“WHERE IS AUNT WINNIE?”
Tavia declared Dorothy’s insisting upon going back to the ranch so
early “spoiled all her fun.”
“You can miss that fun, Miss,” said her chum, somewhat sharply.
“Teasing Mr. Petterby is a good deal like a cat playing with a mouse.
It’s fun for the cat, but tragic for the mouse.”
“Tragedy! Fancy!” responded Tavia, tossing her head. “As though my
innocent little conversations with Lance were tragic in any way.”
“He thinks you are in earnest when you show interest in his affairs,”
declared Dorothy.
“But you know, dear, he’s such fun!” pouted Tavia. “I can’t help
plaguing him. He is so very innocent--a big man like him!--that he’s
fair game. You are a regular spoil-sport.”
“I’ve another reason for going home,” said Dorothy, seriously. “Just
the same, you are not to be trusted, Tavia. I am ashamed of you.”
“You needn’t be. I wouldn’t harm poor little Lance Petterby for the
world!” giggled the black-eyed girl.
Dorothy was too worried over what the cowboy had told her about Philo
Marsh to keep on joking with her friend. The instant they reached the
ranch-house she ran to find Aunt Winnie.
“Oh, Auntie! you haven’t signed those horrid papers, have you?” Dorothy
cried.
“What do you mean, child?” asked Mrs. White.
“For that Marsh man.”
“Why, Dorothy! you are greatly excited. What _is_ the matter?”
“Then you _have_ signed?” wailed Dorothy.
“No. I told him I would to-morrow if he brought out a commissioner of
deeds with him. I cannot go to town now.”
“Don’t do it!” begged her niece, excitedly. “There’s something queer
about it. Let me tell you,” and there poured forth then all her
suspicions and her reasons for holding them. She told her aunt about
the strange talk she had overheard between the foreman of the ranch and
Philo Marsh, as well as about the surveying party she and Tavia had
seen back in the hills. She likewise repeated what Lance Petterby had
told her that very day.
“I cannot understand it,” Mrs. White said. “I have read the agreement
Mr. Marsh offers very carefully. It is between your father and me, as
party of the first part (that is the legal phrase), and Mr. Marsh, Mr.
Kendrick, and Mr. Stephen Goode, who jointly agree to take the water of
Lost River under certain conditions. There is no corporation formed as
yet, I am told, and these men constitute a committee.”
“A committee for whom?” asked Dorothy, briskly.
“Why--why, for the people who want the water.”
“But who _are_ they, Aunt Winnie? Philo Marsh says he is acting for the
Desert people; but you don’t really _know_ if it is so.”
“Child! it can’t be possible that the man would boldly conspire to gain
my signature for a different purpose from that Colonel Hardin intended?”
“That’s exactly what I believe Marsh is aiming to do,” cried Dorothy.
“Don’t you sign.”
“I won’t. A bad promise is better broken than kept. I shall write to
Mr. Jermyn. When I spoke to him in Dugonne he said he had had no reason
for looking into the matter, but he supposed that Mr. Marsh was acting
in good faith. Lawyers, I am afraid, are like doctors. The ethics of
the profession sometimes stand before their duty to a client.
“But Mr. Jermyn shall come out here and examine the papers and talk
with Mr. Marsh in my presence, before I sign,” added Mrs. White.
“Thank you, my dear, for being so helpful. Go tell Dempsey to find a
man to ride into Dugonne at once with a note.”
Dorothy ran to do as she was bid, while Mrs. White went to write the
letter. A man came to the ranch-house in a few minutes, a-straddle of
a vicious pony. He was a sullen, rough looking fellow, but Mrs. White
presumed he was to be trusted as a messenger.
However, had she known that the fellow carried her note to Philo Marsh
instead of to Mr. Jermyn--being in Marsh’s pay--the lady from the East
would not have been so tranquil in her mind. Having been unsuccessful
in wheedling Hank Ledger into aiding him, Marsh had hired this Mexican
to play the spy at the Hardin ranch.
Tavia and the boys were not informed of the new mystery regarding the
water-rights affair. Dorothy had promised Aunt Winnie not to speak of
it at present.
“After working as hard as we do all day,” quoth Ned at the supper table
that night, “a fellow needs a little recreation in the evening. You
girls aren’t at all entertaining. Why! you haven’t had even a ‘sing’
since we came out here to the ranch.”
“What will we do for music?” asked Dorothy. “There isn’t even a banjo
in the house.”
“There are mandolins, or guitars, or something, down to the
bunkhouse,” Nat broke in. “I heard somebody plunking one to-day. You
know, these Mexicans are great on music--of a kind.”
“I’ll ask Flores,” promised Dorothy, briskly. “Just as soon as supper
is over.”
“And we’ll all sing,” announced Ned, gravely.
Tavia immediately relinquished her knife and fork. “I object,” she
declared. “Perhaps I should say that I rise to a point of order.”
