“I can’t keep Marian waiting. Tomorrow she comes at one o’clock and
leaves at three—”
Another chord and the slightly sharp voice, “Work before pleasure—” and
Marian smiled with a condescending graciousness, “Hi, Judy!”
Judy smiled back absently. Karl was saying urgently, “Meet me here
tomorrow at three.”
Judy nodded, “I’ll arrange it somehow.”
When she reached home, Lynne was ready to leave. Mrs. Lurie’s eyes
brightened as she looked at her daughter. She hastily scribbled on her
pad and held it aloft, “You’ve color in your cheeks and your eyes have
their old luster. You’re one of those who blossom in sun and air.”
“Yes, Mother,” Judy sweetly agreed, but she was deeply aware of the real
reason for the glowing cheeks and brightened eyes—and judging from the
smile lurking on Lynne’s face, so was she!
That evening Mr. Lurie examined his schedule and announced with great
satisfaction, “Yes, I can come home early tomorrow—last session at
two-thirty. If I get a ride, should be here ten minutes later.”
By two-thirty Judy was dressed. Her mother was in a comfortable chair,
her music in her hands which she could study silently. That morning her
pad had pleaded for a rehearsal. The doctor was obdurate. “One hour
before you appear at the concert. Not before.”
Judy gave herself another fleeting glance at the mirror. The
candy-striped blue and white cotton with its full skirt looks cool, Judy
considered, even if I’m melting inside of it. The embroidered collar,
stiffly starched, scratched—but then, she smiled, Karl has never seen
this dress. Maybe it didn’t have the smart elegance of Marian’s tie
silk, but it was fresh looking!
As she glanced at the clock, now two-forty-five, she reviewed the things
she must tell her father—the egg nog, ready in the refrigerator, the
watercress sandwiches. She tiptoed into the bedroom.
Minna’s eyes opened. A descriptive arm indicated the window saying
plainly, “Why wait? Why don’t you leave now?”
“There’s not that much rush. I’ll play something. The P.S. (the family
abbreviation for Practice Student) hasn’t arrived. Something sweet and
soothing to induce sleep.”
Remembered bits of Chopin Nocturnes, the “Minute Waltz,” and the fingers
stumbled exactly at the same tricky places. Another look at the
clock—the piano was gladly relinquished to the late and harried P.S.
Judy went to the porch and anxiously scanned the street. She returned,
stared at the clock as its hands moved relentlessly. At five minutes to
four she heard her father’s leisurely step.
“You’re an hour later than you promised—” she said accusingly.
“Dear old faculty meeting—a special one!” he said apologetically. “You
needn’t hurry back. I’ll fix dinner—”
Judy was already at the door, mumbling something incoherently about egg
nog, refrigerator, watercress—hearing only her father’s puzzled
exclamation, “Where’s the fire?” as she recklessly rushed down the porch
steps.
The cool, refreshing wind blew through her hair, but she arrived at the
Hall hot and breathless.
Judy blinked. The room seemed dim after the sunlight. Two boys were in
the room, one at the piano, the other toying with an oboe or flute—she
couldn’t tell which. They stopped talking as she entered. She recognized
the colored boy whom she had met with Karl. “A brilliant student,” Karl
had told her, “completely at home in what must be a new and strange
environment.”
“Aren’t you James Powell?” she asked.
“Yes, of course, and you’re Judy. Hello!”
“Hello,” came in hollow tones from some remote region of Judy’s chest.
“You didn’t happen to see Karl here, did you?” she asked diffidently.
“He left with a very cute number some fifteen minutes ago,” the other
boy volunteered with an innocent smirk.
As Judy made no comment, James added quickly, “He seemed very put out,
Judy, he’d been waiting around so long—”
“Yes, I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“After supper I’ll stop at his home—I’ll give him a message for you.”
“Don’t bother, James, but thanks just the same.”
On the street, the warm sunshine enveloped her like a cloud. She raged
at herself, at her father. Why couldn’t he tell those stuffed shirts—And
Karl? Well, he just decided I couldn’t get away—and, of course, nobody
could use the phone. She tried not to feel hurt, yet he could have
waited a little longer.
Her dress looked squashed, the collar itched, her throat felt parched.
She was tired, too. All that useless running and waiting—and hungry. She
always felt hungry when she was miserable.
“No, I won’t go home and sit around while Father cynically probes, ‘Why
back so soon?’”
She opened her bag, powdered her shiny nose, wiped the perspiration from
her neck and face. A look into her change purse fortified her.
“I’m going to get the biggest chocolate fudge whipped cream ice cream
soda I can buy!”
She walked on aimlessly until she recognized the Cafe and Snack Bar
they’d visited the exciting night of the Juillard Concert. It seemed so
long ago! How happy she had been, sitting next to Karl—Lynne and Allen,
her mother and father—everyone so gay.
She stepped up to the entrance and looked in at the curtained window. It
was empty, except for a waiter. No, there in a far corner a table
glittered with silver and glassware, a teapot, cups and saucers. And
there—coming to the table was Karl! What heavenly luck! How surprised
he’ll be when he sees me! At that moment Marian sat down, some music
sheets in her hand. Judy stood there ashamed, unable to move! Their
heads were close together. Marian was laughing—and Karl looked, yes,
looked adoringly into her eyes, just as he looked at Judy at times. She
tore herself away.
She walked woodenly on the familiar and often dearly loved streets and
at last stumbled home, bone tired.
As soon as dinner was over and her mother comfortably in bed, Judy
pleaded weariness.
“Good idea for us all to get to bed early. Tomorrow is the big day,” her
father smiled.
“You’re sure Mother’s going to be able to sing? It’s wonderful, Father—”
Judy picked up her book, an ancient and much worn copy of _Les
Miserables_ that she had found in some neglected cabinet. The title
appealed to her. With a deprecating little smile at her father, she
ascended the staircase, much as Sidney Carton is said to have ascended
the gallows.
* * * * * * * *
It was a quarter to four on Wednesday afternoon. The Amphitheater, as
the Big Tent was sometimes called, was packed, every seat taken.
Judy, no longer the lonesome stranger of those first weeks in Aspen,
knew many people. The children of the camp were there. Even the youngest
came to hear his father play in the orchestra. They waved and smiled to
her and she waved back. But she was tense and frightened, impatient for
the concert to begin, and wishing it were over. Her mother was well, the
doctor was more than satisfied. But could that terrible thing happen
again—
Mr. Izler Solomon, the conductor, stood on the podium, bowing to
acknowledge the applause. Judy sat through Beethoven and Prokofieff,
hardly knowing which was which. Her mind was a blank, her heart was
pounding.
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
Minna Lurie stepped on stage, bowed at the ripple of applause. Judy
stared open-mouthed. Was that her mother? So poised, so beautiful, in
that shimmering green dress? Solomon lifted his baton. The orchestra
began.
