DOROTHY HEARS SOMETHING IMPORTANT
“And just to think!” Tavia groaned, as the two girls rode slowly down
the riverside an hour after sunrise. “We hadn’t any business having an
adventure at all.”
“I--don’t--know,” responded Dorothy, slowly.
“Well, _I_ do! The boys will tease us to death about it. There the
ponies were, tied where we left them, just in another opening in the
woods, not a hundred yards away from where we spent the night. But when
I first heard them whinnying for water at daybreak, I was scared into
fits--weren’t you, Doro?”
Dorothy admitted her fright. Tavia’s whole statement was not far from
correct. The entire adventure had been preventable. Dorothy considered
herself seriously to blame.
If she and her chum had marked their path up the steep hillside beyond
the spot where the ponies had been abandoned, they would have had no
difficulty in finding their mounts again.
So, had they recovered the ponies they could easily have returned to
the ranch-house by dark. Aunt Winnie, Dorothy knew, must have been
dreadfully worried over their disappearance.
Indeed, the whole country round about had been roused, as the girls
quickly learned. Half a dozen search parties were out after them. While
they still followed the course of Lost River they heard whooping, and
rifle shots, ahead.
“Come on!” cried Tavia, “they are searching for us.”
Both girls hurried their ponies, rounded a turn in the path, and were
hailed with delight by Ned, Nat and half a dozen cowpunchers, who had
started into the hills for a second search for the lost girls.
They had ridden over the ranges and lower country all night, searching
for the runaways, and after breakfasting at the bunkhouse, had started
forth again.
Dorothy and Tavia were warmly welcomed--and scolded just as warmly by
Ned and Nat, too! When Mrs. White had kissed and hugged them, she, too,
turned upon them and threatened to take away their ponies if they ever
rode more than two miles from the ranch-house again without a guide.
Dorothy knew she had no right to complain about this restriction. It
had been a reckless thing to do--that trip to the mountain-top. And
she could not get over the fact that her own oversight had caused her
and Tavia to remain out in the open all night.
There had been no serious results, however, and in a day or two the
escapade was forgotten. The girls had agreed not to tell of their awful
fright caused by the bits of mica shining in the rock. If Ned and Nat
had gotten hold of _that_ tale the girls never would have heard the
last of it.
It was about this time that Dorothy heard from Major Dale regarding
the Lincoln letter that John Dempsey had found among Colonel Hardin’s
discarded papers. Dorothy had told her father the whole story--of
Philo Marsh’s desire to purchase the letter, and all. She had likewise
expressed herself as being more than ever antagonistic to the Dugonne
lawyer.
“Don’t fret your pretty head, Little Captain, about matters that do not
concern you,” Major Dale wrote. “I have confidence in Winifred’s good
sense, and she will be a match for a man like Marsh. As for the old
soldier and his famous letter--tell him not to put any great trust in
the validity of the letter, and if he can sell it for a good round sum,
to do so.”
Major Dale went on to tell his daughter of a test by which she could
assure herself and Dempsey as to the actual value of the letter. This
amazed Dorothy, and she ran off to tell the old soldier and to follow
her father’s suggestion.
The letter to the Massachusetts widow proved to be valid. It really was
a very interesting document. After Dorothy and John Dempsey had talked
it over, the old man changed his mind about selling it.
“If that snake in the grass raises his offer to me much higher, I’ll
jest natcherly be obleeged to sell,” he said, grimly. “Let it be on his
own head.”
Philo Marsh was at the ranch-house almost every day. Aunt Winnie
wondered why some of the other interested parties had not called to get
her views upon the water-rights question; but not a person from the
farming land to the south or from Desert City, came to the Hardin ranch.
“It must be,” she told the boys and Dorothy, “that these Desert people
have left the whole matter--as he says--in Mr. Marsh’s hands. I would
have felt better about it had I talked with others--to make sure that
this agreement Philo Marsh offers suits all hands. I believe I shall
sign the preliminary papers the next time Mr. Marsh calls.”
“I guess it’s all right, mother,” said big Ned, carelessly. “And the
fellow _is_ getting to be a nuisance hanging about here.”
Dorothy was tempted to tell her aunt of the conversation she had
overheard between Marsh and the foreman, Hank Ledger, despite the fact
that the conference seemed to have led to nothing. The foreman was a
good sort, and Dorothy liked Mrs. Ledger, so the girl did not wish to
make her aunt suspicious of Hank.