“What about, Miss?” demanded Ned.
“Are _you_ going to attempt to sing?” asked Tavia, point blank.
“What if I do?”
“Prithee, don’t, dear Neddie,” begged the teasing girl. “We’ve heard
you make the attempt before. You escaped with your life on that
occasion, but remember it was in a comparatively ‘tame’ country.
“This is the wild and woolly West. They hang people here for
horse-stealing--and perhaps for eating with their knives, I don’t know!
At any rate, Lance Petterby tells me that many of the ‘old-timers’
shoot from the hip, and without much provocation. Your sweet young life
may be snuffed out, Neddie, if you try to sing, by some native with an
ear for music.”
“Ha, ha!” cried Nat. “Old Ned’s like the minister they tell about who
was called to a new pastorate. One of the members of the new church
asked a friend of the minister if he was a good man.
“‘He is a very good man,’ agreed the minister’s friend.
“‘Well, what are his faults? He must have _some_ fault?’ said the
curious one.
“‘Since you press me,’ said the other, ‘I know of but one grave fault
in your new minister.’
“So the man asked him what that fault was. ‘He doesn’t know how to
sing,’ declared the candid friend.
“‘Well, that’s not a very serious fault,’ said the anxious one, much
relieved.
“‘No,’ was the reply; ‘but, you see, he sings just the same as if he
_did_ know.’”
“That settles it,” growled Ned, appearing to be much offended. “I’ll
not sing, no matter how much I am urged. I positively refuse.”
“I can go on with my supper, then,” said Tavia, calmly, “and with a
mind relieved of anxiety.”
“And while you are finishing,” laughed Dorothy, “I’ll go hunt up
Flores, and see if there is music to be had to soothe the savage
breasts of these amateur cowpunchers.”
She ran down to the shack where the foreman and his wife lived. The
twilight was falling, and Dorothy thought the country beautiful. Bare
as the ranges were, the vari-colored sky arching the rolling plain
lent a softness to the earth’s outline that pleased the eye.
By broad day she could see the boulders cropping out of the hillsides,
and the scars of ancient land-slips upon the faces of the higher
mountains, but now purple and saffron shadows mantled all these rude
outlines of the landscape, while the little valleys were pits of gray
mist and shadow.
Dorothy came, cheerfully singing, to the door of the foreman’s house.
“Where is Flores?” she asked Mrs. Ledger, who had hurried down from the
big house as soon as supper there was served to get the evening meal
for her husband and the hands.
“Drat the gal!” replied Mrs. Ledger, with some exasperation. “I wish I
knew. I left her here to get things started, and she’s run off.”
“Run away?” cried the startled Dorothy.
“Not fur, I reckon. She’s always buzzing some of the men. ’Druther play
than work, any time, that gal had.”
“I’ll find her,” promised the girl from the East, and went on toward
the horse sheds.
But she would have passed Flores in the dusk had she not heard excited
voices speaking Spanish. Dorothy could not understand Spanish, but she
recognized the tones of the Mexican girl’s voice.
“Flores!”
Instantly Dorothy saw one of the herdsmen dive into the deeper shadow
beside the shed, while Flores came swiftly toward her. The Mexican girl
had been crying, Dorothy knew, although it was too dark to see her face
but dimly.
“What is the matter, Flores?”
“I--I no can tell you, Señorita,” sobbed Flores.
“You won’t tell me?”
“I--I dare not. I no explain. Hush!” whispered the girl. “You take care
at beeg house. Bad mans about.”
This was anything but lucid, but try as she might Dorothy could get
nothing more explicit from Flores. The latter seemed not only unable to
explain herself in English, but she was afraid to speak at all!
Flores hurried back to the Ledger domicile and lent Dorothy a mandolin
of her own. Tavia could play the mandolin, and the young folk at the
big house had a nice “sing” that evening.
When Dorothy and her chum went to bed the former told Tavia about
Flores’ strange speech and actions.
“More mystery, Rudolpho!” cried Tavia. “What can she mean? ‘Bad mans,’
eh? Sounds awfully interesting. Almost _any_ male man with intelligence
would be a delightful change from these ignorant Mexican herdsmen.”
“Even a villain like Philo Marsh?”
“Oh! he is a disappointment, despite his mustache,” admitted Tavia.
“Even as a villain he proved second rate.”
“Perhaps we haven’t seen the last of his villainy,” said Dorothy,
darkly.
Tavia, her hearing momentarily impaired by a big yawn, did not catch
the drift of Dorothy’s prophecy. The next day there was more than the
usual stir about the Hardin ranch. Philo Marsh and a low-browed, greasy
looking man, whom the lawyer introduced as “Jedge Biggs”--a Justice of
the Peace and Notary Public--arrived early in the day.
The girls were by now deeply interested in the matter of the
water-rights. The boys had ridden away as usual, right after breakfast.
