village a little while. But what about the Babe?" asked Mrs. Spooner.
"You and Elizabeth could help, but she would only be in the way. Jonah
was just telling me about seeing her out on the range, galloping along
pretending she was Ivanhoe, or somebody else out of her books. I'm
afraid the poor little thing needs company."
"Take her with you," suggested Elizabeth promptly. "A change would do
you both a lot of good. Just take enough money from that reserve fund
in the bank to pay her fare, and both of you hustle off just as quick as
possible. We can get you ready by day after to-morrow, easily."
This plan, after a little consultation with Roy and Jonah, was adopted,
and Mrs. Spooner and the delighted Babe set off for Oklahoma, while
Elizabeth and Ruth, much to Cousin Hannah's delight, went in to stay
with her. Jonah and Roy--who declared that he was just pining to get a
taste of Jonah's boasted cookery, were left alone on the ranch.
Cousin Hannah, who was naturally a very loquacious person, had become
decidedly reticent on the subject of Maudie and her musical studies,
though in the beginning the boarders had found the repeated and detailed
information about the matter rather wearisome. Even to Elizabeth and
Ruth she said little, though more than once, they surprised her wiping
away tears as she went about her work.
"I don't believe that ungrateful Maudie Pratt writes to her mother!"
said Ruth, indignantly. "I found Cousin Hannah crying in the parlor
just now; she said it was _toothache_--when I know she has a full set of
'uppers and unders,' as she calls them. You see, she'd forgotten. I
believe she was crying about Maudie."
"Ruth," said Elizabeth in reply--they had been at the Pratts three days,
"do you remember that a week from to-morrow is Cousin Hannah's
birthday?"
"Why, so it is," said Ruth, "and she hasn't said a word about it. She
always used to have a big dinner, didn't she? I know what the trouble
is--it's Maudie. She can't bear to have a big birthday dinner because
Maudie won't be here. Maybe that's what made her cry."
"Yes, because Maudie isn't here, and because she hasn't heard from her
in two weeks and is frightened to death about her--I just chanced to
find that out. Let's make Cousin Hannah get up a big dinner, and
telegraph an invitation to Maudie. The telegraph operator'll send it for
nothing. He always gives as much as ten dollars for a birthday present
for Cousin Hannah."
"A birthday present," repeated Ruth. "I know what she'd like--she told
me yesterday. Say, Elizabeth, I believe we could get one for her, too.
The Revingtons are going away, and they'd sell theirs cheap, rather than
ship it east."
"What on earth are you talking about?" demanded Elizabeth.
"Big secrets!" exclaimed the younger sister exultantly. "Come on and
let's run down town to Meeker's store and see if Roy's in from the
ranch, I want to talk to him about it. Pretty nearly everybody in
town'll join us. Hurry up!"
The two girls ran down the street, stopping in at the insurance office
to speak to little Miss Thorpe, a new boarder of Cousin Hannah's, a
stenographer who had recently come to Emerald. They went on, cheered by
this interview, and consulted the station agent, who agreed that Mrs.
Pratt, who had made him comfortable for many years, must be given a
birthday which would raise her drooping spirits.
"I'd sure do anything that would bring Maudie home, and _keep_ her
home," he said, rather grimly, "because I know that's what her ma
wants--though I'm not so certain that it'll make her or any of the rest
of us any happier. If we're all to throw in together, for one present
you can count on me to double the ten dollars if it has to come."
Roy had joined them by this time, and was taking down what he called
"subscriptions" with pencil and paper. As the three young folks went
out the door Mr. Rouse called after them:
"But you must give us a mighty good dinner, Miss Elizabeth. A good
dinner always goes with a celebration of any kind, and to my notion it's
the best part of one. So you and Ruth put on your studyin' caps, and get
out your cook-books."
"We'll promise to give you a good dinner, Mr. Rouse," agreed Ruth,
heartily, and Elizabeth added: "If you'll all tell us what particular
dishes you like best, we'll try to have them, just as a little token of
our appreciation."
This was a happy thought, and it pleased the boarders immensely to have
such consideration shown them. Ruth got her own pencil and note-book,
and gravely made entries of each boarder's favorite dish. It was a
funny bill-of-fare that she made out: Chicken-pie and turnip-greens,
potato-pone and apple-dumplings, cold-slaw and Waldorf salad, and other
equally incongruous dishes, all of which were faithfully and
painstakingly prepared by the conscientious little cooks, with certain
additions of their own, making a very palatable "company dinner."