Minna Lurie’s lovely voice, as if in defiance of the enforced rest,
filled the tent. The flute, then the oboe followed her clear notes. The
strings came in. Judy sat in a transport of joy. It seemed as if her
mother’s voice soared into the orange supports, into the poppy-colored
sides of the tent. She felt an ecstasy she had never experienced.
The applause was deafening. “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!”
Judy sat unable to move. Someone gripped her shoulder. It was Lynne.
Judy got up dazed. “Wasn’t she marvelous, Judy? I’m so excited!” Lynne
said.
People were leaving their seats and the crowd swirled around them. Lynne
said something about Saturday.
“What did you say, Lynne?” Judy asked.
“You remember. We’re going to Toklat and Ashcroft on Saturday.”
“But I thought you went last Saturday?”
“No, we wouldn’t go without you.” Lynne was pushed down the aisle.
“Saturday,” she repeated. “We’ll call for you at nine o’clock—”
Karl had made his way through the crowd. He pumped Judy’s hand until it
ached. The crowd moved toward the exits and Judy and Karl were carried
along in its stream. They stood at the tent opening, the large flaps
framing them. The field where hundreds of cars had been parked was being
emptied swiftly. Many young people, their arms linked, were walking over
the rough ground. Now the last stragglers appeared, the men of the
orchestra, carrying their instruments. Judy whispered, “Mother and
Father will soon be coming too.”
“Judy,” Karl said huskily, “why didn’t you come yesterday?”
“I couldn’t leave Mother,” she said, turning her head so that he
shouldn’t see the hurt that was all but forgotten.
The sky was beginning to darken. Something sang in their young hearts.
There was no need for words. They just stood there quietly, foolishly
smiling at nothing at all.
11
JUDY, AMATEUR PSYCHOLOGIST
With the exaltation of a young acolyte returning to a sacred task, Judy
appeared at camp the morning following the concert.
“Now let’s feed the ducks. Who’s in charge?”
“Paul.”
Their white-feathered friends were placidly waiting at the water’s edge
and after they were fed, swam out toward the middle of the pond.
The children took their seats at the long wooden table.
“Where’s Willie?” Judy asked. “I saw him just a few minutes ago.”
“Don’t bother about him! He’s a pest!”
“But I must—Oh, there he is under the table.”
On being called and asked to sit with the others, Willie looked up and
shook his head. “I don’t want to.”
He seemed so content playing with his little mounds of dirt that Judy
didn’t insist. The children were waiting. She set bowls of wet clay and
tubes of paint on the table and distributed pipe cleaners.
“See how pliable they are. They bend easily to any shape and with a pair
of scissors can be cut any length. I’m going to try to make a man out of
this wire and fill in the face with clay.”
The little group became interested. They suggested their own ideas,
horses and snakes, violins and trombones. All were soon completely
absorbed. Judy, her head bent, was delicately painting the eyes and
mouth of her figurine. A stream of icy water descended on her back.
Jumping from shock and surprise, she lost her balance and fell from the
backless bench, her skirt flying ignominiously over her head. The
children were convulsed with laughter as the water continued its steady
stream.
Rising clumsily to her feet, she looked around for the cause. There a
few feet back of her sat Willie holding the garden hose while the
children frantically cried, “Turn it off!”
For one brief moment Judy stared at the little boy’s cherubic face. The
words of Gilbert and Sullivan flashed through her mind, “Let the
punishment fit the crime.” She grasped the hose and turned it on Willie.
“Now you know how it feels to get soaked to the skin with all your
clothes on.”
The children shouted their approval. “He deserves worse than that—”
“Always tinkering with that hose—”
Judy asked the children to go back and finish their projects. With as
much dignity as she could command, she and Willie, both dripping pools
as they walked, went toward the barn. Surprisingly enough, Willie hadn’t
uttered a sound nor shed a tear! She helped the boy change into a pair
of shorts discovered among the costumes and Lynne’s discarded bathrobe
did service for her. Together they hung their wet clothes on the fence
where the hot sun would soon dry them.
“Willie,” she said, “let’s sit on the grass for a few minutes before we
go back to the others.” She studied the boy and wondered what went on in
that little head, behind the woebegone little face.
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
“I thought you liked me—Don’t you?” She pleaded. “I had to punish you
for your naughtiness.”
He said nothing for a moment, then unexpectedly, he put his hand in
hers. “I didn’t mean to do anything bad.” His large eyes looked at her
earnestly.
“But, Willie, you’re not a baby. I’m afraid I’ll have to mention this to
your mother.”
“Mommy’s sick. She’s always sick. You mustn’t bother her.”
Judy was perplexed. “Willie,” she said gently, “tell me why you put the
hose on me?”
He looked at her as if surprised at her obtuseness. Then he blurted out,
“I wanted to water my garden and you were in the way.”
“Your garden? I didn’t see any garden.”
“Oh, yes, there was, right under the table. I just wanted to water it
the way I do at home.”
“I see,” Judy said, not really seeing but trying to understand.
“I can water all I like, all afternoon until Daddy gets home. Your hose
here is heavy. I couldn’t hold it right—”
While the little boy was talking, Judy vaguely recalled Allen’s speaking
about Willie’s parents. His mother had had a breakdown of some sort;
mountain air and rest were supposed to help. His father played the drums
and timpani in the orchestra and had a part-time job besides. The boy
was of necessity much alone. The camp had been such a happy solution.
But Judy had forgotten the story and its possible bearing on little
Willie.
“The next time you want to water your garden at camp, you must first ask
permission,” she said. She put her arms about the boy. “After all, I’m
not a tree.” They both laughed gaily. When they returned to the others,
Judy couldn’t help noticing an air of pleased expectancy on their faces
as if they rather hoped more fireworks were in order.
“Willie didn’t intend to do anything mean,” Judy said offhandedly. “He
was trying to water his garden,” and she pointed to the twigs planted in
the mud.
Happy to dismiss the subject, she asked, “Let me see, children, what
you’ve accomplished?”
She was delighted with their skill and assured them that the Aspen
church would want to acquire the animals and assorted instruments for
its bazaar. “Then your parents can buy them right back again,” she said
laughingly.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to let Willie take charge of feeding the ducks this
week? You don’t mind, Paul, do you?”
“But I do mind.”
“Look, Paul, Willie’s only five years old, the youngest in camp. Don’t
you think we could show him we don’t bear any grudge, that we trust him
enough to give him this responsibility?”
The appeal to Paul’s better nature succeeded and Willie was acclaimed
the mascot for the week. In the days that followed Willie followed Judy
about camp much as the little lamb is said to have followed Mary.
Several days later a jeep stopped at the camp entrance. Judy was in
charge as Lynne had taken a group horseback riding. A man stepped out of
the jeep and moved in long, easy strides toward them. She wondered who
he could be until she heard Willie joyfully call out, “Daddy! Daddy!”
She stopped the victrola and managed a sickly smile of welcome. Willie’s
father! He’s come to complain about the hosing I gave his boy—maybe
withdraw him from the camp?
