Westy’s heart was wrung with pity when he saw the cottage! The whole
side facing the arbor was one sheet of flame and the arbor now existed
only in memory.
The two lone occupants were standing on the other side of the brook
surrounded by a few possessions they had been able to save. Lola cried
when she saw Westy.
“Did you get everything out? Are you hurt, either of you?” He reached
them breathless.
“No, not hurt.” The tears were rolling down her cheeks. “But, Westy,”
she sobbed, “we forgot the one thing that means most to us now!”
“What’s that?” he cried.
“An ebony case,” Mrs. Redmond cried, for Lola was too overcome with
emotion to talk. “It contains papers identifying us as kin of John
Redmond. Oh, dear,” the woman cried, “we haven’t much chance without
it!”
“Where is it?” Westy cried. “Quick!”
“You can’t get it--it’s probably gone now! It was right in the top
bedroom dresser drawer--the first one. I don’t know how I came to miss
it. Look!”
True, the place was a veritable inferno, but Westy rolled over in the
brook and soaked himself from head to foot and started into the cottage,
in spite of their protestations.
How he ever managed to keep his feet on the little rickety stairway he
didn’t know. It was seething with the heat.
The little upper floor was ablaze, and part of the floors had already
fallen, so Westy had to step warily. He didn’t need any light;
fortunately the flames were torch enough.
The flames were licking about the foot of the dresser as he opened the
drawer and found what he was after. Grasping the case, he put it inside
of his blouse and rushed for the stairway again. But it was no more than
a lot of burning spindles now and the lower floor with its quaint old
pioneer furniture was a helpless victim to the malevolent flames.
He ran to the window over the front door and climbed out and down on the
ivy-covered trellis now so dry that it crackled as his hands clung to
its support. As he jumped to the ground he faced the little white door
that had blown shut.
The little door, Westy thought, that had opened and shut to three
generations of Redmonds. A door that had felt the trample of little feet
over its threshold and stood open to let the sunshine into all their
lives and shut itself against the tempests.
It didn’t seem just, Westy thought, to shut in those memories; all the
hopes and fears that the years had brought and left behind. It wouldn’t
be fair to give up the spirit of all that love, faith and loyalty to the
merciless destroyer. So he opened the door.
The two homeless creatures grasped Westy’s hands in their gratitude and
he noticed that the worst of their grief was now passed. They seemed to
be resigned and watched their beloved little home gradually reduced to a
heap of burning embers, as the fire died out on the edge of the brook.
Westy felt a drop of rain on his forehead, then another, and as it
started to patter steadily on the dry leaves they arose from the ground.
Why couldn’t that have happened before? he thought. Fate always worked
things backwards, and he spoke his thoughts to Lola.
“No, not backwards,” she said gravely, “but for the best.”
Wonderful people, he told himself. Take life, death and laughter just as
it comes.
As they walked into the darkness toward the shack, Westy saw them
turn--a look on their faces as they viewed the desolate scene that
perplexed him. It seemed to be a look of relief, as though they had been
freed of the bonds that bound them to the past.
Joining him again, he heard Lola sigh wearily and wondered if it were
sleepiness or a sigh of doubt as to the future.
CHAPTER XLI—WESTY HAS A PART TO PLAY
They met Rip, his uncle and Billy before they were half way. As he told
them later, they’d make a fine lot of applicants for volunteer firemen,
sleeping as sound as that.
“Well, how did we know?” Rip asked; “you never let us know!”
Westy explained to them that time had been at a premium and so that part
of the matter was dropped.
It seemed to them all that the greatest sympathy they could give to the
unfortunate girl and her grandmother was silence.
Mr. Wilde suggested that nothing more be said until morning, and they
could make more plans then. They gave up the shack to the women and put
up their tents outside. It was almost dawn when they settled down for a
few winks.
When they awoke the sun was flooding their tents with a warm yellow
light. As Westy and Rip were dressing Mr. Wilde came in.
“We’ve got to leave here to-day, kids,” he said, “much as I hate to, but
I was thinking we could leave all our camping stuff. These people will
need it and all the food we have. We won’t need it again anyway in Santa
Fe.”
“But what are they going to do?” Westy asked. “I could tell last night
they’re about down to brass tacks.”
“That’s what I came in to tell you,” he continued. “I’m going to see to
it that they get a supply of food, but in the meantime a little
investigating is going to be done. Lola’s just promised to give me those
identification papers when we go. May not even have to use them, but
it’s best to have them in case they’re needed. She told me all that Old
Scout had said about it was true.”
Westy was keyed up to a high pitch of interest now.
“Now,” Mr. Wilde said seriously and at the same time wriggled the cigar
over to the other side of his mouth, “you, Westy, have your little part
to play in this, and if you fail I think some legal steps can be taken.”
“Oh, boy, that’s my middle name!” Westy was enthusiastic. “Where does my
part come in?”
“Just this: Lola told me that Paul Mitchell the third has a son just
about your age.”
“Well, what’s that got to do with me?”
“Nothing, only that he’s a Boy Scout!”