THE RIDE
The three girls and Mr. Simpson were riding slowly across the Arizona
sands toward the neighborhood of the Little Colorado River.
It was true they were only on an exploring expedition, for they had
solemnly promised not to enter the region of the Painted Desert nor one
of the Petrified Forests until the others could be with them, even if
they should reach the borders.
They were really impatiently waiting to make these expeditions, because
of their Camp Fire guardian. It was she who had suggested that they
first learn something of the routine of their new camp life and more of
the climate of outdoors Arizona, before attempting any strenuous
sightseeing. The fact was—and the girls understood it—that Mrs. Burton
was not yet strong enough to accompany them, and that she would be
desolate at being left behind. For, in spite of all her travels and
experience, she felt as much enthusiasm and excitement over their plans
as any one of the Camp Fire girls.
Nevertheless, she was willing to agree that it might be a good scheme to
find out something of the nature of the country they were to journey
across, and how difficult the traveling might be. As Peggy, Vera and
Bettina were really more accustomed to riding than the other girls, they
were permitted to undertake the first short trip alone.
Their guide rode first, with Peggy next, Vera following and Bettina
last. Their burros were more accustomed to moving in single file and, in
most places the trail was so narrow, this was necessary.
Because the day was so brilliant, at first the glare of the sun was
uncomfortable. They rode for several miles beyond the ranch before
seeing anything except stretches of sand broken by an occasional mesa
towering many feet above them, or else a tiny oasis in the midst of the
sands. But beyond them, always in dim outline, were the cliffs bordering
the smaller canyons of the Little Colorado.
With Vera between them, Bettina and Peggy found it difficult even to
call out often to each other.
Yet, unconsciously perhaps, there were already three little groups amid
the new Camp Fire club. Bettina and Peggy had been friends ever since
they were little girls and, while they might be unlike and might now and
then disapprove the one of the other, yet always they were loyal and
devoted. Vera was in a way an odd side to the triangle.
For several years Peggy had known her; indeed, they had met soon after
Vera’s father had come to the Webster farm. But there had been no
intimacy between the two girls. It was Billy’s odd friendship with the
Russian girl that had led his mother to take an interest in her and ask
her to join the Camp Fire club, of which she was guardian.
And it was Billy who had commended Vera to his sister’s interest just
before the girls left on the western trip together.
“Be good to Vera, please, Peggy. She is queer like I am, and perhaps we
don’t think about things as other people do. But she is the bravest
person in the world and the truest, once she cares for you. She does not
talk much, but try to understand her.”
And Peggy was trying, partly for Billy’s sake and partly for Vera’s own.
She had a strange feeling about her younger brother—a feeling his entire
family shared. None of them could decide whether he was going to be a
genius or whether he was just “queer,” with the genius left out. And
this subtle difference is perhaps the most important fact in this world.
So Billy’s family worried over him and were frequently angry with him,
and yet never forgot him.
Then Vera was interesting in herself. She was not so shy as her
companions believed; in reality, her shyness was more reserve while she
was quietly studying their temperaments. It may be that she had some
plan in mind which might some day make this knowledge valuable. In the
meantime she quietly attached herself to the company of Peggy and
Bettina. Now and then the two girls were a little bored by it,
preferring to be alone, and yet they did not wish to appear unkind.
This morning Peggy would like to have discussed several questions with
Bettina, but not before Vera, since they were intimate personal
subjects, not camp fire matters. In fact, they concerned Gerry Williams
and her aunt, for Peggy had noticed something which she believed no one
else had.
But the three girls would not dismount to rest or eat lunch until they
came to the neighborhood of the river. They were not far, now, from the
Painted Desert. Beyond were the buttes where the Hopi Indians had built
their villages so that far above the plain they might be safe from the
wild Apaches.
The girls found a shelter of rocks near the river. Below was a steep
descent to the water.
Vera was serving the luncheon; Peggy was lying flat down on the warm
rocks with her arms outstretched; while Bettina sat with her chin in her
hand, watching the far horizon.
“I wonder if we shall ever come across that young Indian again?” Vera
said unexpectedly. She happened at the moment to be passing a paper
napkin filled with sandwiches to Bettina.
“Yes,” Bettina answered in a matter-of-fact fashion so that Peggy turned
her head toward her and stared.
“Why do you think so, Anacaona, Flower of Gold?” she inquired slowly,
smiling and using Bettina’s Indian Camp Fire name purposely. “Did he
tell you at your first meeting that he meant to find you again?”
Bettina shook her head, but she had flushed and was sitting upright, her
expression puzzled, but no longer dreaming.
“It was funny for me to say that, wasn’t it? But perhaps Vera’s asking
me the question at that moment was odd. No; I suppose it wasn’t. It was
natural that we should both be thinking of the Indian villages, with the
outline of them before us and all of us so curious to see what they are
like. And I—oh, well, why shouldn’t I be truthful? You may be amused or
think I am ridiculous, if you like. But I have felt, all along, our
meeting with the Indian was not just accidental. We are sure to see him
again and I know he will make our stay out here more interesting if we
do. He can teach us such a lot of things.”
