fail me?’
I thought, but it didn’t, and the lion fell over.
“I sat down again to wait for dawn, feeling none too secure, and
glancing often at the ledge over my head for where there is one
mountain lion, there might be another, but nothing happened, and
when day dawned, Harry rode over and found me sitting beside the
largest dead lion, he said, that he had ever seen. The creature had
torn the right sleeve almost out of my coat and my arm was scratched
but the sheep were all there.
“I tell you, Virginia, it makes a chap feel that he is not entirely
useless in this world when he can do something that really helps.
“We are back at the home ranch now; another herder, Josef Lopez,
having ridden in from Red Riverton to take Juan’s place for two
weeks. Little Francisco Quintano Mendoza is about to ride into town
with the mail, so I will say good-bye now. How I do hope, when he
returns, that he will have a letter for me from you. Greetings from
your outlaw, Tom.”
Virg paused and gazed intently at the signature.
Margaret inquired:
“What do you see, Virg? Hieroglyphics that you find hard to
decipher?”
“Well, it is something puzzling,” the western girl declared. “I
believe that Tom first signed another name to this letter, and then,
remembering that his real name was to be kept a secret, known only
to himself, he has carefully erased it, but even so there is a faint
lining of letters perceptible. How I do wish that we could make them
out, although, perhaps we ought not to pry into Tom’s secret if he
does not wish to share it with us.”
“May I look at the signature?” Megsy asked. Virginia gave her the
letter, and Margaret taking the sheet of paper held it up to the
sun.
After gazing at it intently for several seconds, she uttered a
squeal of excited delight. “Virginia,” she announced, “I am just
sure that I can make out the capital letter beginning the last name.
See! It’s a W, isn’t it? There can be no mistake as to that.”
Virginia also looked and although none of the others could be
recognized, she too, was convinced that the last name began the
letter her friend had mentioned.
Suddenly Margaret turned toward her, with eyes that glowed.
“Virginia Davis,” she exclaimed excitedly, “has it ever entered your
thought even remotely that our Tom might be Peyton Wente, the lost
brother of Babs?”
“Why no, dear. It never had,” Virginia replied. “Do you suppose that
it might be possible? And yet, if it were true, we wouldn’t want to
tell Babs that the brother whom she so adores is a fugitive from
justice.”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Margaret reluctantly admitted. Then, after a
thoughtful moment, she added, “but I would like to know for our own
sake, wouldn’t you, Virg?”
“Yes, I would,” the western girl agreed. “The more I know of Tom the
more I am convinced that he belongs to a refined family, and I also
believe there is a mistake about the mysterious something for which
he is an outlaw from Texas.”
“I know what let’s do,” Margaret exclaimed brightly, “let’s ask Babs
to send a photograph of her brother, telling her merely that many
lads drift West, lured by the fascination of life on the desert, and
that if her brother should happen to be among them, we would want to
be able to recognize him.”
“That will be a good plan,” Virginia agreed. “Now, suppose you read
the letter from Babs. I hope it isn’t feeling offended because it
has been kept waiting.”