A WOODEN DOLL
The girls, with the lantern Jerry had given them, tip-toed through the
darkened hall to their bedroom. Mary placed the lantern on the table,
and, after having kissed the little wooden doll good night, she put it to
bed on a cushioned chair. She smiled wistfully up at Dora. “What is there
about even a poor forlorn homely wooden doll that stirs in one’s heart a
sort of mother love?”
“I guess you’ve answered your own question,” Dora replied in her
matter-of-fact tone. “I never felt that way about dolls. In fact, I never
owned one after the cradle-age.” Then, fearing that Mary would think that
she was critical of her sentiment, she hurried on to say, “I always
wanted tom-boy, noisy toys that I could romp around with.” Then, gazing
lovingly at Mary, she added, “Someday you’ll make a wonderful mother. I
hope you’ll want to name one of your little girls after me. How would
Dorabelle do?”
“Fine!” Mary smiled her approval of the name. “There must be four girls
so that the oldest may have my mother’s name and the other three be
called Dorabelle, Patsy and Polly. What’s more, I hope each one will grow
up to be just like her name-mother, if there is any such thing.”
A few moments later, when they were nestled in the soft bed, Dora asked
in a low voice, “What kind of a man would you like to marry?”
Mary’s thoughts had again wandered back to Little Bodil and so she
replied indifferently, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought that far. I
_do_ want a home and children, someday, of course, but first, for a
_long_ time, I hope, I’m going to keep house for Daddy.”
Dora was more than ever convinced that Mary thought of the cowboy merely
as the Big Brother, which so frequently she called him. However, before
entirely giving up, she asked, “If you have little boys, what will you
name _them_?”
Mary laughed, not at all suspecting her friend’s real reason for all the
questioning. “That’s an easy one to answer,” she said artlessly. “The
oldest, of course, will be named after Dad. The other two—if—why, Dick
and Jerry will do as well as any, and yet,” she paused and seemed to
think a bit, then merrily she said, “Dora, let’s postpone all this
christening for ten years at least. The fond father of the brood may want
to have a finger in the pie.”
Dora thought, “Mary’s voice sounds amused. Maybe she’s wise to my
scheming. I’d better soft pedal it, if I’m ever going to get at the
truth.”
Aloud she said with elaborate indifference—yawning to add to the effect,
“Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter. After all I had quite forgotten our
agreement to both remain old maids, me to teach school and you to keep
house for me.” Again she yawned, saying sleepily, “Good night and
pleasant dreams.”
It was daybreak when the girls woke up. Already there were sounds of
activity within and without. Barnyard fowls were clamoring, each in its
own way, for the breakfast which Dick was carrying to them.
Jerry—in the cow corral—was milking under difficulties as a long-legged
calf was noisily demanding a share.
From the kitchen came faintly the clatter of dishes, a sizzling sound and
a most appetizing fragrance of coffee, bacon and frying potatoes.
“Let’s get up and surprise the boys,” Mary whispered.
This they did and were in time to help pleased Mrs. Newcomb carry in the
hot viands.
Jerry and Dick welcomed them with delighted grins and Mr. Newcomb gave
them each a fatherly pat as he passed.
“How will you girls spend the morning?” Jerry inquired. “Dick and I have
branding to do and I reckon you wouldn’t care to ‘spectate’ as an old
cowboy we once had used to say.”
Mary shuddered. “I _certainly do not_,” she declared. “I hope branding
doesn’t hurt the poor calf half as much as it would hurt _me_ to watch
it.”
“The thing that gets me,” Dick, still a tenderfoot, commented, “is the
smell of burning hair and flesh. I can’t get used to it.” Then, glancing
half apologetically toward Mrs. Newcomb, he said, “Not a very nice
breakfast subject, is it?”
Placidly that good woman replied, “On a ranch one gets used to
unappetizing subjects—sort of like nurses do in hospitals, I suppose.
During meals is about all the time cowmen have to talk over what they’ve
been doing and make plans.”
“You haven’t told us yet what you’d like to do this morning,” Jerry said,
as he glanced fondly at the curly, sun-gold head close to his shoulder.
Mary replied, with a quick eager glance at the older woman, “Aunt Mollie,
can’t you make use of two very capable young women? We can sweep and dust
and—”
“No need to!” was the laughing reply. “Yesterday was clean-up day.”