“And I suppose Bettina can teach him nothing. Queer you liked him,
Bettina, when you are usually so shy with strangers,” Peggy said slowly.
In reality, she was paying but little attention to what she was saying,
for she was almost asleep. The sun was so hot and the wind so sweet, and
they had ridden steadily for several hours. Peggy did not know that she
could feel such a pagan as she had in this past week. No wonder the
primitive outdoor peoples worshiped the Sun God.
Mr. Simpson had gone to give the burros water and would be back in
quarter of an hour. In reality, she was more sleepy than hungry, and
they must soon go on with their riding.
This time Peggy closed her eyes entirely, although still believing that
she was only drowsy and not asleep. And yet, the instant after, she felt
her own arm lifted from the rock where it had been extended and flung
violently across her body. Then she heard a cry from Bettina and saw her
spring up.
Vera’s movement had been too quick for Peggy either to see or hear. But,
getting up she now saw that Vera must have leaped forward and seized her
arm in order to save her. She must have acted instantaneously and
instinctively, for there had been no time for taking thought. Now she
was leaning against a rock, with her face slightly pale and her lips
set. Just beyond lay a rattlesnake with its head crushed against the
opposite ledge of stone.
“That was one of the quickest and bravest things I ever saw anyone do,
Vera,” Bettina said, her own face paler than the girl’s to whom she
spoke. “I believe I saw that snake about to strike at Peggy’s arm at
almost the same instant you did, but I was too paralyzed with horror to
cry out; certainly I did not move. But I shall never forget, Vera, and I
am more than grateful to you.”
Peggy laughed, but a little uncertainly, although she was really less
concerned than the other two girls, not having been aware of her own
danger.
“After all, Bettina dear, I am the one to be grateful to Vera—not you.”
She held out her hand. There was always something a trifle boyish about
Peggy, she was so direct.
“It would have been pretty horrid to have started the summer with an
accident, and Tante would have been absurdly worried. Billy told me what
a lot of courage you had. I should have been sorry if you had suffered
because of me. It was stupid of me to have been so careless. Enough
people have warned us to look out for dangers here, but the country is
so alluring one forgets that evil things love the sun as well as the
good.
But Vera had come forward and was picking up the scattered luncheon
which she had thrown down in her haste.
“Please don’t say anything more,” she remarked a little impatiently.
“What I did was the simplest thing in the world. You must remember I
have lived outdoors and worked in the fields since I was a little girl.
In Russia we used to take the babies out to the fields in baskets, and
some one had to watch by them. Promise me not to speak of this again.”
Vera flushed. “Billy is mistaken in thinking I am brave; only there are
some things I am not afraid of. I am a coward about others.”
There was no doubting her sincerity and, while Peggy was hesitating what
to say next, Mr. Simpson came along the path leading one of the burros,
the others meekly following their leader.
A few moments later the girls mounted and started on again. The
afternoon’s ride was to be more difficult. They were planning to follow
an old trail which led along the side of the river and now and then came
close to the cliffs and deep ravines which fringed the river bed on the
northern side.
They rode as they had in the morning, with the guide ahead and Bettina
in the rear. But if the girls had any desire to exchange confidences at
present, it was out of the question. One might be familiar with
horseback riding and fairly valiant in spirit and yet, according to the
old phrase, find one’s heart in one’s mouth every few minutes.
In places the trail was scarcely a yard wide, with a sheer wall of rock
on one side and a sharp precipice on the other. Yet the burros moved on
as serenely as if they had been following a main traveled road.
Bettina wondered half a dozen times if the other girls felt as nervous
as she did. Once or twice she smiled, remembering her previous
experiences in riding. In the country, visiting Peggy, she had ridden
over the fields occasionally, but ordinarily her riding had been
confined to a riding school in Washington, or to morning rides in the
parks and suburbs of Washington. It was true that she had been a little
vain of her ability at jumping hurdles in the riding school contests,
but her father had never been willing to have her take fences in English
fashion in cross-country rides. Now, however, she wished that she had
learned not how to jump hurdles but how to keep her seat winding up an
almost perpendicular trail without being frightened. The little burro
jogged along, now apparently standing nearly upright, now swinging from
side to side, but of course the rider was perfectly safe so long as the
burro did not slip. And this they never did—or so one was always told in
the burro country.
Every once in a while Mr. Simpson would look back and call out
reassuringly, and Bettina would unite with the other girls in cheerful
replies.
Really, the scenery was so wonderful, it was annoying not to be able to
give it one’s full attention!
Ahead Bettina saw the trail rising almost to a peak in front and
narrowing at the same time. Involuntarily she reined in her burro and
thus dropped a few yards further behind the other riders. Then it
occurred to her that she would prefer walking and leading her burro for
a part of the way. In this fashion she could rest and enjoy the
landscape and, though Bettina did not make the confession to herself,
she had really more confidence in herself than she had in her burro.