The man gave a brisk, “Hello, kids!” and stopped to rough up his little
boy’s hair. He was young and handsome.
“Are you Judy?” he asked, addressing her.
She nodded and murmured, “Yes.”
“I was driving by. I can only stay for a minute. Is Lynne around?”
“No. Is there anything I can do?” she asked weakly.
“Just tell Lynne I wanted her to know how sorry I was to have missed
Parents’ Day. I couldn’t get away.”
“Whew!” Judy almost said aloud in relief. “I’ll tell her,” she smiled
for the first time.
“But it’s you I really came to see.”
“Me?” She was thankful the children had run off to play. She was
beginning to marshal her defenses as to just why she had done what she
had—
“Yes, you,” he repeated. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Lynne about.
Willie’s mother asked me to give you a present but I don’t know what
girls like—I thought Lynne would help me out. But never mind—” and again
he smiled.
“But I don’t deserve—I’m very fond of Willie but—” Her words tumbled
over each other.
Before she could protest any more, he stuck some bills in her hand. “Get
something for yourself, please,” and with a hasty “good-bye,” he was
gone.
She had come into a fortune of three dollars. After the first pleased
sensation of having money of her own, she pondered on how to spend it.
That very afternoon she went to the library to secure the book on Aspen
history that had been waiting for her and her dollar deposit for over a
month. The rest of the money went for presents; a beautiful linen
handkerchief for her grandfather, no trouble about that. He adored fine
handkerchiefs! Grandmother’s was more difficult. After much hesitation,
examining each case of knickknacks with the greatest care, she finally
selected a brooch made of two crossed skis. Still she hesitated. Suppose
Grandma doesn’t like it? She never likes any present. Judy heard her say
time and again to anyone who gave her a gift, “Now why did you have to
spend money on me? You know I don’t need anything!” Judy gave the brooch
another admiring look. “Well,” she confided to the all-too-patient
shop-owner, “if Grandma doesn’t like it, it certainly won’t be wasted.
It’ll look stunning on my sweaters.”
Nor was Willie left out of her calculation. Once her deposit was
returned, he too would get a present. That was only fair, she decided,
since he was the author, so to speak, of her good fortune.
She reached home tired and hungry.
Her father was sitting at a desk absorbed. He looked up at her with an
abstracted air and said, “Mother went out marketing. Got a chance to go
in somebody’s car. She’ll be back soon. Have a nice day?”
“Lovely,” and Judy patted the gift-wrapped package. She watched him
silently for a while. Writing music out of your head without playing an
instrument was something she couldn’t fathom. He continued writing.
“I’ll set the table,” she offered. “Anything else?”
“No—well, yes. There’s the music stands to pull out. I borrowed some
extra ones. There’ll be eight of us, I imagine.”
“What, a rehearsal again?” Judy asked. “I thought you and Mother were
going to have people over tonight just to have fun.”
Mr. Lurie got up and reluctantly closed his desk. “So we are,” he smiled
at her. “Whenever musicians get together, they make music. That’s their
fun.”
“Hmmmm,” was all Judy said.
“What’s that book you brought home?” He glanced at the title. It was his
turn to say, “Hmmmm.”
“You’ve forgotten, Dad, I’m going with Lynne and Allen to Ashcroft. I
thought I’d give Lynne a shock by surprising her with my knowledge of
the history of these parts around here. No one seems to know anything
about Ashcroft.”
“Very commendable,” her father said seriously. “By the way, if you
should uncover any clues to hidden treasures overlooked by the early
settlers, let me know. A few silver nuggets would come in very handy.”
“Oh, Father,” Judy said impatiently. It’s no use, she decided.
During dinner Mr. and Mrs. Lurie were discussing the next important
event of the concert season. In addition to the regular program,
original compositions would be played. The judges would make the award
to the composer of the best piece of original music and to the most
promising conductor.
“Is Karl’s composition going to be played that day?”
“No,” her father answered, “he’s not satisfied with it.” But added with
real conviction, “I’m certain it will be heard later.”
Judy immediately lost interest in their talk and pointing to her book,
asked to be excused. “I have work to do too.”
Her mother appeared impressed. But her father said, with that dead-pan
expression he loved to assume, “I hope the Beethoven Quintet will
provide pleasant background music for your scholarly labors.”
Giving him scarcely a smile, although she was laughing inwardly, she
ostentatiously picked up the library book and went to her room.
Propped up in bed, surrounded with well-sharpened pencils, reams of
paper and her diary, she turned on her radio tuned to some weird jazz.
She began to read.
The idea of writing a story for the _Plow_, while still nebulous, had
not been discarded. If she wrote something that would stun her
classmates into admiration—
Facts, dull facts: drilling—pumps—shafts—mining operations. It was
disappointing!
Undiscouraged she plodded on, skipping whole pages. At last she was
rewarded by a tiny paragraph that she recorded on her note pad.
“Aspen, situated in one of the most beautiful valleys of the world, is
surrounded by giant mountains which guard her treasures. Ashcroft, her
near neighbor, just as beautifully situated, makes the picture complete.
Together, their silvery riches give promise of greater treasure than has
yet been found in the marvelous state of Colorado. Who can foretell the
future?”
Judy looked blankly at the word “future.” “That rosy future had come and
gone,” she sagely commented to herself. But how did it all start? By
more diligent searching, she discovered something more of the early
beginnings of Aspen and an occasional reference to Ashcroft. Again she
faithfully recorded a brief summary of her findings.
“Henry Gillipsie, a man of thirty-one, a graduate of Kansas Agricultural
College, left his home to seek his fortune mining gold. When he reached
Leadville, the town was in a ferment. Silver had been discovered in the
mountains of Colorado! He turned from his dreams of gold to the surer
thing—silver. True, there had been news of an Indian uprising; a United
States Major had been killed and some soldiers, but Gillipsie made up
his mind to go. He got a horse and a pack mule, took his son and
persuaded a friend to join him. Some twenty-five other prospectors
followed Gillipsie’s trail. All staked out their claims, Gillipsie even
buying two mountains. Although a truce had been concluded with the
Indians, Gillipsie and the others decided to return to Leadville.
Besides the Indians, winter was coming on. But he was no sooner back
than he began worrying about his holdings. Once the thaw set in,
thousands would go over Independence Pass and might take possession of
his claims. He told his fears to a friend who knew all about mines and
mine country.
“‘How can we get across the Pass in winter? The reports are terrible.
Men and mules bogged down in snow—broken legs—starvation.’
“Together they worked out a plan. They built snow boats of good, strong
lumber and loaded them with two hundred pounds of provisions and plenty
of blankets. The boats, really giant sleds, would be pulled by miners.
All would travel only at night when the snow was hard-packed, making the
going easier.
“Still the men objected. ‘How do you expect us to walk over snowdrifts
twenty-five feet deep?’
