MEG HEGER
To the surprise of the young people, almost as soon as the sun had set,
night descended upon them. Dan had helped the children clean the lamps
and lanterns. Their grandmother, at their father's prompting, had
remembered to put kerosene on their list and also candles.
Jane chose one of the latter to light her to bed. She simply detested
kerosene lamps, she declared when Dan had asked if she didn't want to sit
up with them a little while and read some of the books their father and
mother had left in the cabin. "No, thank you!" had been the emphatic
refusal. "The nights here are bitterly cold. In bed at least I can keep
warm."
"Gee-whiliker," Gerald said when the girl to whom everything seemed
distasteful had retired. "Ain't she a wet blanket?"
Before Dan could rebuke him for criticizing his elders, Julie burst in
with, "Why, Gerry Abbott, didn't you promise Dad you wouldn't ever say
ain't, and there you said it."
The boy squirmed uncomfortably. "It's an awful long time since I said it
before," he tried to excuse himself. "I bet you I won't do it again. You
see if I do."
Dan was looking at the empty hearth. "We should have cut some wood and
had a roaring fire tonight. Let's do it tomorrow and make it more
cheerful for Jane, if----" He paused as though he had said more than he
had intended, but his alert companions would not let a sentence go
unfinished.
"If what, Dan?" Julie asked curiously.
The boy was not yet ready to tell, even these two, that he might think it
best to start Jane and Julie on their homeward way the next day. He knew
that the older girl would be overjoyed, but the younger would be so
disappointed that it seemed almost a cruel thing to contemplate. "I'll
tell you tomorrow noon," he compromised, when he saw both pairs of eyes
watching him as though awaiting his answer.
In a very short time the children were nodding sleepily and Dan was glad
when Julie took a candle and Gerry a lantern and bade him good-night.
"We're going to get up to see the sunrise," Julie said.
"If you wake up," Dan laughingly told them. Then, putting out the
remaining lights, he, too, retired to his cot on the porch. He placed his
loaded gun in the corner, back of him, where it could not be reached by
anyone else without awakening him.
For long hours he lay with wide eyes watching the sky, which seemed to be
a canopy close above him, brilliant with stars. A slight wind kept the
mosquitos away and, as it rustled through the pine boughs that were so
near, a sense of peace stole into his heart--his fears were banished and
he seemed to know that all was well.
It was long after sunrise when he wakened and no one else was astir in
the cabin. Very quietly he arose and dressed. Then he went to the
kitchen, and a fragrance of coffee was what finally awakened the two
children. They bounded from bed, ashamed of their laziness, and when they
joined their big brother he had a good breakfast spread on the table in
their out-of-door dining-room.
"Julie, will you see if Jane is awake?" the older lad asked, and the
small girl cautiously opened the door into her sister's room. Then she
entered and went to the bedside. "You've got one of your dreadful
headaches, haven't you, Janey?" The younger girl was all compassion. She
knew well how Jane suffered when these infrequent headaches came. What
she did not know was that they always followed a spell of anger or of
worry. "I'll draw the curtains over this window so the sun can't come in
and I'll fetch you your breakfast."
Julie liked nothing better than to be mothering someone, but Jane showed
no sign of appreciation. Her only comment was, "Have the coffee hot."
Dan was sorry to hear that Jane had neuralgia, and, from past experience,
he knew that she would be unable to travel that afternoon, and so she
would be obliged to wait until the following Tuesday, when the stage
would again pass that way. He felt elated at the thought, but first he
must find out if it were safe for the girls to remain. Directly after
breakfast he drew Gerald aside and asked him if he would stay at the
cabin while he (Dan) went up the mountain road to interview the trapper.
Although the small boy would much rather have accompanied Dan, he always
wanted to do his share, and so he consented to remain.
Dan waited until he was sure that Meg Heger had passed on her way to the
Redfords school before he began the ascent of the mountain road. He could
not have explained to himself why he did not want to meet the girl. It
might have been a feeling that he had lacked in chivalry on the day
before, when he had listened to the conversation in which she had
probably revealed a secret which she would not wish strangers to share.
He sauntered along by the brook, his gun over his shoulder, stopping
every few feet to examine some rock or growth or just to gaze out over
the valley, seeing new pictures at each changed position.
It was a glorious morning, but with the invigorating chill yet in the
air. He breathed deeply and walked with shoulders thrown back. Birds sang
to him, squirrels in the pine boughs over his head, or scurrying among
the dry soft carpet of needles, chattered at him; some were curious, many
were scolding, but he laughingly told them that he was a comrade. He
stopped on a level with one protesting bushy-tailed fellow to say, "Mr.
Bright-Eyes, I wouldn't harm you, not for anything! This gun is merely to
be used on something that would harm me, if it got the chance first. I
don't believe in taking life from a little wild creature that enjoys
living just as much as I do." Then, as he continued his walk, he thought,
"I must tell Gerry not to kill any harmless creature unless we need it
for food."
Coming to a sudden sharp descent of about fifteen feet, he saw that the
brook became a waterfall and just below it was a large pool which would
make an excellent swimming hole. The water was as clear as crystal and
was held in a smooth, red rock basin. After standing for some time,
watching the joyous waterfall on which broken sunlight flashed, the lad
glanced at his watch. It was after nine and so he could safely take to
the road without fear of encountering the mountain girl. She was surely,
by now, reciting to that kindly old man, Teacher Bellows. After another
downward scramble, the road was reached. The ascent was gradual and Dan's
thoughts wandered on without his conscious direction. He wondered how
that mountain girl had happened to have a thirst for knowledge. That, in
itself, proved to him that the old Ute was not her father, but, if he
were not, why did he pretend that he was? What could be his reason? To
obtain what money he could by making her think it her duty to help care
for him. Dan had just decided this to be the most plausible explanation
of the whole thing, when he was greatly startled by hearing the sudden
report of a gun from the high rocks at his right. He looked up and beheld
the girl about whom he had been thinking, every muscle tense, a smoking
gun still against her shoulder. It was pointed at the bushes directly at
his left. "Don't you move!" she shouted the warning. "Maybe I didn't kill
it."
Dan whirled toward the rocks and low-growing bushes at his left and what
he saw reassured him. A mountain lion lay there, evidently dead, its
position showing that it had been just about to spring upon him. He
turned to thank the girl, but she had disappeared. She, too, had
evidently been convinced that the animal was dead. On examining it
closer, the boy saw that the bullet had entered the creature's head at a
most vulnerable spot, and being thus assured that it was not playing
possum, he went on his way.
Already Meg Heger had won a right to his chivalry. She had saved his
life. How he wished that in turn he might do something to save her from
her tormentor.