Calling ahead her intention to the others, she believed they heard.
Indeed, she thought she heard Peggy laugh in her teasing, boyish
fashion. Then Bettina dismounted, but kept the reins in her hands. The
others could not travel very rapidly up so steep and rocky an incline,
and so would not get far in advance. In case they did, they must of
course wait for her until she caught up.
But Bettina was not to find walking so easy as she had expected, and
then her burro would not go slowly. He kept trotting on ahead, forcing
Bettina to run beside him on the narrow path until she was out of
breath. The stones cut even into her heavy-soled riding boots.
She was angry; the burro was so stupid—so ridiculously devoted to one
idea—like stupid human beings frequently are. He had been trained to
follow his companions, and follow them he would at whatever cost. The
other burros were forging ahead so that, apparently, his reputation
depended on keeping his place in the line.
Once Bettina stumbled and heard the earth sliding down the ravine, but
would not look. All her life gazing down upon great distances had made
her sick and dizzy, but then a great many persons are affected in this
same fashion.
Regaining her foothold, Bettina must at the same time have lost both her
temper and her judgment. With the idea of forcing her burro to walk, she
struck him with a small switch which she had picked up along the way.
Immediately, shaking his obstinate head, he jerked and ducked at the
same instant. Clumsily Bettina lost her hold on the bridle and then
beheld her small steed go plowing up the narrow incline, leaving her
well behind.
The situation was so absurd and a little tiresome. However, Bettina
realized she had brought it on herself, though this is but small
consolation in adversity.
Alone, Bettina walked more slowly. After all, was she as sure-footed as
she had presumed? There was comfort in the idea that, as soon as her
burro rejoined the others, they would find out she had disappeared and
wait until she came up to them.
Bettina did not realize that, hearing her burro jogging on behind at an
even pace, the girls naturally believed she was riding him. One could
not easily look behind during such an ascent.
Mr. Simpson, in front, also failed to miss Bettina for about five
minutes. The time could not have been longer than that. Until then,
glancing back of him he could see the three burros, but of the riders
only Peggy who rode next him. And he heard no cry of any kind.
Finally they reached a broader space—a kind of small plateau where there
was a wonderful view of the river and of the giant depression to the
northwest that cradled the famous Painted Desert.
“Suppose we rest for a moment,” Mr. Simpson called back.
Stepping off his broncho, for his legs almost touched the ground as he
rode, Mr. Simpson turned to Peggy. Then, in a flash he discovered the
third burro stopping quietly when the others did, but without a rider.
“Miss Graham has chosen to walk up the trail; I’ll go and see if I can
help,” he said hastily. And before Peggy and Vera were fully aware of
Bettina’s disappearance, their guide had started down again.
“Tiresome of Bettina. Why did she not tell us if she meant to dismount?”
Peggy said irritably. She was not nervous, but the trail was a winding
one, and she could not yet see Bettina climbing up toward them. They
must, in a few moments, of course.
They waited five moments; then ten. At the end of fifteen minutes Mr.
Simpson returned.
“We had best start back on the homeward trail. I don’t understand my not
being able to find Miss Graham. I must look more thoroughly as we go
down.
Jefferson Simpson was not the kind of man who lost his nerve. He had
confronted difficult situations a good many times in his rather
strenuous existence. The idea of playing guide to a number of young
women had struck him as an amusing departure. He had been a rancher, a
miner, a cowboy, an Indian agent. Why not add another rôle to his many
parts for a few months at least? It had not struck him that his new
occupation might have a serious side. At present, however, it did. He
did not like not having found Bettina. There was simply no accounting
for her disappearance in so short a time, and along a trail where no one
else had lately passed.
Fortunately Mr. Simpson’s manner never betrayed his emotions. Before
Peggy and Vera he behaved as if Bettina must be comfortably awaiting
them not far off. But, while he led Bettina’s riderless burro, both
girls saw that he stared over the sides of the ravines every foot along
the route.
And they looked, too, although the thought that any human being should
ever slip in some of the places made one ill.
In a little more than an hour, when they had again reached the place
where they had eaten lunch and without finding Bettina, the new guide
insisted that Peggy and Vera find their way back alone to their camp.
It was a difficult situation to know what one should do; but they must
take their chances of finding the route. Mrs. Burton must learn what had
become of them.
And to desert the lost! Jefferson Simpson’s queer brown face twisted.
“This is a sheep country, you know, and I’ve been a shepherd along with
the rest of my jobs. ‘There were ninety and nine.’ Remember the rest of
that old song. Tell Mrs. Burton I’ll be home with the one that is lost
in a short time after you get there. Good-by.”
So Vera and Peggy, seeing that there was nothing wiser to be done than
follow their guide’s advice, waved farewell to him and took the long
trail alone toward camp. But they did not mind the journey if they could
have known where Bettina had vanished.