THE LOST MESSAGE
The enthusiastic Margaret and the bubbling Babs galloped to the
place where Winona and Virginia, having drawn rein, were awaiting
them. Virg said:
“Winona has been telling me that she did not really have a message
for us, that is, nothing that could concern Tom. Red Feather had
chanced to capture a carrier pigeon which in some manner had been
hurt, and had been unable to continue its flight and deliver the
message that had been entrusted to its care.”
“Winona found a piece of brown paper wound about the bird’s leg and
securely fastened, but she was unable to read it. It was then that
she recalled having heard me say that brother Malcolm and I had
often sent messages to each other written in our secret code, and
she wondered if the carrier pigeon might belong to us, and so she
sent little Red Feather with the bit of brown paper. On his return
that night he lost it; he cannot think where, and that is why Winona
did not send him again to V. M. Brother and I never did possess a
carrier pigeon, and so, of course, the message could not be for me.”
“A pigeon will only carry a message back to its own home place,
isn’t that so, Virginia?” Margaret inquired.
“I believe that it is,” was the reply. Then turning to Winona she
said: “I would like to see that bird. May I?”
“Red Feather has it secured somewhere, I think,” the Indian girl
replied. “There he comes now. We will ask him.”
The little Indian boy with a jaunty red feather in the narrow band
that bound his shiny black hair close to his head, was racing toward
them while a small wolf-like puppy sprang up at him, barking
joyfully.
The girls dismounted and Virginia held out her right hand; then
turning to the interested Babs, she said: “Barbara, this is Red
Feather of whom you have heard. Perhaps he will shake hands with you
and Margaret.”
The bright, black eyes were lifted inquiringly toward Winona, and
then when she smilingly nodded at him, the little fellow extended
one hand, his usually solemn little face twinkling merrily as though
he were doing something unusual and amusing. This was evidently not
the Papago manner of greeting. Babs wondered if they rubbed noses
instead.
Winona spoke rapidly in a language strange to the Easterners and the
small boy listened attentively. Then, as though complying with the
Indian maiden’s request, he led the ponies away to the fenced-in
corral which was in the middle of the bowl-like valley and was
surrounded by the scattered adobe huts.
“Red Feather will return directly,” Winona told them, “and then he
will show us his pigeon.”
And, indeed, almost before it seemed possible, the Indian boy was
racing back, the puppy barking at his heels.
Then with the little fellow in the lead, they walked toward the wall
of rock on the north side of the village. There, in a small, high
hole in the cliff, Red Feather had the pigeon hidden. A strong cord
tied about one leg was securely fastened to a peg which had been
pounded into a nearby crevice.
Crushed corn had been scattered about within the bird’s reach.
“The wing does not seem broken.” Winona said. “I think the bird flew
against the wall of rock, and for a time was stunned, do you say?”
She glanced inquiringly at Virginia, who nodded. “I wish we might
find the message,” Virg said. “If it were in Spanish I could read
it.”
“We may find it,” Winona replied, “but come and I will give you your
supper.”
“My father, Chief Grey Hawk, is away hunting with several of our
men,” the Indian girl told them as they walked back to the village,
“and so I am alone in my home. There is one wide bed and in it you
three shall sleep unless you would rather have another house by
yourselves.”
“Oh, no, no,” Babs heard herself saying eagerly. “Please, Winona,
let us stay with you.”
The Indian maiden smiled. This pretty, bubbling girl was so
different from anyone whom she had met before. “I’d like to have you
stay with me. This is my home. Let us go indoors.”
Babs glanced about the one large room with eager curiosity. The
house they had entered was more pretentious than the others in the
village, but that was natural, she decided, since it was the home of
the chief.
“Oh, Megsy, what adorable rugs are on this stone floor,” Babs said
softly, “and what warm, sunny colors are in the blankets on the
walls, and oh, oh, if there isn’t a fireplace! And that queer-shaped
red pottery, and those blankets! I truly never saw anything more
artistic than this room. Why, I don’t feel skeery at all.”
Winona had gone out of a rear door, and Virginia, who had followed
her, soon called to the others. “If you want to see Winona’s
bake-oven, come out here.”
The rounding-topped stone oven in the dooryard was evidently used by
all the neighboring women, and one buxom young mother, with a
papoose strapped to her back, was busy even then making corn cakes.
Winona said something in her own tongue, and the young matron
nodded. The Indian maiden seemed pleased with the reply she had
received, and, going indoors, soon returned with a tray of basket
weave which she held out while the young matron heaped it high with
corn cakes, steaming hot, that had just been taken from the oven.