Elizabeth sent word to Jonah by Roy; he was to come over bright and
early on the morning of the birthday, bringing along the wagon to fetch
home the gift for Cousin Hannah.
Many hands, we know, make work easy. The week went by swift-footed. If
Cousin Hannah had heard from Maudie she did not mention it, and if the
girls had any reply to their telegram they were equally reticent. The
difference was that Mrs. Pratt, in spite of the birthday preparations
became more and more doleful, while the girls went out on errands that
involved that subscription paper of Roy's, and beamed with joyous
anticipation.
The great day came. Ruth and Elizabeth helped till the dinner was all
on and cooking beautifully, the table set, ready to dish up the dinner
when the time came, then they both disappeared in a very mysterious
manner, leaving Cousin Hannah bustling about her kitchen all alone.
Everything went smoothly till the kettle became dry, and she found there
was no water in the pipes. Calling Elizabeth and Ruth repeatedly and
finding that they were both out, Cousin Hannah decided that she would go
herself and see what was the matter with the wind-mill, as there was
nobody else at hand.
"I know in my mind it's caught," she muttered, "and only needs a tap
with a hammer to start it a-goin' again. Well, I just _got_ to have
water, so I reckon I might's well go try to skin up that ladder."
Taking a hammer to loosen the refractory sails, she climbed slowly and
cautiously up the creaking ladder, and soon had the water flowing again,
as the sails began to work; they had needed only a slight jar to loosen
them.
On top of the ladder she paused, and looked wonderingly over the vast
plains that surrounded Emerald.
"My me! I ain't had such a good look at the country since I used to
live in the foothills," she exclaimed. "I feel like I was standin' on
top of one of 'em now, viewin' the scenery. O, pity on me--_what_ is
that!"
With a gasp of horror she clung to the ladder, her eyes fixed on the
object that had attracted her startled attention. It was a wagon driven
by a man whom she recognized as Jonah Bean, and containing something
long, and black and shiny--a box-like object that made her heart grow
cold to look upon. She got a mere glimpse since a horse-blanket had been
thrown over it, evidently for the purpose of concealment--as if
_anything_ could hide that awful shiny black box:
The wagon was coming slowly--very slowly, up the road toward her house,
and walking beside and around it was a group of young people whom she
knew for her own household--Elizabeth and Ruth, and some of the younger
of her boarders, with Roy and one or two other boys from the
neighborhood. They seemed excited, and had apparently one stranger with
them, since she could see an unfamiliar dress of vivid plaid on the
other side of the wagon.
"O me! O my!" moaned the poor woman, as she started hurriedly to
descend from her high perch. "I ain't heard one blessed word from her
in a month! And I thought she was just too careless to write to me: My
poor, poor girl!"
Near the bottom, one of the rungs broke under the weight of her foot,
and she barely saved herself from a dangerous fall by clinging with both
hands and drawing up her foot to the rung above.
Sitting thus she waited for them to come; her eyes shut because she did
not want to see, drawing her breath in heavy, muffled sobs, praying for
strength to bear the blow that was coming, trying to find courage to
look upon that grewsome, shiny black box when the time arrived.
The wagon drew up in front of the house, but Roy and Elizabeth came
creeping softly round to the kitchen. Cousin Hannah could hear them
whispering:
"Let's find out exactly where she is, so's we can get it in without her
knowing--it might frighten her." How heartless the best of young people
were!
"Children," quavered poor Cousin Hannah from the ladder, "come and help
me down--I know what you're bringing--I saw it away off--and I knew
right away--how could I help knowing!"
"O, _did_ you!" exclaimed Roy and Elizabeth, dejectedly. They stopped
below and stared up. "That's too bad. We're _so_ sorry, Cousin Hannah.
We tried our best to get it in before you saw what it was."
"What difference does that make?" moaned Cousin Hannah--Roy and
Elizabeth thought she must have sprained her foot, and the pain made her
groan--"take me to her--my poor, poor child! You shan't call her _it_!"
Roy and Elizabeth laughed rather sheepishly, and Mrs. Pratt glared at
them. Had they no feelings!
"How on earth did you find out?" asked the mystified young people, as
they helped her down and supported her between them into the house.
They steered her straight for the parlor, where a crowd stood around the
black box.
"Am I to break the news?" asked Mr. Rouse. But instead of the serious
mien proper to such an occasion he was smiling broadly.
