MYSTERIES HALF SOLVED
"It didn't take us long to get to Crazy Creek Camp, I can tell you." Bob,
glancing from one to another of the group about the fireplace, saw in
each face an eager interest in the tale he had to tell. But in Meg's face
there was more than interest, and suddenly Bob realized that the finding
of the lost box was of vital importance to the mountain girl, while, to
him, it had been merely an exciting adventure, the mystery of which had
lured him on.
After a thoughtful moment, he continued: "We found most of the cabins
unnumbered, or, if they had once been so marked, time and storms had done
away with the numerals. But we did find a tunnel above which the figures
10 had been chipped out of solid stone. The opening of the small tunnel
was closed, however, by red rocks that had fallen evidently in a
landslide. I suggested that we lift them away one by one, but Gerry
thought it a waste of time as the carving on the handle had been 'Cabin
10' and not Tunnel 10. But I was not so sure, and so we went to work and
in half an hour we had an opening large enough to enter one at a time. I
had my flashlight with me, and stooping, I looked in. Strangely enough, I
saw a faint gleam of daylight at the other end."
Bob paused and glanced about the group to make sure that they were all
properly curious before he continued: "The tunnel was not high enough for
even Gerry to stand in erect and so on all fours we crept through it.
Since the opening had been stopped up I did not fear meeting wild
creatures, but as we neared the other end, the daylight grew brighter and
then to our great surprise we came out upon a wide ledge which hung there
in the most dizzying manner. On it was a rustic cabin, and back of that a
fenced-in dooryard. Surely, we decided, this was Cabin 10. There was no
way of reaching it except through the tunnel, as the mountain wall was
almost perpendicular above and below the ledge.
"We were greatly elated and at once tried the door and found it unlocked.
There was only one room and it looked like the den of a student. Books
and papers were everywhere in evidence; dust-covered and yellowed with
the years. On the desk a bottle of dried ink was uncorked and a rusted
pen lying there seemed to indicate that someone had suddenly stopped
writing, and, for some reason, had never again taken up the pen. As
further proof of this we found a letter which was lying near, with even
the last sentence unfinished. It is addressed to 'My dear petite
daughter--Eulalie.' We didn't stop to read it because it was getting late
and so we started for home."
Meg, no longer able to keep silent, leaned forward, asking eagerly, "Bob,
may I see the letter that my father left for me?"
"_Your father?_" Jane and Merry exclaimed almost simultaneously. Even
then Meg's calm was not outwardly disturbed.
"Yes," she said, turning her wonderful eyes toward her friends. In them
the girls saw an expression of radiant happiness which told them more
than words could how great was Meg's joy that she had at last learned who
her father really was. Jane and Merry were perplexed. How did Meg know?
Their question was answered before it was asked. "I should have told you
girls this afternoon. When Dan spoke the name that he had found carved on
the handle of the old shovel, instantly memory recalled to me that, as a
very small child, I had been taught to lisp that my name was Lalie
Giguette."
"O Meg, what a beautiful name. May we begin at once to call you Eulalie?"
The mountain girl smiled at Jane. "If you wish, dear friend." She then
held out her hand for the letter which Bob had gone to his sweater coat
to procure.
"We found several books with your father's name on them as author," the
boy informed her, and the girl looked up brightly to say, "O, I am so
glad! Did you bring them?"
"No," Bob replied, "we thought perhaps you would like to visit the cabin
and find everything there just as he left it."
"I would indeed!" Meg rose, and going to the center table, she spread the
letter under the hanging lamp. After a moment's scrutiny, she turned
toward the silently waiting group. "It is clearly written," she said. "I
will read it aloud:
"'To my dear petite daughter Eulalie,'" Meg read,
"'Poor little wee lassie! Not yet three and no one to care for you. I
shall try to get back to New York before the end comes, but there is no
one, not even in France, where I lived as a boy. All--all are dead.
"'But you will want to know much and I will be gone when you are old
enough to question. When I was twenty-one I came to New York and married
a girl who was as all alone as I. We were very happy, but my loved one,
your mother, died when you were born. For a long year I grieved until my
health was broken. For your sake, Lalie, I followed my doctor's advice
and came to the Rocky Mountains. I was about to put you in a convent
school, but you clung to me and would not loosen your hold. I feared I
had not long to live and I did so want you with me, hence I brought you
here. But if I do not get stronger soon, I will take you back to the kind
sisters, who will make you a home.
"'We reached this deserted mining camp after weeks of wandering and I
built for us a cabin where we could be alone and unmolested. At last my
lost ambition had returned. I wrote the book of my dreams and sent it to
my publisher in New York. I hope, dear little daughter, that it will be a
success for your sake, but as yet I do not know.'"
Meg looked up and her dusky eyes were filled with tears. "That is all on
the first sheet," she said. "The next was written at a later date." Then
again she read:
"'A tribe of Ute Indians has taken possession of the deserted cabins in
the camp, but, as there is little game hereabouts, I doubt if they will
long remain.'
"Two weeks later: 'I have not been as well as I had hoped to be. I did
very wrong to spend so many hours writing my dream book, but now that it
is completed I will write no more until I am stronger. Every day with a
pick and shovel I dig in different places for recreation and exercise,
endeavoring to find the fabled gold mine, the vein of which was lost, or
so I have been told by an occasional miner who has passed this way.
Before starting out I take you each afternoon to the cabin of a most
kindly squaw who understands some English and since I pay her well, she
is willing to care for you during my absence.'"
For a long moment Meg ceased reading and Dan, noting that her hands
trembled, went to her side, saying with tender solicitude: "Dear girl,
what is it? I fear that reading aloud this letter from your father is
very hard for you. Wouldn't you rather read it to yourself?" The girl
lifted tear-filled eyes. "It isn't that, Dan," she said. "I want to share
it with my friends who are so loving and loyal, but I cannot decipher the
rest."
There was a faded blur on the paper as though the pen had fallen. Then it
had evidently been picked up again, but the scrawled letters that
followed were very hard to read. Slowly the girl deciphered: "Lalie, when
you are eighteen, get box ----" Then there was another blot and the pen
had evidently rolled across the paper.
The girl held the letter up to Dan. "I fear we will never know where the
box is," she said, "for that is all."
But the lad, after scrutinizing the sheet, held it up to the light.
"There is more written, but evidently a drop of ink spread over it.
Gerry, bring the magnifying glass." The small boy, glad to be of
assistance, leaped to get it. Dan gazed through it for a long five
minutes. Then he began to name the letters, and Bob, who had seized a
pencil and paper, wrote them down. "_B-a-n-k._" Dan glanced questioningly
at Meg. "What kind of a bank do you suppose it means?" Then to Bob: "Were
there any banks of dirt near the cabin?" That lad shook his head.
Jane suggested: "Would it not be more natural to suppose it to be a New
York bank, since that had been Mr. Giguette's home for years?"
They all decided this to be true. Then Merry asked: "Meg, or may I say
Eulalie, are you willing that I should wire my father all that we know?
He is a lawyer in New York and be will gladly find out what he can."
How the dusky face brightened. "Oh, thank you, Merry. Please do!" Then,
rising, the mountain girl held out both hands to Jane and Merry. "I must
go now," she said, "to the dear old couple who have been all the father
and mother I have ever known."
Dan accompanied Meg up the winding mountain road.