“Undaunted, Gillipsie and his friend had the answer. ‘We’ll need
snowshoes. Since we can’t get the webbed kind, we’ll make them out of
board, eight feet long, the way the Norwegians do.’
“When Gillipsie and his fourteen men, a strange looking pilgrimage,
arrived at their camp, Aspen’s mining history began.
“More settlers arrived, lured on by the tales of fabulous riches. They
spread out to Ashcroft, only twelve miles away. The success of Horace
Tabor, the owner of the two most famous mines in Ashcroft, stimulated
the miners.” (Horace Tabor, the romantic figure who loved Baby Doe) she
parenthesized, for the benefit of her grandfather.
“But Ashcroft developed slowly. The mountains were not only high but
inaccessible. Progress was slow. In the meantime, Aspen moved on to
quicker glory. A one-gauge railroad—buildings went up at terrific
speed—churches, schools, a bank, the _Aspen Times_—living expenses were
high—flour cost one dollar a pound.”
The music from her radio egged on Judy’s flagging spirit. Further
reading only revealed the names of Tabor’s two mines at Ashcroft. It was
in vain she looked for more news of Baby Doe. There was nothing. Only
the gloomy recital of the ruined silver kings.
History book and diary fell off the bed. She switched off the lights and
turned off the radio. The researcher wearily yawned and slept.
12
ASHCROFT, THE GHOST TOWN
The weather all summer had been fine. When there was an occasional
shower it came, considerately enough, late in the afternoon. It never
interfered with the outdoor activities and indeed was only noticed by
the concert-goers, who heard the brief but heavy drumming on the canvas
of the huge tent.
This Saturday morning was no exception. The sun rose brilliantly and the
air was crystal clear, a perfect day for the excursion to Toklat. To
Judy there was only one drawback: if only Karl could have come. Yet he
might turn up with Fran, late in the afternoon.
She paced the walk outside her home. Lynne and Allen were late. She
thought of that silly old adage about the early bird! All those pancakes
she’d left uneaten! There’s such a thing as being too prompt! But, she
grudgingly remembered, in that not so distant past she had been the one
for whom others had waited.
At last their station wagon approached.
“We overslept!” Lynne gaily announced as the car stopped. Judy climbed
in.
The winding road to Toklat hugged the mountain and although Allen drove
at only a moderate speed, a number of furry animals, feeling much at
home in the early morning stillness, flipped across their path to escape
only just in time! Once they all breathlessly exclaimed, “There’s a
deer,” but it was so fleet of foot as it bounded into the woods that
they couldn’t be sure.
At the entrance to Toklat was a handsome wood and stone structure,
Toklat Lodge. Early as it was, people were already lined up to make
their reservations for the luncheon they hoped to enjoy later. The food
at the Lodge was famous. Everyone knew about the gourmet dishes and the
perfection of its service. But Lynne, with a shade of regret in her
voice said, “That kind of elegance is not for us or our budget.
However,” she smiled as she indicated the lunch basket on the back seat,
“we’ve come prepared.”
They parked the car in the shade of some trees and beyond a log fence
enclosure they could see the heavy wooded area where the dogs lived. Mr.
Mace, they were told, would arrive later to take visitors through the
gate and see and hear all about the Huskies.
On the other side of the road stretched a vast, treeless meadow abruptly
ended by the range of mountains rising sheer from the valley. There were
some houses sparsely set in the field.
“Is that part of Toklat, too?” Allen asked the man idly standing guard
at the gate.
“Nope,” came the laconic answer. “That’s Ashcroft.”
In the clear sunlight the houses seemed close at hand. They could count
eight, maybe ten. Judy recalled the description of Ashcroft described in
her library book, “The giant mountains guarding their silvery treasure.”
She wondered what there was to guard in that desolate spot now. She was
eager to go there at once. The tour could wait. Judging by the crowds
already arrived, there would be a number of tours. Besides, if Karl did
come, he would expect to meet her at Toklat.
Lynne agreed, but Allen preferred to remain in the hope of having a few
words alone with Stuart Mace. They would meet later “over there,”
meaning Ashcroft.
“And don’t forget the lunch,” Lynne cautioned.
Crossing the rough fields overgrown with wild, prickly grasses, they
soon came close enough to see the houses—large, three stories high, the
frames of gray, weather-beaten timber, ageless. Two of them had wooden
signs nailed over the entrance, “Groceries,” “Drygoods.” They tried to
look in and discover if anything remained of the boasted merchandise.
But the windows were barred. They walked down to another house further
down the field, but that too had the doors and every window boarded up.
“You’d think from the care with which they closed the houses they
expected to return,” Lynne said wonderingly.
All had the sad, forlorn look of houses long empty and deserted. But one
house, larger than the others, gaped wide open. Glad of the opportunity
at last to satisfy their curiosity as to what the interior might be
like, they stepped inside. Had vandals carried away the staircase to the
upper chambers, or torn out the partitions that must have once divided
this huge room?
The window frames in the upper portion of the house were hung with vines
through which no ray of sun could penetrate. From the heavy beams under
the roof, wisps of clothes waved weird and ghostlike in the slight wind.
The two girls stood huddled together and felt like intruders as they
talked of the people who once must have lived there. Judy, her
imagination in full flight, pointed to the tattered garments.
“Look, I can make out a miner’s cap—and there’s an old bearskin coat.
They probably had to shoot the bear, eat the meat—bear meat is very
good, you know—and then use the fur to keep from freez—”
She stopped in the middle of her rhapsody. A pair of small beady eyes
looked down on her. She could distinguish a wing—then another. It moved!
more wings—more beady eyes. Wings fluttered—began to circle near them.
“Bats! The place is full of them. They can attack us—get into our hair!”
Without a moment’s delay, they flung hands over their heads and rushed
to get out, stumbling over the ancient doorsill in their hasty exit.
Once out in the sunny meadow, Lynne laughed at herself. “I feel like a
goose running out the way I did. Who ever heard of bats attacking
anyone?”
“Is that so?” Judy said warmly. “One night a few summers back a bat got
into my bedroom. It flapped around horribly, looking for me. I still get
the creeps when I think of it. If Grandpa hadn’t come in—”
“O.K. I’ve heard of bats in the belfry,” Lynne said dryly, “but never
mind. Have it your own way.”
They walked on to examine the few remaining houses. Except for the ruins
of a fence and an upside-down hut that was probably once an outhouse,
nothing remained to indicate that people once lived there.
“Ashcroft is sure a ghost town,” they both agreed.
They started to trudge back. They had gone further than they expected
and found the walking hard and tiring. When they stopped once or twice
to rest, they thought they heard the unmistakable chop chop of an ax.
Following the direction of the sound, they came upon a cabin, no larger
than a good-sized woodshed. Near it stood a man swinging his ax with an
easy, steady rhythm.
He looked up as they approached and said, in answer to their greeting,
“’Tis a fine morning.” He nodded and smiled at them.