*CHAPTER VII*
*The Wire Clipper*
The conclusion of that matter at Cousin Hannah Pratt's, left a very warm
feeling between the two families, for when Mr. Rouse moved aside from
the black box it was discovered to be an old-fashioned square piano, now
set proudly on its legs, and seated at the stool in front of it, her
lips parted ready to burst into song--was Maudie Pratt.
Her mother's astonishment and rapture pretty nearly scared the donors of
the piano to death, for they had cherished no intentions of giving
Cousin Hannah a fright with their mysterious preparations. Maudie had
simply been ill, homesick, and afraid to come back until she got the
telegram the girls sent. Putting her at the piano was an afterthought,
and one which some of them regretted, since she sang all afternoon, and
had to be dragged away for the birthday dinner. However, that being an
example of Ruth's very best skill, helped out by Elizabeth, they had an
extremely jolly time, and went home with promises of friendship that
were astonishing.
"If you ever need anything from me, remember my heart and my home are
open to you," Cousin Hannah kept repeating as she waved to them from the
steps.
They had little idea how soon they should be in bitter trouble when they
needed assistance from anybody that would offer it. Of course it was a
dry year--Jonah Bean declared that it was, taking it by and large, the
worst all-round year he had ever witnessed in the state of Texas--and he
had seen a main of 'em!
Mrs. Spooner and the Babe after spending a month in Oklahoma were back
again, and all that was left of the Spooner family at home once more.
The Babe had greatly enjoyed this, her first railroad trip, and she was
kept busy for weeks relating her experiences. Mary was well again, and
had promised to come in the winter and make a long visit when, they all
hoped and prayed, their father would be at home with them.
It was a thing they hardly dared own, even to themselves, but everybody
was beginning to feel worried about Mr. Spooner's safety, for there had
come news of a battle fought in Cuba, and though all the papers were
filled with the details, no letter had been received from him. Day
after day some one rode to the village to bring back the mail, and day
after day the poor little mother, watching and waiting at home, was
doomed to be disappointed when no letter came.
For the children's sakes she bore up bravely, always saying with forced
cheerfulness that probably Father had been sent into the interior, where
there was no means of mailing a letter--it would be sure to come after
awhile. But in her own heart she entertained a great fear which she
never breathed to the others--a fear that he might be among the
"missing" after the battle! The nameless missing.
Then there came the day when Harvey Grannis, riding over from his
distant ranch, let his sister know pretty plainly that the public shared
her fear.
"No use mincing matters, Jennie," he said, speaking kindly--though he
could not keep an eager note out of his voice. "We're mighty afraid
that poor John won't come back! He never would take my advice, or he'd
not have been crazy enough to volunteer."
Mrs. Spooner sank down on the lounge and covered her face, moaning
softly.
"Now don't take on, Jennie," her brother said, patting her awkwardly on
the shoulder. "Just you listen to this proposition I've come to make to
you: I've got a big ranch, and a big house, and you are all welcome to
come and live with me. Your girls are growing up wild, anyway, without
a man to overlook 'em. Of course you know, good and well, that I hold a
mortgage on this ranch of yours, and the interest money ain't been paid
for some time, either. But that's neither here nor there. The question
is, now that John's gone, will you all come over and let me take care of
you?"
A shiver went over the little woman on the lounge, but she dropped her
hands from before her eyes, and faced the situation bravely.
"You're good to offer us a home, Harvey," she said, when she could
command her voice; "but I can't bear to think of moving till--till I
feel sure John's not coming back! I'm hoping every day to have news
from him; I'm certain that the children wouldn't want to leave the home.
Thank you, Harvey, but we'll stay right where we are, for the present,
anyhow."
Then the storm burst--so angrily loud that Elizabeth and Ruth sitting in
the back room heard every word.
"Don't you think for one minute," blustered Harvey, "that you can depend
on me to support you on this ranch: You needn't keep an old fool like
Jonah Bean and a young horse-thief like Roy Lambert hanging round, and
expect a man who knows his business to spend one cent for you. Such
fellows as that are good for nothing but to run you and your ranch to
rack and ruin. No, ma'am! You've got to come to my house, or you
needn't expect me to take care of you."
"I never asked you to take care of us, Harvey," returned Mrs. Spooner
with spirit, "I never thought of such a thing!"
Elizabeth, in the back room, looked at Ruth. "I just can't stand it any
longer!" she whispered indignantly, "let's go to mother." And they
marched into the room, hand in hand.
