IT WAS A CLUE
Jackie wakened and opened wondering eyes at the moment when a kind-faced
woman in nun’s garb entered from an inner corridor. With a glad cry he
slipped from Jerry and ran with arms outstretched.
The young people rose and waited, sure that this woman, who had stooped
to comfort the sobbing child, must be the Sister Theresa to whom he had
been given. She was evidently questioning him and brokenly he was telling
that the robbers had carried him off and that Granddad was dead.
She lifted a sorrowful face toward the strange young people and without
questioning their identity, she said, “It was very kind of you all to
bring Jackie to me. Did Mr. Weston send me a message?”
Jerry, realizing that formal introductions were unnecessary at a time
like this, replied, “Yes, Sister Theresa. The old man was so nearly dead
when we found him in an arroyo over near ‘The Dragoons’ that he could say
little. However, he _did_ give Jackie to you.”
The nun had seated herself and had motioned the others to do likewise.
The boy, standing at her side, was looking up into her face with
tear-filled, anxious eyes.
“Poor little fellow,” she said. “His life has been full of fear, but now,
if those tormentors of his grandfather are in prison, he will be free of
the constant dread of being kidnapped.”
“Sister Theresa,” Mary leaned forward to ask, “_why_ did those cruel men
wish to harm so helpless a child?”
The nun shook her head sadly. “It is a long story,” she said, “and one
that causes me much pain to recall, but I will tell you. Years ago this
good man, who had the largest cattle ranch in these parts, was riding
over the mountains carrying about his person large sums of money. He was
overtaken by two highwaymen, who, after robbing him, forced him to
continue with them over a lonely mountain road. When they were at a high
spot, they heard a stage coming and they forced Mr. Weston to hide with
them around a curve. When the stage was almost upon them, the bandits
rode out, shot the driver and stole the bags of gold they found. The
frightened horses plunged over a cliff taking with it the dead driver and
one man passenger. A child, that man’s sister, was thrown into the road.
The bandits thought only of escape, and, for a time, they forgot their
captive. Seeing a chance to get away, he turned his horse and galloped
back toward his ranch. Finding the child in the road, he took time to
snatch her up and take her with him. He brought her to this convent where
she has been ever since.”
The listeners, who, one and all had guessed the speaker’s true identity,
could hardly wait until she had finished to ask if she were the long lost
Little Bodil.
Tense emotion brought tears to the woman’s kind eyes. “My dears,” she
said, looking from one to another of them. “My dears, _can_ you tell me
of my brother, Sven Pedersen? I have always thought that he must have
been killed when the stage plunged over the cliff. At first I hoped this
was not true, but when he never came to find me—”
Mary interrupted, “Oh, Sister Theresa, your brother never stopped trying
to find you.”
Jerry said, “He advertised in newspapers.”
The nun shook her head. “We do not take newspapers here and Mr. Weston,
who had a nervous collapse for a long time, was not permitted to read.
Yes, that accounts for it. My poor brother! How needlessly he grieved.”
Jerry and Dick exchanged glances and Dick’s lips formed the word “money.”
The cowboy said, “Sister Theresa, from the tale of an old storekeeper in
Gleeson, who knew your brother well, we have learned that he has a letter
for you written in Danish which tells where he left some money for you.”
“I shall be glad to have the letter,” the woman said, her face
lightening, “not because of the money which I will use for others, as we
here take the vow of poverty, but because of some message I am sure the
letter will contain.”
Mary, thinking of the Dooleys, wanted to ask if the money might, part of
it at least, be used for _them_ but she thought better of it.
The nun, looking tenderly down at the boy who still nestled close to her,
said lovingly, “Poor Little Jackie, how I wish I _could_ keep him here
with me, but that would not be permitted since he is a boy.” As though
inspired, she told them, “If that money is found, I will give a good part
of it to someone who will make a happy home for this little fellow.”