They could see at once that he was old, very old. His face was
crisscrossed with fine lines, but his blue eyes were bright and he held
himself so erect that Judy involuntarily straightened her slumping
shoulders.
“Isn’t that pretty strenuous?” Lynne asked, pointing to the huge tree he
was splitting.
He smiled again. “I’m eighty-two and never felt better. We’ll need all
the wood we can cut.” He spoke with the pride of the very old whom the
years have used well.
Judy walked closer to the cabin and the door being ajar, she looked
inside—two cots, some shelves sparsely stacked with cans of soup, some
other foodstuffs.
“You don’t live here, do you?” she asked, her voice incredulous as she
again faced the old man.
“Yes. My pal and I, we live here. We’re the only two natives left in
Ashcroft.”
“You are?” Lynne and Judy said in one voice.
“Let’s stay here for a while,” Judy whispered. “The meadow’s so flat, we
can’t help seeing Allen when he comes looking for us.”
Lynne nodded. “May we sit here a little while and rest, Mister? We
expect to meet someone later.”
He seemed pleased. “I’m glad of your company.” He picked up his ax and
placed it against the woodpile.
“Set yourselves down. Make yourselves comfortable—the logs or the
grass.”
He sat down on the fallen tree and Judy, on the stiff undergrowth,
looked up at him with deep, commiserating eyes.
“I don’t see how you can bear to live in that little cabin all winter. I
should think you’d die of lonesomeness or freeze to death!”
“It’s never that cold, Miss. The sun’s good and hot even on the coldest
days. And I’m used to it.”
He looked at Lynne. “Came here as a boy when my father worked in the
silver mines and I’ve stayed here, off and on, ever since.”
He fished out a pipe from his shirt pocket and the girls watched the
gnarled fingers first clean it and then stuff it with some yellowish
weed.
“Was Ashcroft ever like Aspen? You know what I mean, well populated,
with lots of mines?” Lynne asked, as the old man puffed contentedly on
his pipe.
“Well, yes and no. Ashcroft was built up before Aspen, but Aspen got
ahead faster.”
“Why?” Judy asked.
“I’ll tell yer. For one thing, the mines out this way were hard to work
and new mines weren’t easy to locate. At Aspen things were different.
New veins kept on being opened all the time and they weren’t so hard to
mine. Nature favored it more, or maybe it was better equipment. Anyhow,
prospectors and settlers both got discouraged. They gradually took off.
Yep, they just moved away. A lot of them dragged their houses with them
by mule team.”
“What about Montezeuma and Tam-o-shanta? They were here. Horace Tabor
made a big success of his mines.” Judy wagged her head in the manner of
one who had spent her life in the bowels of the earth.
Lynne looked at her in surprise. “How do you know?”
“Oh, I’ve been reading up about it,” she answered with a superior smile.
But the old man saw nothing strange in Judy’s erudition.
[Illustration: uncaptioned]
“The young lady’s right,” he said. “Montezeuma had plenty of good ore
and it did well. Made Tabor a tidy fortune. But it was too high. Nearly
thirteen thousand feet. Dragging supplies out there was hard, but only a
man like Tabor could make a good thing of it.” He nodded at them and a
great smile spread over the wrinkled face, deepening the two well-marked
furrows around his jaw.
“Tabor built a mansion out here, real elegant, gold paper on the walls.
Built it for Baby Doe. That’s the second Mrs. Tabor that maybe you heard
about.”
“Yes. Did you ever see her?” Judy asked, with mounting interest.
“Well, in a manner of speaking. Saw her coming and going. The day she
came out to see Montezeuma, Tabor was that happy he declared a
twenty-four-hour holiday for everyone working in the mine. He was a real
silver king.” The old man shook his head appreciatively. “He treated
everyone that day to all the liquor he could drink.”
But his smile quickly faded. “Augusta got that mine too.” He sat
thinking for a moment. “Not that you can altogether blame her, the first
Mrs. Tabor. She’d helped him when he was—well, nobody. And now that he
was rich and famous, she wanted to hold on. Guess she loved him, so she
said right out in all the newspapers.”
“Augusta seems to have done very well for herself,” Judy commented
sternly.
Again Lynne lifted her eyebrows. She was certain now Judy had been
boning up not only on the history but on the gossip column of those
days.
“Well, did Horace Tabor and his new love live happily ever after?” Lynne
asked lightly.
Judy brushed aside the question. “What happened after the Silver Panic,
Mister? Did Baby Doe leave Tabor when he became poor?”
“No, Miss.” The answer was emphatic. “She stuck to him through thick and
thin. Nobody expected it of her—she was that young and handsome. When
she married Tabor, the biggest people in Washington came to the wedding.
Tabor was an important man, not only rich. He’d done a lot for
Leadville—the opera house and then at Denver, built a hotel and lots
more.
“The State of Colorado was grateful and he become a Senator for a
while.” His words came more slowly as if the embers of his excitement
had died out like his pipe.
“Well, Augusta made such a scandal of his leaving her that she spoiled
his chances in politics. Then comes the Panic—1893! Baby Doe, from being
the millionaire darling of a silver king, came down to even taking in
washing. She proved herself a good wife and faithful.”
“I knew she would,” Judy said triumphantly. She wanted to know more. “Is
that all?” she asked.
“No.” The old man shook his head gravely. “As I was saying, Tabor lost
everything and what he didn’t lose, he’d given to Augusta. She was rich
and stayed rich. All that remained to Tabor was one mine. He still owned
Matchless. It wasn’t paying any but he had great faith in it. When he
was on his deathbed, he tells Baby Doe, ‘Hold on to Matchless. It’ll
make a fortune yet.’”
“And did it?” Judy asked anxiously.
The old man shook his head. “She held on to it because Tabor told her.
She become that poor, she didn’t have a roof over her head. So she moved
out to the mine. Lived alone in a one-room cabin.”
He leaned forward, holding his young listeners.
“Gettin’ enough to eat wasn’t all her trouble. Tax collectors came out
to the mine and she held them off with a gun. But she had friends who
stuck by her, respected her grit, like that Jacob Sands of Aspen and
some others, I forget the names. They spent money to clear her title to
Matchless so that she could hold on to it, to the very end. She held it
for forty years, but it never paid any.” He sighed deeply.
“They found her one day, her body dressed in rags, her feet covered with
newspapers to keep out the cold—found her frozen to death.”
For a while no one spoke. Then as if wishing to break the pall of
sadness that engulfed him, Lynne asked, “Do you ever get to Aspen?”
“Sometimes. We have friends over there,” and he pointed in the direction
of Toklat.
Looking across the field, they saw Allen coming toward them with great
long strides. “Had a wonderful time with Mr. Mace,” he said as soon as
they were within earshot. Then coming closer he noticed the old man.
Allen’s eyes seemed to ask, “Where did you pick up this ancient?”