"Well, I hope you've come to persuade your mother to listen to reason,"
grunted their uncle, as the two girls entered the little parlor.
"We've come to tell her that we'll take care of her, Uncle Harvey. And
you've no right to suppose that father won't come back!" burst out Ruth
impetuously.
Elizabeth added in a milder tone: "We don't need any help, really, Uncle
Harvey--we're quite able to take care of mother. We thank you for
offering us a home, but we don't need it. We've got one--and we mean to
keep it, and support ourselves."
Harvey Grannis gave the newcomers a long look. Elizabeth said he tried
to "stare them down."
"Support yourselves, hey?" he grunted. "Well--I wash my hands of the
whole bunch!"
He got as far as the door, marching very slowly, and expecting to be
called back, when Mrs. Spooner hurried after him, her hands held out.
The girls were wrathful and disappointed, but their mother's first words
brought them comfort.
"Good-bye then, Harvey," said Mrs. Spooner kindly. "But we won't part
in anger. The girls didn't mean to offend you. I'm sure we'll get
along all right."
"Didn't _mean_ to offend?" snorted the now enraged ranchman. "Well they
done so, mighty easy! If they get along half as well making a living as
they do at being impudent to their elders they'll have no need of help."
"Now, now," soothed Mrs. Spooner, as she took her brother's hand and
raised her small, tired face for his good-bye kiss. "My girls are just
high-spirited, Harvey--and you ought to be the last to complain of
that!"
Harvey Grannis kissed his sister grudgingly--and then was angrier than
ever because he had done this apparently gracious act. The girls,
nodded to them as a gentle hint, made no effort towards bidding him
farewell.
"Let them alone," complained Harvey, "they're fixing it up that I'm an
old brute and they're persecuted angels. Let 'em have their way. We'll
see what comes of it--you needn't expect me to care what happens after
this!"
The very explosiveness of his protest showed how much he did care. In
point of fact his sister and her family were all he had, and at heart he
was very fond of them--not the least of Elizabeth. Mrs. Spooner always
looked to hear him make some allusion to her alien birth, but he never
did. He had longed to have these bright, brave young creatures and his
only sister in his home, to feel that they belonged to him, that they
were dependent on him. It might not have been a very pleasant life for
them, but it was what he longed for, and what he gave up with anger and
reluctance.
Down at the road gate he met the Babe, riding on her pony, Queen
Berengaria.
"O, Uncle Harvey, I'm so glad you've come!" chirped the child, joyously.
"Ain't you going to spend the day? It's been the longest time since
you've come, and we all want to see you so bad."
Harvey Grannis's eyes softened; in his own rough way he loved the child
very much; she was named for him, and, unlike the other girls, she was
not the least bit afraid of him. How he would have loved to have his
little namesake niece to ride about with him over his own ranch!
"Glad to see your old uncle, are you Harvie? Well, I can't say the rest
of 'em felt that way about it! You're a fine little girl, and I'd like
to have you where I could keep an eye on you." He sighed regretfully.
"No, I ain't going to spend the day this time--maybe some other day.
And say, Harvie, don't you let 'em talk you into hating your old uncle,"
earnestly.
"Why, no Uncle Harvey, 'course not," agreed the Babe, wonderingly. "But
there don't anybody at our house hate you. Please come on back, and
Ruth'll make a cake for dinner."
Harvey Grannis declined to accept this hospitable invitation, knowing
better than the child that he had made himself unwelcome.
"I've got to go now, honey," he said. "You can give a message to your
mother for me." He looked at his namesake a long time. "Harvie," he
wheedled, and nobody would have guessed that his voice could be so soft
and pleading, "wouldn't you like to come over to the Circle G and live?"
Little Harvie looked doubtful.
"Do mother and the girls want to go? What'll father think of it when he
gets home?"
Grannis had not the heart say to her, as he had said freely to the
others, that they must give up hope of John Spooner's return. Instead
he offered a bait which he thought would take her mind from the two
questions she had asked.
"I'd give you the prettiest little cutting-pony you ever looked at, a
pinto with blue eyes. That old skate you're on isn't fit for you to
ride."
The Babe's own blue eyes filled with tears.
"Queen Berengaria isn't _very_ beautiful," she admitted, "but she's
_awful_ good!"
Grannis, with that lack of sympathy which his type of man shows for the
tender sensibilities of a child, burst out laughing.