She understood that this preliminary agreement between her aunt and
those who desired water from Lost River, was not a binding document.
Aunt Winnie said the lawyers in Dugonne would look after the estate’s
interest before the matter was concluded, and make everything legal and
shipshape.
Naturally, even Dorothy--with all her suspicion of Philo Marsh--did not
pay much attention to the business of the water-rights, only when the
subject was brought up in family conclave. The young folk were having
too good a time to think of much but their own pleasure--the boys in
their way, and the girls in theirs.
Old Mrs. Petterby had caught Ophelia and now was anxious to go back
to the Nicholson place, where she was to meet Lance again. She was to
drive over in a buckboard, one of the Mexican hands being employed as
driver, and of course there were two empty seats.
“Let’s go with her--you and I, Doro,” proposed Tavia, eagerly.
Dorothy suspected that her chum was just roguish enough to want to
plague Lance Petterby, and she tried to veto the proposal.
“All right for you, then!” said Tavia, coolly. “If you won’t go with
me, I’ll go anyway.”
That settled it. Dorothy did not want Tavia to go without her. So
they drove away in the buckboard with the old lady from Rand’s Falls,
Massachusetts.
It was a jolly ride, for Mrs. Petterby was good fun and both the girls
were fond of her. When they arrived at the squatter’s double cabin,
sure enough, there was Lance and his pony, Gaby.
“Sartain shore am glad tuh see yuh!” was the cowboy’s welcome, smiling
broadly upon the girls. But it was plain to Dorothy that his bold eyes
lingered longer upon Tavia’s brilliant face.
Tavia was at her best--sprightly, talkative, laughing--behaving indeed
in a most bewildering fashion. A much more sophisticated fellow than
Lance Petterby might have had his head turned over Tavia Travers on
that particular day.
Dorothy knew very well that it was only Tavia’s fun, but the cowboy did
not know. Even old Mrs. Petterby said:
“I declare for’t! I never did see sech a gal for runnin’ on as you do.
Can’t tell when ye air funnin’ an’ when ye air in earnest.”
Lance had something to say to Dorothy in private.
“Yuh axed me about Philo Marsh last time I seen yuh, Miss Dale. Has yuh
aunt signed up for them water-rights yet?”
“No. But she is about to.”
“Tell her to wait a bit longer. I got a line on something queer.”
“Oh, Mr. Lance! What is it? About Philo Marsh?”
“Yes, Ma’am. You say he’s workin’ for the Desert City folks?”
“Why--yes. He must be.”
“Then he’s got two strings to his bow. I got a straight tip that he’s
employed by the Consolidated Ackron Company.”
“The mining company?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“But what is he doing for them?”
“Why, they tell me he’s been in their pay for a long time. Does their
dirty work, Miss Dale. Meanin’ that he settles damage cases out o’
court. Man gits hurt in the shaft, or somehow. Before he kin git fixed
up by the doctor, ’round comes Philo and offers to pay bills and give
the man a small sum. Otherwise man loses his job--you see? If the poor
feller’s killed, Philo settles with the widder.”
“I understand,” said Dorothy. “But that would not keep him from taking
cases for other people?”
“No, Ma’am. But Philo wouldn’t be likely to take a job that might queer
him with the mining company. And them folks want the water jest as bad
as they want it out in the desert.”
“But how could they get it?” cried Dorothy, in wonder. “That gorge by
which Lost River can be drained off, runs to the edge of the desert. It
doesn’t slope north at all.”
“That’s shore an’ sartain, Miss,” declared Lance. “But thet thar ain’t
the only way Lost River kin be turned--don’t think it!”
Suddenly the thought of the surveyors she and Tavia had seen, flashed
into Dorothy’s mind.
Eagerly the girl told the cowpuncher of what she and Tavia had observed
behind the green mountain. He listened closely and nodded at the end.
“Shore as you air a foot high, them surveyors was runnin’ a line to
Lost River for the mining corporation. Once they git the water----
Well! good-_night_! They’ve got plenty of money to fight you folks in
the courts. Possession, in this case, I reckon, would be nine p’ints of
the law.
“Now, tell your a’nt tuh go slow. Don’t let her sign a paper that Philo
brings her. There’ll be some quirk about it that’ll tie her hands. Or
else, he is seeking to delay matters until the mining folks can put in
dynamite and blow out a channel for the river.”