“Allen,” Lynne said quickly, “this gentleman is one of the two natives
of Ashcroft—and still lives here.”
“I’m happy to know you,” Allen said, shaking his hand.
They repeated the Baby Doe story for Allen’s benefit as they spread
their lunch, which they insisted the old man share with them. When they
left, he stood there waving, a tall spare figure, framed by the deserted
houses and the brooding mountains.
Allen hurried them along. “What an extraordinary man Mace is! What skill
he uses in handling his dogs!”
“What’s so special about that?” Judy asked, still ruminating about the
ups and downs of Baby Doe. “Horses pull wagons and dogs pull sleighs.
Why is Mr. Mace so wonderful?”
“For one thing, kid,” Allen said, annoyed at Judy’s lack of enthusiasm,
“he was with the ski troops that saw Arctic duty in World War II. He
learned about dogs the hard way.”
Allen turned to a more appreciative audience. “Lynne, I guess none of us
realized what these mountain troops went through out in that wasteland
of snow and ice. The pilots they saved, the planes and cargo they
salvaged—”
“What had the dogs to do with the pilots?” Judy asked.
“Fierce storms often forced the planes down,” Allen explained patiently.
“Mace was in charge of a division whose job it was to search for and
rescue the flyers and, of course, to save the air cargo on which their
lives depended. You see, Judy, only dogs and dog-sleighs can travel over
that sort of country.”
They moved along at a snail’s pace as Allen became more and more
engrossed in his subject. “Mr. Mace had to train the dogs, keep the
drivers from fighting each other. Tempers get ugly under such
conditions. The war went on. Sleighs wore out. He had to make new
ones—new equipment.” Allen shook his head. “Mace is a modest man. You
have to drag the story out of him.”
“How did he happen to get to Ashcroft?” Lynne asked.
Allen laughed. “I asked him that myself. It seems that when the war was
over, they didn’t know what to do with those wonderful dogs. The top
brass ordered them sold. Mace said he’d grown to love working with dogs.
The thought of giving it up made him wretched. He saved some money and
he bought all the top-strain dogs he could afford. He and his wife
decided to take their dogs to Aspen to breed and train them, as a
hobby.”
“What did he do before the war?” Lynne asked.
“Some kind of research on flowers that grow on the Rocky Mountain
slopes. But when he came back, there was no interest in that sort of
thing. And there weren’t any jobs that he could find to do around Aspen.
So he decided to move out to Ashcroft. Land was cheap and snow lay on
the mountains seven months of the year. Dog-sledding and skiing had
become a great national sport. So he decided to turn his hobby into a
job! He and Mrs. Mace worked through one summer and a long hard winter
to build the log and stone lodge we passed. Guests can stay there and
enjoy long trips into the mountains with the dog-sled teams and—”
Lynne, interrupting him with a laugh, said, “You’re so wound up talking
about Mr. Mace, you forgot about the tour. I can see from here people
crowding through the gate.”
They made the remaining distance on the run. They arrived in time to
join the twenty or thirty others all trying to squeeze as close as
possible to the owner and guide, while Judy unabashed scrutinized every
likely or unlikely person that might be Karl.
13
THE HUSKIES
Stuart Mace was dressed in well-fitting khaki trousers and a plaid shirt
open at the throat. His sturdy bronzed neck suited the finely molded
features of his face and his smile was warm and friendly.
“As you see,” he began, “we have a great family of dogs, bred for hard
work in the mountains, ice and snow. From our original nine dogs we have
eighty, among them some of the finest leaders and teams in the country.”
He motioned the group to follow him. Individual kennels shaded by trees
extended in all directions. The dogs, tied by long leashes, had a great
deal of freedom. They looked at the visitors unmoved. None barked. Mr.
Mace pointed out common characteristics: their large, long-haired
bodies, the markings on their bodies, their intelligent faces, their
long pointed ears and bushy tails. As Mr. Mace passed the dogs, he
fondled them and those who were by chance overlooked snuggled up to him
and their eyes begged for his caress.
“Let’s have a look at some of the very young dogs,” Mr. Mace said, the
crowd at his heels. He picked up a beautiful furry puppy and held him in
his arms like a baby.
“This Alaskan dog is only three months old. We know by this time that
she will never do the work our dog teams must do.”
“How do I know?” Mr. Mace smiled at the man who asked the question.
“We have our way of knowing. When I decide that such is the case, we
sell them as pets. They make good watch dogs and are gentle and
affectionate.”
“What does it cost to buy such a puppy?” Allen asked in a low voice.
“About a hundred dollars, only what it cost us to raise and feed the dog
for the three months.”
Judy looked at Allen, who was whispering something to Lynne.
In that momentary lull she could hear Lynne’s answering whisper, “But
what would we do with him when you’re away on tour for eight weeks and
I’m busy teaching?”
“When do you throw them the meat?” a little boy asked as they went on
among the older dogs.
“We’re not in the zoo, my little friend. No lions or tigers here,” Mace
replied with a grin. “These dogs are never fed any meat. Up in the
Arctic regions, the dogs get walrus and chunks of seal. But here, it’s
not necessary. See that box of food next to each kennel? When a dog is
hungry, he goes over and eats what he wants of it. It’s a mixture of the
best scientific foods these dogs require.” He pointed to the pans of
water near each kennel. “They need lots of water during the summer
months, but in the winter the snow is enough.”
“Gee, these dogs are kind of lazy—the way they just sit around.” Mr.
Mace overheard the little boy’s complaint.
Mr. Mace smiled at the boy. “Don’t you think these dogs deserve a rest
after working hard from November through April? This is their vacation,
son,” he said kindly. “That’s how we keep them fit and happy.”
They were now among the full-grown dogs selected for their team work.
“Eight, ten, sometimes twelve dogs make a team,” Mr. Mace explained,
“depending on the distance to be traveled and the load to be pulled. The
dogs are harnessed in pairs, but the leader runs in single harness in
front. Teams must be well matched, not only for beauty and appearance,
but in strength and size. But the leader is the prize of the pack—like
this one here.” Mr. Mace bent over to pet him.
“He’s pure Malamute strain. That’s one of the best. See his powerful
chest, his long bushy tail, like the others, only longer and bushier.
Look at his feet, those powerful nails, the short hair cushioning the
toes, the long hair between. He is sure-footed, intelligent, and has a
fine sense of smell. Never forgets a road once he’s been over it, never
forgets commands once they’ve been mastered. And he has character! Don’t
laugh,” he smiled at Judy. “This dog has got character. He demands
obedience from his team. Where he goes, the team must follow.”
Mr. Mace turned his attention to a large handsome dog that seemed
unresponsive to his petting. “She’s Eskimo, and she’s brooding. We took
away her puppies some days ago and she’s still unhappy.”
A little boy, more venturesome than the others, went over to her. “Don’t
go near her,” Mr. Mace said. “She’s not vicious, none of them are, but
she’s best left alone at present.”