Mary also was inspired. “Oh, Sister Theresa,” how eagerly she spoke. “I
know the very nicest family and they’re in great need. Caring for Jackie
would be a godsend to them and bring great happiness into _his_ life, I’m
sure of that.”
Then she told—with Jerry’s help—all that she knew of Etta Dooley and her
family.
The nun turned to the cowboy. “I like what you tell me about that little
family. If there is money to pay her, I would like to see your friend
Etta.” She was rising as she spoke. A muffled gong was ringing in the
inner corridor. The young people also rose.
“I am sure Etta will come, Sister Theresa,” Mary said.
Jerry promised to try to bring the letter on the morrow. The nun, smiling
graciously at them all, held out her hand to first one and then another,
saying, “Thank you and goodbye.” The little boy echoed, “Goodbye.” He was
to remain with Sister Theresa until she had met and approved of Etta
Dooley.
As the young people were about to leave the convent, the young nun who
had admitted them appeared and said, “Sister Theresa invites you to
lunch. It is long after the noon hour.”
She turned, not waiting for a possible refusal and so they followed her
through a side door, along a narrow corridor which ended in descending
steps. They found themselves in a bare basement room. There were plain
wooden tables, clean and white, with benches on both sides. No one was in
evidence as the noon meal had been cleared away. The young nun motioned
them to a table, then glided away to the kitchen. She soon returned with
four bowls of simple vegetable soup, glasses of milk and a plain coarse
brown bread without butter.
“I hadn’t realized how starved I am!” Dora said when they were alone.
“Isn’t it too story-bookish for anything, our finding Little Bodil at
last?” Mary exclaimed as she ate with a relish the appetizing soup.
“Righto. It sure is,” Jerry agreed.
Dick asked, “Do you think Etta Dooley will be too proud to take the
money?”
“I don’t,” Mary said with conviction. “She won’t suspect that we had
_wanted_ to find some way of giving her the money. She’ll think that our
first thought had been to recommend a good home for Jackie. That will
make it all right with her, I’m sure.”
Dora glanced at Jerry somewhat anxiously. “They can stay where they are,
can’t they? Etta said that if it weren’t for her feeling of being
dependent on charity, she would simply love being there.”
Jerry nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure Dad will be glad to have them. I
reckon he hasn’t any other plans for that cabin. We could lease them, say
three acres, and if they paid a little rent that would make Etta feel
independent.”
Dora added her thought, “If Etta passes those examinations she’s going to
take in Douglas, maybe she could be teacher in that little school near
your ranch, Jerry.”
The cowboy’s face brightened. “Say, that’s a bingo-fine idea! That school
had to close because we hadn’t any children. All we need are eight
youngsters to reopen it. Let’s see, there are the twins, Jackie will make
three.” Then, anxiously he glanced at Mary. “How soon can Baby Bess go to
school?”
“She’d _have_ to go if Etta did,” was the laughing reply.
Dora suggested, “Couldn’t there be a kindergarten department?”
“I reckon so.” The cowboy’s face was troubled. “Four kids aren’t eight.”
Dick, remembering something Mr. Newcomb told his wife, inquired, “Jerry,
your dad asked your mother if she minded having a cowboy next winter who
had a wife and six children.”
“Jolly-O!” Dora cried. “What did Mrs. Newcomb say?”
It was Mary who replied, “You know what dear, big-hearted Aunt Mollie
would say. I can almost hear her tell Uncle Henry that ‘the more the
merrier.’”
“Of course,” Jerry told them, “even if we can work the school plan, the
salary is mighty small. It wouldn’t more than pay their grocery bill but
it’ll help all right, along with—”
Mary caught the cowboy’s arm, her expression alarmed. “Jerry, _what_ if
there _isn’t_ any money in that rock house after our planning?”
“Tomorrow we will know,” Dick said. Then, as the young nun reappeared,
they arose and thanked her for the good meal. Dora noticed that as Dick
passed out he dropped a coin in a little box labeled, FOR THE POOR.