“Oh, good! Are they for us?” Babs exclaimed. The young matron did
not understand the words, but she beamed, being sure that whatever
had been said was in appreciation of her cooking.
“Supper will be served sooner than I had expected,” Winona told them
as they returned to the house. “Red Feather will bring milk. He and
his older brother, Eagle Eyes, have gone to the upper end of the
valley after the goats.”
“Here he is now!” Barbara exclaimed five minutes later as the little
fellow appeared in the open door and set on the floor a large
earthen jug that was nearly full of creamy milk.
Winona gave each of the girls a quaint red mug and Babs exclaimed,
“Oh, Winona, you have such adorable things! I love this room of
yours. I wish I had one just like it.”
The Indian maiden knew, that bubbling as Babs might be, she was also
sincere and so she smilingly replied, “I, too, like it. I shall
remain here for a time that I may teach my people, and then I want
to go away and learn more in the world from which you have come.”
“We’ll all go together!” Virginia said as they sat about the
fireplace, tailor-wise, on the floor, and ate the hot corn cakes and
drank the creamy milk.
“Who knows? Queer things do happen!” Margaret commented
meditatively.
Suddenly there was a cry of delight from Virginia. The others looked
at her in surprise. She was pointing and they followed her gaze.
Under a corner of the rug was caught a piece of brown paper and
there was scrawly writing upon it.
“The message!” Virg exclaimed, springing up. “Oh, how I do hope I
will be able to decipher it.”
Virginia gazed intently for one silent moment at the bit of soiled
brown paper, the others eagerly watching and waiting. Babs stood by
the side of the western girl and peered at the scrawl which meant
nothing to her. The others did likewise. “Can you read it, Virg?”
Margaret inquired at last.
The girl addressed, shook her head. “Not easily,” she said. “The
writing is very difficult to make out. However, I am sure that the
words are Spanish but the letters are so queerly made it may take me
a long time to decipher it.”
“Why not leave it until morning” Winona suggested. “It will soon be
dark and I was going to invite you girls to climb with me to the top
of the cliff trail to watch the sun set and the stars come out. Of
course sunsets are beautiful anywhere on the desert, but I do feel
that my own particular sunset view is a little more wonderful than
any other that I have ever seen.”
“Let us go then,” Virginia said as she refolded the bit of brown
paper and placed it in her pocket, “since this message can have
nothing whatever to do with us or our friends, I will postpone
trying to decipher the very queer writing until there is more light.
Lead on, Winona, and we will follow.”
As the girls wandered through the Indian village, many unkempt
little wolf-like children paused in their antics to gaze wide-eyed
at the “white face” maidens whom they seemed to regard with awe as
though they were beings supernatural.
“Poor little kiddies!” Babs said softly to Margaret, “I wonder if
they really know how to play.” Approaching the group nearest, she
asked, “Little folks, do you know how to play ‘Ring-around-a-rosie?”
Of course they could not understand, and the smiling Winona came to
be interpreter. Then the oldest of the children, looking eagerly at
Babs, prattled something in her own tongue. “Will you play it with
them, Sunny Day wishes to know.”
“Indeed I will,” Babs replied. “You three girls may climb the cliff
trail and look at the sunset. I’d a heap rather romp with these
solemn-eyed babies. I want to see them smile and hear them laugh.”
And so Babs, in pantomime, explained the merry game and soon had
those Papago children whirling about and shouting as gleefully as
their leader could desire.
The other three girls often looked back as they climbed the cliff
trail.
“Who is Barbara?” Winona asked. “I never heard you speak of her,
Virginia.”
“That is because Virginia never knew her,” Margaret replied. “Babs
was my roommate at boarding school. She is such a dear, lovable
girl, but, though she seems happy-hearted, she is always grieving
for her lost brother. She cares more for him than for any one else
in the whole world, but it is so long since she has heard from him,
she believes him to be dead.”
“Poor girl!” Winona said as they paused on the summit. “I know what
it is to be lonely, oh so alone,” and the others glancing at the
beautiful face of the Indian maiden suddenly realized how truly
lonely she must be, for no one dwelling in the Papago village could
understand her aspirations nor did they really appreciate what she
was giving up that she might help them, but Virginia understood,
and, slipping an arm about her friend she held her close, then she
reached out a hand to Margaret, and so, together, they stood
watching the glowing west until the colors had faded and the first
star of evening twinkled faint and far.
“It will be a wonderful day tomorrow,” Virginia said softly, little
dreaming how truly wonderful the next day was to be.