The crowd moved on. The boy who had just been admonished stood in front
of the kennel watching the sulky animal. As Judy tried to pass, the boy
stood talking to the dog.
“What’s the use of being sore?” He stepped closer. “Come on, let’s shake
hands.”
The dog lifted her leg and gave the boy’s chest a shove. He went down as
if hit by a load of bricks. The boy lay there, stunned. Judy screamed,
“Mr. Mace! Mr. Mace!”
It was her frightened call that brought Mr. Mace loping back. He picked
up the frightened boy and said severely, “You’re not hurt, but I warned
you to let that dog alone.”
Mr. Mace walked on and the group, a little sobered, followed.
“How much cold can these dogs stand?” Lynne asked.
“In the far north they can take a temperature that goes to sixty or
seventy degrees below zero. We, of course, haven’t such extremes of cold
here, but it’s plenty cold in the mountains in the winter. When we take
people on our sledding trips over snow-covered trails, we stop overnight
at a cabin we’ve built. Our riders enjoy a good fire, a comfortable bed
and a meal.
“But,” he went on, “the dogs are just unharnessed, fed, and go to sleep
in the snow. You’ve noticed these Huskies have thick coats of fur and
nature further protects them with a wool matting close to their hide. So
you see,” and he smiled at Lynne, “these dogs can stand all kinds of
weather.”
“Look at that dog there,” a woman exclaimed. “I’ve never seen such a
handsome dog! His black markings on the forehead and nose are so
striking against his white coat!” All turned to look. “See how he stands
there as if he enjoyed our admiration.”
“Of course, she does,” Mr. Mace said. “She’s our prima donna, one of our
famous movie stars. She’s only completely happy when she’s in front of a
movie camera.”
“Can she do some tricks for us now, please?”
“I’m afraid not. Our dogs have performed often right out here in these
very mountains. You’ve probably seen them on your own TV’s at home,
thinking they were made in the Arctic! But most often when Hollywood
needs our dogs, we just board a plane and go there.”
There was more, much more. Eighty dogs are a lot of dogs to see and Judy
must have looked as she felt, very weary. The tour was over.
As they neared the exit, Mr. Mace turned to the crowd still following
him. “Like to hear my dog concert?”
“Sure!” everyone said.
“Kyloo,” Mr. Mace addressed a powerful Husky whose kennel was near, “how
about some music for these nice people?”
Kyloo didn’t seem interested.
“Now come on, Kyloo,” Mr. Mace’s voice was coaxing. “Don’t be shy. I’ll
start you off.”
Mr. Mace thrust back his head and a loud, prolonged wail came from his
throat.
Kyloo didn’t need any more urging. He tilted back his head, opened his
wide jaws and the same powerful, prolonged note issued from his throat.
It re-echoed through the grove and grew in volume as the wail was taken
up by the eighty dogs.
It was a strange, primitive call, high and piercing. Yes, it was a kind
of song, the dogs’ farewell to the visitors, farewell in music.
While Allen stayed on to take some snapshots of the dogs, Lynne and Judy
followed others into the Arctic Trading Shop, a lovely log cabin
displaying rare and unusual things. When at last Allen joined them, they
returned to the car to drive back to Aspen.
It was only as they drove through Main Street past the Ski Lodge and
Chairlift that Judy suddenly remembered.
“Allen,” she said, putting her hand on the wheel, “aren’t we going up
the Chairlift? You promised!”
“Judy, I hate to say it, but the answer is ‘no.’”
“Why?” she asked, unable to hide her disappointment.
“Well,” Allen said slowly as if to lessen the blow, “chiefly because
Lynne and I went up last Saturday.”
“You went up?” Judy repeated, reluctant to believe such treachery, going
up without her!
Allen nodded. “You see, a lot of Festival people planned the trip,
getting some special rate and Lynne and I couldn’t resist a bargain!
But, Judy,” Allen smiled sheepishly, “I think we’re sort of glad you
weren’t along to witness our disgrace. We got off at Midway!”
“How could you get off when the chairs keep moving all the time? The
machinery never stops. I’ve watched it a hundred times.”
“Well, it takes a bit of agility, but everyone has to get off at Midway
for a few minutes. The mechanism changes direction at that point. You
walk a few feet and leap on again. That’s where the chair immediately
swings out over a bottomless chasm! I decided I had enough! Dangling
like a clothes hanger from that slender cable was too much for me. I had
no stomach to ride over that yawning abyss and then ascend to thirteen
thousand feet!”
Judy looked at Lynne. “Is he joking? He gave up just like that?”
“We gave up, just like that,” Lynne said laughing. “Allen shouted to me,
‘I’m getting off at Midway. Not going further. You keep going if you
wish, but I don’t think it sensible.’
“Jouncing along, my nerves a bit jittery, I guess I was secretly glad
and yelled back, ‘I will too.’ My young campers were below me, swinging
along, waving their hands and laughing. I knew we would have to brave
their jeers, if not their scorn. But we did.” Lynne and Allen exchanged
glances as if there were some reason for their lack of hardihood.
“So like a cautious young couple with good reasons for our caution,”
again that special smile for Allen, “we walked down a steep mining road
that took us back to Aspen. It was wonderful even if we didn’t get to
the top.”
Allen patted Judy’s shoulder. “I guess it isn’t so bad when the
mountains and the chasm are blanketed in snow. Leave something for
another time or another year. You’ll be coming to Aspen again. Everyone
does.”
“I hope so,” Judy said with forced resignation. Then she remembered
Ashcroft and the dogs. “It’s been such a perfect day. How can I ever
thank you!”
The car pulled up in front of Judy’s house. “I’m sorry we can’t stop
in—marketing, and dinner still to get,” Lynne said. “We’ll see Mother
and Dad in a few days—we have something very special to tell them.”
Judy wondered.
Lynne went on, “You know, Allen and I feel flattered. You didn’t mention
Karl’s name once all day!”
“But that doesn’t mean that I didn’t think of him. Everytime I looked at
those gorgeous Eskimo dogs with their sad, dreamy eyes, I thought of
Karl. Isn’t that strange?”
“Truth is stranger than fiction,” Lynne laughed. “I’m afraid you’ve got
a real case! Good-bye, dear!”
“Good-bye!”
“Something special to tell them?” Judy repeated to herself as she slowly
mounted the porch steps. “Maybe that’s why Allen didn’t want Lynne to go
further on the Chairlift. After all, they are married two years—”
14
“CONFIDENTIALLY YOURS”
“... and so, dear Grandpa, I’ve brought you up on all the latest news.
One or two things more. Mother is still hopeful for an early audition
for the City Center Opera Company. Father continues to write
incomprehensible notes on his music sheets—and literally walks on air
when it goes well. Other times he just looks black and frustrated,
staring into space as if listening. But his work at the school is fine.
And his quartet is making a name for itself in this oasis we call Aspen.
There! That’s enough about them!