Dorothy had told Tavia enough about Aunt Winnie’s difficulties to
arouse the black-eyed girl’s interest and to excite her over this
morning visit of Marsh.
The chums remained on the veranda, within hearing of the discussion in
the office, when Aunt Winnie appeared to meet the two men from Dugonne.
“Mawnin’, Mrs. White,” said Philo Marsh, in his unctuous way. “We’re
all prepared this mawnin’ for business--loaded tuh the muzzle, as yuh
might say.”
“I have sent for Mr. Jermyn,” said Aunt Winnie, quietly. “I prefer to
have him here before I sign anything, Mr. Marsh.”
“Sufferin’ snakes, Ma’am! this ain’t another hold-up, I hope? Why, ye
agreed tuh sign----”
“Quite so. When Mr. Jermyn comes, if he does not advise against it, I
will sign.”
“But, Mrs. White! I have reason to know Jermyn is not in Dugonne at
present.”
“That is too bad,” said Mrs. White, with real disappointment. “I
thought it strange that he returned no reply to the note I sent him
last evening.”
It was not strange to Philo Marsh, but he gave no sign that he had ever
heard of the message.
“It seems a pity to hold the matter up again, Mr. Marsh,” said Aunt
Winnie, calmly. “But I feel that my lawyer should have an opportunity
to advise.”
“Mrs. White!” cried Philo Marsh, his wrath getting the better of his
judgment, “this is childish. It’s a joke for you, perhaps, but not for
me. You promised----”
“Mr. Marsh!” exclaimed Aunt Winnie. “I am not in the habit of being
spoken to in such a tone.”
She rose and passed to the door, leaving the two men standing, scowling
at each other.
“I am sorry for your disappointment, Mr. Marsh,” proceeded the lady,
“but I can no longer discuss this matter--or go on with it at
all--until I secure the advice of Mr. Jermyn. Good morning.”
“Bully for Aunt Winnie!” whispered Tavia, on the porch, squeezing
Dorothy’s arm.
“But I am afraid of what Philo Marsh will do,” returned Dorothy, in a
similar tone. “He looks like a thunder-cloud.”
Mrs. White had swept from the office, and the two men finally came out.
They did not notice the girls, and went off whispering together. A
little later they rode away from the ranch sheds, but did not take the
trail to Dugonne.
Ned and Nat had told the girls that some yearlings were to be branded
that morning, down in the far corral, and Dorothy and Tavia wanted to
see the work done--although they shrank from the idea of giving pain to
the helpless cattle.
“But I suppose that is the only way to keep run of the stock,” Dorothy
said, wisely.
“They couldn’t very well paste numbers on their horns,” rejoined Tavia,
whimsically.
When they told Aunt Winnie they were going, they found her looking very
grave, and she confessed to a headache. She suffered severely from that
affliction at times and she said the glare of the sun outside oppressed
her.
Dorothy knew that nervousness, enhanced by the argument with Philo
Marsh, was the real cause of her aunt’s illness. She offered to remain
at the house, but Aunt Winnie sent her out with Tavia.
“Go along and have a good time, child,” she said. “I shall be all right
alone here.”
For at this time of day there was not a soul else about the big house.
Mrs. Ledger and Flores were busy at their own quarters.
It was an hour later--after retiring in bad order because of the odor
of burning hair and flesh in their nostrils, and the sound of piteous
bawling in their ears--that the two girls approached the ranch-house.
The branding operations had been too much for their courage.
“I don’t want to be a ‘cattle queen,’” Tavia declared, with a shudder.
“One of those poor calves had blue eyes and he looked at me so pitiful!”
“Yet you have no tender feeling for the poor humans you plague--like
Lance Petterby,” chuckled Dorothy.
“Oh! they are fair game!” said Tavia, shaking her braids and running on
before.
Suddenly--right at the corner of the house--she halted, and wildly
beckoned Dorothy forward.
“Look! oh, look, Doro!” she gasped, as her friend came running.
Tavia, breathless, pointed off toward the west. A party of at least
six horsemen were riding at a gallop away from the front of the
ranch-house.
“Philo Marsh!” cried Dorothy. “I see him.”
“There is a woman with them--she is riding in the middle of the crowd,”
screamed Tavia. “Oh, Doro! she’s a prisoner! He’s carried her off.”
“Who’s carried whom off?” demanded the startled Dorothy, as the
cavalcade disappeared into a coulie.
“Your aunt! Philo Marsh has her. He’s kidnapped her--to make her sign
those papers--I _know_ he has,” cried Tavia, weakly sitting down on the
steps.
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Dorothy, and ran into the house to find her aunt.
But she could not find her. She called, and there came no answer. With
fast beating heart and trembling limbs Dorothy Dale returned to the
veranda. Tavia was talking to a man on horseback who had just arrived.
It was Lance Petterby.