“I can do some wicked churning,” Dora assured their hostess.
“No sour cream ready, dearie.” Then, realizing that the girls truly
wished to be of assistance, Mrs. Newcomb turned brightly toward her son.
“Jerry, I wish you’d saddle a couple of horses before you go. I’d like to
send a parcel over to Etta Dooley. What’s more, I’d like Mary and Dora to
meet Etta. She’s about your age, dear.” She had turned toward Mary. “A
fine girl, we think, but a mighty lonesome one, yet _never_ a word of
complaint. She has four to cook for—five counting herself—and beside
that, there’s the patching and the cleaning. Then in between times she’s
studying to try to pass the Douglas high school examinations, hoping
someday to be a teacher. You’ll both like Etta. Don’t you think they
will, Jerry?”
“Why, I reckon she’s likeable,” the cowboy said indifferently. He was
thinking how much more enthusiasm he could have put into that reply if
his mother had asked, “Etta will like Mary, won’t she, Jerry?” Rising, he
smiled down at the girl of whom he was thinking. “I’ll go and saddle
Dusky for you,” he told her. “She’s as easy riding as a rocking horse and
as pretty a creature as we ever had on _Bar N_.”
When the boys were gone, the girls insisted on washing the breakfast
dishes. Then they made their beds. As they expected, they found the
saddled ponies waiting for them near the side door.
Mrs. Newcomb gave Mary a flat, soft parcel. “Slip it over your saddle
horn, dear,” she suggested, “and tell Etta that the flannel in the parcel
is for her to make into nighties for Baby Bess.”
Dusky was as beautiful a horse as Jerry had said. Graceful,
slender-limbed, with a coat of soft gray-black velvet—the color of dusk.
Dora’s mount was named “Old Reliable.” Mrs. Newcomb smoothed its near
flank lovingly. “I used to ride this one all over the range, and even
into town, when we were both younger,” she told them.
The girls cantered leisurely down the cottonwood shaded lane and then
turned, not toward the right which led to the highway, but toward the
left on a rough canyon road that ascended gradually up a low tree-covered
mountain.
Brambly bushes grew along the trail showing that the ground was not
entirely dry. A curve in the road revealed the reason. A wide, stony
creek-bed was ahead of them, and, in the middle of it, was a
crystal-clear, rushing stream.
The horses waded through the water spatteringly. Old Reliable seemed not
to notice the little whirlpools at his feet, but Dusky put back his ears
and did a bit of side stepping. Mary, unafraid, spoke gently and patted
his glossy neck. With a graceful leap, the bank was reached. There was a
steep scramble for both horses; loose rock rattled down to the brook bed.
When they were on the rutty, climbing road again, Dora laughingly
remarked, “Dusky already knows the voice of his mistress.” If there was a
hidden meaning in Dora’s remark, Mary did not notice it, for what she
said was, “Dora, who would ever expect a cowboy to be poetic, but Jerry
surely was when he named this horse, don’t you think so?”
“Yeah!” Dora replied inelegantly. To herself she thought, “That may be a
hopeful sign, thinking Jerry is a poet in cowboy guise.”
“It’s lovely up this canyon road, isn’t it?” All unconsciously Mary was
gazing about her, contentedly drinking in the beauty of the cool,
shadowy, rocky places on either side. Aspen, ash and cottonwood trees
grew tall, their long roots drawing moisture from the tumbling brook.
Half a mile up the canyon there was a clearing, and in it stood a very
old log hut with adobe-filled cracks. A lean-to on one side had recently
been put up. In a small, fenced-in yard were a dozen hens, and down
nearer the brook was a garden patch. Two small, red-headed boys in
overalls were there busily weeding. Near them, on a grassy plot, a
spotted cow was tethered. Back of the house, hanging on a line, was a
rather nondescript wash, but, nevertheless, it was clean.
The front door stood open but no one was in sight. Mary and Dora, leaving
the road, turned their horses toward the small house.
“I feel sort of queer,” Mary said, “sort of story-bookish—coming to call
on a strange girl in this romantic canyon and—”
“Sh-ss!” Dora warned. “Someone’s coming to the door.”