MEG'S CONFIDENCE
As soon as Dan was near enough to see Meg's face, he knew that all was
well. Leaping from the back of the dusty gray horse, he went forward with
both hands outheld. "Miss Heger," he cried, and his voice was tense with
emotion, "how can I, how are we ever going to thank you for what you have
done for us today?"
The girl's radiant smile flashed up at him. "Be my friend," she said
simply, and, as the lad stood there looking deep into those wonderful
dark eyes, he seemed to feel that no greater privilege could be accorded
him than to be permitted to be the friend of this courageous, rarely
beautiful mountain girl.
But she did not give him the opportunity to voice his feeling, for at
once she said in a matter-of-fact tone: "Wasn't I lucky to reach the
county court-house at five minutes to five? Pal and I have been
congratulating each other all the way home."
"Poor Pal!" Dan stroked the drooping head of the faithful little animal
which had raced down the rough mountain road as he had never raced
before. Then, quite irrelevantly, the youth asked: "Would you mind if I
call you Margaret? It fits you better than Meg." Instantly Dan was sorry
he had made the request, for he saw the sudden clouding of the girl's
brow. The joyousness of the moment before was gone and when she spoke
there was a note of sorrow in her voice. "Mr. Abbott," she began with
sweet seriousness, "I forgot when I said that your friendship would be
the reward I would ask, yours and Julie's and Gerald's--I forgot who I
am, or rather that I do not know who my parents were. My real name is not
Meg. Mammy Heger called me that after a little sister of hers who had
died when a baby. Mammy loved that other Meg and so it meant a great deal
to her to call me by that name." Then, sighing wistfully: "I wish I knew
my real name," she concluded.
Dan took her hand in a firm, friendly clasp as he said earnestly: "Meg
Heger, I don't care what your name is, I don't care who your parents
were. I care only to be your friend, your very best. Of course I would
not wish to call you Margaret since it would be displeasing to you."
The girl withdrew her hand, replying: "Call me Meg. I'm used to that and
hearing it won't make me think. Oh, I've thought about it all so long and
so much!"
Then as they started walking side by side, leading their horses, the girl
confided: "Next month, when I am eighteen, Teacher Bellows, Pa Heger and
I are going to start on a long, hard trip. We're going to find, if we
can, the tribe that was living in the deserted mining town on Crazy Creek
the year that I was brought to the Heger cabin." How her dark face
brightened, and Dan realized that he had never dreamed that anyone could
be so beautiful. "If we find them, then I shall know," she concluded. For
a few moments they walked on in silence. "If they tell me I am the
daughter of----" The girl hesitated as though dreading to utter the name
of Slinking Coyote, then began again, "If I am a member of their tribe, I
shall live near them and help them. I shall be a teacher to their
children. It will be my duty. But if, as Pa Heger and Teacher Bellows
think, my parents were of a foreign race, my future will be different."
Dan, knowing how deeply humiliating the conversation must be for the girl
and wishing to change the subject, exclaimed: "How stupid of me! I
brought Bag-o'-Bones down for you to ride. You must be very tired after
your wild race to Scarsburg."
The girl smiled gratefully. "I believe I am very, very tired," she
confessed, "which happens but seldom. I had thought that I was tireless."
They soon reached the road in front of the Abbotts' cabin and Meg bade
Dan take from the pony's saddle bags the papers and receipts. Although he
pleaded to be permitted to accompany her to her home, she shook her head.
"You haven't had your supper and it is very late." Then impulsively she
reached down her brown hand as she said with an almost tremulous smile:
"Good-night, my friend."
It was early dusk when Jane, still sitting on the porch of their cabin
intently listening, heard voices and the clattering of slow-moving horses
along the mountain road below the bend. She leaped to her feet, her
breath came with nervous quickness, she pressed her hand to her heart.
Oh, what if Meg had been too late. Before she could decide what she ought
to do, she heard Dan's voice calling to the mountain girl, who was
evidently not stopping. Jane ran to the top of the stone stairway. How
ungrateful it must have seemed for her not to have been there to thank
Meg for the effort she had made, whether or not it was successful. But
Dan was leaping up the steps, two at a time, his face radiant.
Jane thought that all of his joyousness was caused by the message he was
shouting to her: "Sister, that wonderful girl reached there on time! Our
cabin is saved for us! How can we ever thank her?"
Jane, who had never been so upset by anything before in her protected
life, clung to her brother almost hysterically. "Oh, Dan, Dan, I am so
thankful! Do you think Meg Heger will ever forgive me? I was so rude to
her when she first came."
The lad was serious at once. "I do not know that she will," he replied as
he recalled that the mountain girl had said the reward she requested was
the friendship of all the Abbotts except Jane.
It was hard not to rebuke his sister for her foolish pride, but she was
trembling as she clung to him, and so he encircled her with his arm as he
said hopefully: "Meg is too fine a girl to hold a grudge when she finds
out that your heart has changed."
Jane said nothing, but she suddenly wondered if, in reality, her heart
had changed. Now that the taxes were paid and the hours of anxiety were
over, she was not sure that she cared to begin an intimate friendship
with a "halfbreed," merely to show her gratitude, but even as she was
conscious of this shrinking, the voice of her soul told her that she was
despicable.
The children, who had been on the kitchen porch, hearing Dan's voice,
rushed out, but Jane delayed him long enough to whisper: "They know
nothing of what has happened. Please do not tell them."
Gerald was the first to reach them, and he cried, rebukingly: "Dan, why
did you go horseback riding without taking me. I saw you go by an hour
ago. I'm just wild to learn to ride that Bag-o'-Bones. Do you think Mr.
Heger will let me?"
Dan realized that the younger members of their family thought he had
merely been for a horseback ride, and so he made no further explanation,
replying gayly: "Indeed I do! But I think you would better take your
first lesson on the level. Wait until we go down to the Packard ranch.
You remember that good friend of ours told us that he had forty horses
and many of them were broken to the saddle."
Julie clapped her hands as she hopped up and down gleefully. "Me, too!"
she cried ungrammatically. "Mr. Packard said he had a little spotted
horse, just the right size for me. When are we going down there, Dan?"
The older lad glanced at his sister. "Did you say that we are to go next
Sunday?" The girl nodded, but the boy looked perplexed. "But how?" he
queried. "If we went to Redfords by the stage, how are we to get to the
Packard ranch? And we couldn't possibly return on the same day."
Jane thought for a moment, then she looked up brightly. "I recall now.
Jean Sawyer said that we would hear from Mr. Packard during the week."
Then she smilingly confessed: "I was so pleased to find the foreman
different--I mean--one of our own class--that----"
Gerald, noting the blushes, pointed a chubby finger at his sister as he
sing-songed: "Jane likes Jean Sawyer extra-special."
It was Julie, knowing that her sister did not like to be teased, who came
to the rescue by saying emphatically: "So do I like Jean Sawyer
extra-special; and I know what girl you like best, Gerald Abbott. It's
Meg Heger; so now."
The small boy grinned his agreement. "Bet you I do," he confessed.
Dan said nothing, but by the warm glow in his heart at the mention of the
mountain girl's name, he knew that he also liked Meg Heger extra-special.