AN UNCANNY EXPERIENCE
At the foot of the trail that led up the mountain, Dan, who had been in
the lead with Meg, called: "Jean, we're waiting for you to go ahead,
since you have so often ridden this trail."
The boy, who had been silently riding at Jane's side whenever it had been
possible, turned to ask: "Will you ride on ahead with me?"
The girl tried to smile at him, but her lips quivered. "No, thank you,
Jean. I think I will stay with Merry."
A boyish voice called, "Ask me and hear what I'll say." It was Bob, and
before Jean could express a desire for his companionship, the black horse
which the younger lad rode was scrambling up the rocky trail following
the leader. Julie and Gerald, on their agile ponies, were next; Meg and
Dan followed, while Jane and Merry rode more slowly, each putting her
entire trust in the horse on which she was mounted. "We do not need to
try to guide them," Merry had said. "Jean told me that the horses climb
best without direction. Just pull up on the rein if it should happen to
stumble."
Bob's enthusiasm over all he saw was given such constant expression that
Jane's silence was not so noticeable. Dan, now and then, glanced back
anxiously. He also had noted Jean's apparent devotion to Merry on the two
days previous, and he wondered if it had saddened Jane, and yet she had
never said that she really cared for Jean.
When they reached a wide rock plateau their guide whirled in his saddle
to ask if any of the riders were tired and wished to rest for a while,
but they all preferred to keep on. A few moments later they were passing
through the deserted mining camp. There was not a breath of wind stirring
and the only sounds they heard were the humming of insects and now and
then a bird song.
The cabins, many of them falling into ruins, looked as though they might
be haunted with ghosts of the men who had given their lives trying to
find gold. "Say, boy!" Bob drew rein to look about him. "This places
gives one the shivers, all right! At any minute I expect to hear a ghost
groan or----"
"Hark! What was that?" Merry interrupted. "I _did_ hear a groan! I am
positive that I did." They all listened and there was no mistaking the
fact that a groaning noise was coming from a cabin that stood near a deep
pit beside which was a pile of red and yellow ore.
"What do you suppose it is, since we know there is no such thing as a
ghost?" Dan turned toward Meg to inquire. Surely the mountain girl would
know.
But it was Jean who replied: "Don't you believe that some wounded animal
may have dragged itself into the cabin to die? They always _do_ try to
hide away when they are hurt, don't they, Meg?"
The girl nodded, her sweet face serious as she said: "I will ride over
and see what it is. A moan like that always means that some creature
needs help."
"You must not go alone," Dan told her. "I will ride over there with you."
Meg turned to the others. "Please wait here," she said. "If it is a hurt
animal, so many of us would frighten it."
In silence the group waited, watching the two who rode toward the yawning
pit. When they were near the place, Meg dismounted and Dan did likewise.
Together they approached the door of the isolated cabin. Dan swung his
gun from his shoulder and held it in readiness if harm were to threaten
them. Meg glanced at the door, then turning, motioned the lad to put up
his gun. Wondering what the girl had seen, the boy hastened to her side.
Meg entered the old cabin and Dan, standing at the door, saw on the
rotting floor the twisted form of the old Ute Indian.
His wrinkled, leathery face showed how cruelly he was suffering, but when
he saw Meg, who at once knelt at his side, his expression changed to one
of eagerness, almost of gladness. He tried to reach out his shriveled
arm, but groaned instead.
Dan stepped inside and looked down pityingly. Meg, glancing up with tears
in her wonderful eyes, said, "Poor old Ute. He has had another stroke,
and this one is his last." They both knew that the old Indian was making
a great effort to speak, and the lad bent to whisper, "Perhaps he is
trying to tell you something."
"Oh, if he only would! If he only could." Meg was rubbing the poor limp
hand that was crusted with dirt in her own. Then, close to his ear, she
asked clearly: "Could you tell me about my father?"
Again there was a lightening of the eyes that were beginning to dim.
"Fadder he die--hid box----. Dig, dig, no find box. _You_ find box, then
you know----" The old Ute could say no more, for another contortion had
seized him and it was the last.
Meg was trembling so that Dan had to assist her to rise. The others,
having been eager to know what had happened, had approached the cabin and
dismounted. Jane saw that, for the first time in their acquaintance, the
mountain girl was nearly overcome with emotion, and going to her, she
slipped an arm about her, saying sincerely, "Meg, dear, what is it? Can
we help you?" But almost at once Meg regained at least outward composure.
"It is the old Ute Indian who has died," she told them. "How thankful I
am that we came this way, for he has told me about my father. Perhaps I
shall know more, but that much is enough."
Turning back, she looked thoughtfully at the cabin, then said, "Dan, will
you help me bar the door that no wild creature can get in? The windows
were long ago boarded up. The old Ute shall have it for his tomb."
When this was done, a solemn group of young people rode away. Meg said
little, and Dan, riding at her side, understood her thoughtfulness. When
the Abbott cabin was reached, Meg said goodbye to the friends who were to
remain there, but Dan insisted upon accompanying her to her home.
When they were quite alone the lad rode close to her, and placed a hand
on hers as he said, "Meg, dear, how much, how very much this means to
you."
Such a wonderful light there was in the dusky eyes that were lifted to
his. "O, Dan, _now_ I can feel that I have a right to accept your
friendship; yours and Jane's." But with sincere feeling the lad replied:
"It is for your sake only that I am glad. Your parentage mattered not at
all to me, nor, of late, has it to Jane." Then, although Dan had not
planned on speaking so soon, he heard himself saying: "Meg, you are all
to me that my most idealistic dreams could picture for the girl I would
wish to marry. Do you think that some day you might care for me if I
regain my health and am able to make a home for you?"
There was infinite tenderness in the dark eyes, but the girl shook her
head. "Your companionship means very much to me, Dan, but I must teach. I
want to care for the two old people who took me in out of the storm and
who have given me all that I have had."
"You shall, dearest girl. That is, _we_ shall, if you will let me help
you."
Then before Meg could refuse, Dan implored, "Don't answer me yet. I can
wait if you will _try_ to love me." They had reached the cabin and saw Ma
Heger, wiping sudsy hands on her apron, hurrying out to greet them. Dan
detained the girl. "Promise me that you will try to care," he pleaded. "I
won't have to try," she said, then turned to greet the angular woman who
had been the only mother she had ever known.