"You just say that because she's the best you can get," he surmised,
smilingly. "If I had you over at the Circle G to be my little girl,
we'd shoot this old bag of bones and give you something that could go."
Old bag of bones! _Shoot_ Queen Berengaria! Harvey Grannis never knew
that then and there he settled the question as to his namesake's ever
agreeing, so long as she could fight the question, to set foot on the
Circle G as a home.
"Did you say you wanted me to take a message to mother?" she asked
quietly, after a somewhat lengthy pause.
"Yes," said the ranchman. "You just tell 'em I said that the big
spring's liable to give out--and _then_ she'll maybe think different
about some things."
Small Harvie repeated the message, her clear eyes fixed on her uncle's
face.
"Now I can say it just like you did," and solemnly she parroted the big
man's words, giving quite unconsciously his intonation, and the threat
that was in his voice. It appeared that he did not relish this, for he
put in hastily:
"Don't say it cross--just _say_ it."
"But, Uncle Harvey, even if the spring does give out we always water at
the big water-hole. Nobody ever did know it to give out, did they?"
"No," said Harvey Grannis, "that's why I bought the land it's on."
"And you'd always let us water at the big tank," concluded the Babe,
comfortably.
"I would if 'twas only you, honey," he told her, and his eyes glittered.
He had said that he bought the land for that water-tank, and he might
have added: "That's why I wouldn't sell it to your father when he wanted
to buy it with Silver Spur." He might have said this, for the Silver
Spur joined his big pastures, had once, in fact, been part of his
holding, and when John Spooner bought from his brother-in-law, Grannis
retained the pasture containing the tank, saying that he wanted to use
it for convenience in watering herds when he drove them down to the
railroad for shipping, and that the Spooners could always use it anyhow.
This was a mere verbal arrangement, it did not stand in the deed, and
when the Babe arrived with her little speech and repeated it at the
dinner-table there was consternation.
"What on earth can Uncle Harvey mean?" asked Ruth indignantly. "Do you
suppose he thinks the use of that tank could be taken away from us?"
"I don't think he could really be as mean as that, Ruth," reassured
Elizabeth. "He's just trying to worry us because of the way we spoke.
The tank is on his own land, you know."
But that the threat was real was proven later, when Roy announced that
Grannis had come with a wagon and men from his ranch, and was busy
running a wire-fence around the water-hole. They were putting up a
locked gate, so that only by permission could anybody have access to it.
"And the big spring's just mud," said Roy, gloomily. "I think Harvey
Grannis is the meanest man in Texas!"
Mrs. Spooner, pale and worn from anxiety about her husband, received the
news calmly. "I don't think there's anything to worry over," she
soothed the girls; "Harvey maybe has some good reason. Remember it's a
dry year, and other people may have been annoying him. Anyway, I'm sure
he'll not forbid us to water our cattle there. Please put Shasta to the
phaeton, Roy, the Babe and I'll drive down and see about it."
The fence was indeed going rapidly up when Mrs. Spooner arrived; Grannis
himself was busily directing his men, urging haste in his usual stormy
manner.
"Well," he greeted his sister, "have you come to your senses yet--you
and those unbroken colts you've got for daughters? You see there's no
more water-hole for you to depend on. Cattle'll die, of course. Only
thing you can do is to drive 'em over to my ranch and pack up and come
along yourselves. If ever a set of young ones need discipline, those two
girls do!"
His eyes snapped fiercely--discipline with Harvey Grannis meant
punishment.
"Harvey," asked his sister, quietly ignoring his attack on her girls,
"aren't you going to give us a key to that gate?"
"Give you a key to the gate? Yes, when you send me word that you're
packing to move over to my ranch. I'm doing this for your good. I
think you know it, and those stiff-necked young'uns could see it for
themselves if you'd brought 'em up right. That's my last word, and I
mean it."
Turning on his heel he walked rapidly away, leaving Mrs. Spooner to
return to her waiting children.
"Never mind, mother," soothed the Babe, as they drove slowly homeward.
"Uncle Harvey's not a bad man--he didn't mean sure-enough that our
cattle couldn't drink at the water-hole."
But her mother knew otherwise. Harvey Grannis intended to force them to
live with him, for, as has been said, he was really fond of his sister
and her children. Since he had come to believe John Spooner dead, the
thought that now he would have them all to himself, in his big,
comfortable house, grew very pleasant, so that he had determined, in his
usual violent fashion, to use force if necessary to accomplish his
purpose.