“I can see you look at me in that way you have and say, ‘What about
you?’
“That’s not so easy to answer. Part of me is getting along swimmingly.
Lynne says I have a gift with children! Imagine, I who during those
first days at camp felt like wringing their individual and collective
necks!
“Happy as I am to have that wonderful job, that’s not the important
thing in my life. Mother is blind and so is Father! The great change in
my life—in me, has come since I’ve known Karl! When I first wrote to you
about him, I told you of his looks, his love and knowledge of music, his
almost unnatural devotion to his mother! But our friendship, oh so
necessary to both of us, has deepened, has matured into something quite
wonderful! Please don’t smile. I couldn’t bear it and somehow I know you
won’t or I wouldn’t be writing as I do.
“When I see him, his nearness gives me a joy I can’t explain. We see
each other nearly every day—if not at his Uncle Yahn’s Swiss Shop, then
he drops in here. We never finish all we have to say. I know his
character, his thoughts, his dreams. I weep for all his father has been
through. Remember the prophets of the Old Testament you used to read to
me? I listened with only half an ear. But Karl knows a lot of Jewish
history and I’m learning fast. When Grandma hears of this phenomenon,
she will be glad that all her efforts to fill the huge gap in my
ignorance has at last born fruit. I’m beginning to glimpse what she used
to call ‘our great heritage.’
“But Mother sees little of all this greatness in Karl. She treats him
like any other music student.
“‘How are things going, Karl?’ Then she’s off to the kitchen or
marketing or sometimes, more lately, to rest. Father is more interested,
but he too is preoccupied with his own work. So I have become more
necessary to Karl as he is to me.
“I love him! There, I have written the word. I dream of what he’ll be
some day, how I can help and how I can become that which he seems to see
in me. Will our discovery of each other in Aspen flower into something
as wonderful as the present? Don’t tell me I’m young! Juliet was only
fifteen! Happily for us, there are no Montagues and Capulets with their
senseless feuds to try to keep us apart!
“I know my own feelings, but how can I know that Karl loves me? I do
know he likes me a lot, but even so, there are complications!
“Karl works with a pianist and she’s fiendishly clever! She’s pretty,
very superior, and treats me like a child! She’s old, at least twenty.
For all that, she looks so dainty and petite. And I’m awkward, stupid
and tongue-tied when I’m with her.
“Karl asked me to meet her. I was terribly curious about her and agreed
although I knew in advance I wouldn’t like her. Twice was enough! I’ll
not subject myself again to such humiliation. I asked him why he allowed
her to order him around and make jokes about the most serious things?
“His only answer was, ‘She knows her piano. I don’t. I’m lucky to get
that ribbing. It helps to keep one’s feet on the ground. Besides, she’s
fun to be with!’
“He looked at me in surprise. ‘You used to have a sense of humor, Judy.
What’s become of it? I hoped you’d enjoy Marian as much as I do.’
“I couldn’t tell him I never want to see her again! She stirs up the
ignoble in me. I know, at least I feel, she’s trying to entice Karl,
trying to get him in her clutches, away from me. Probably, she
recognizes the genius he’ll become some day! I try not to think of her
and often I forget her completely, especially when Karl and I are
together, alone.
“Good-bye, Grandpa. Keep well and know I love you. This letter is for
you only. I won’t mail it until I’ve written another for Grandma with
all the concerts, lectures (ugh!), recitals and rehearsals—in short,
with all the news that’s fit to print. O.K.?
Lovingly and confidentially yours,
Judy”
15
THE MOUNTAIN CLIMB
It was the middle of August and the season in Aspen was drawing to a
close. In a little more than two weeks, the students of the Festival
would begin to trickle back, some to college, others to jobs. The
artists and faculty members were already speaking of their fall
engagements to travel all over the United States, Canada, and South
America.
But in the meantime, as if the planners of the Music Festival wished to
end the Festival in a blaze of glory, life in Aspen increased to a
furious tempo. Lectures, recitals, concerts, music in one form or
another filled the days and nights. No one seemed to feel the strain
except Judy. She wondered sometimes, did the nearby mountains ever tire
of this constant paean of music?
One evening Mrs. Lurie casually announced at dinner, “We’re all going
tonight to a lecture at the Seminar Building.” She turned to Judy. “You
remember that attractive ultramodern building near the Tent? You loved
the paintings exhibited there on those circular walls.” She shook her
head meditatively, “Those paintings by American artists were given by
Mr. Paepcke. He’s certainly been very generous.”
“Allen and Lynne are going to pick us up in their car,” her mother went
on cheerfully. “Oh, here they are!”
After the usual greetings, Mrs. Lurie said, “Judy’s coming with us. The
lecture will be over by ten.”
“What’s the lecture about?” Judy asked.
Her mother answered, “‘Modern Trends in Disharmony.’ It should be
wonderful!”
Judy shuddered. She remembered other “wonderful lectures” through which
she had sat bored and rebellious. In that brilliantly lighted hall one
had not even the small luxury of being able to fall asleep!
“They’re playing a wonderful Western at the Isis,” Judy said
desperately.
“A Western!” her mother and Lynne said. “They’re dreadful!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Allen said quite unexpectedly. “Daredevil riding on
magnificent horses, hairbreadth escapes, mountain scenes like our
Rockies—” His eyes flashed. “They’re packed with excitement—loads of
it.”
Judy looked at Allen, then shifted her gaze to her father. In his eyes
too there was more than a glint of interest.
“Come to think of it,” Allen went on, “it’s funny, we haven’t been to a
movie all summer.”
“What’s funny about that?” Lynne asked with marked disappointment at
Allen’s bourgeois taste in films. “Of course, we haven’t been to a
movie, nor have we seen any television. And we certainly haven’t missed
either.” She looked for encouragement to Mr. Lurie as she went on.
“Who wants to see gun-shooting, Hollywood cowboys tearing up and down
mountains when one can enjoy a delightful evening listening to ‘Modern
Trends’!” She smiled at John certain of his unqualified support.
Instead of an answering smile, he cleared his throat and said with a
deprecating air, “I agree with Allen. There’s something to be said for
these Westerns. The sight of horses leaping from crag to crag, men
hurled from saddles, climbing inch by inch over backbreaking trails—” He
laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “It fills me with a nostalgia.”
“But this lecture, John,” Minna said in a quiet, determined voice, “is
by one of the foremost musicologists.”
“One of the greatest,” Lynne added.
Allen placed his large, friendly hands on Judy’s shoulders. “Have a
heart, Lynne. This kid has listened to music and lectures without let-up
for seven long weeks. Sure, it’s been great, but maybe she’d like a
change of diet.”
There was a flurried consultation between Lynne and Minna. Then with a
martyrlike smile, Lynne said, “Allen, dear, since you feel so strongly
about Judy’s state of mind, of course, we’ll go to the Isis.”
Allen brazenly winked at John. Then everyone laughed. Judy was unable to
see the joke. As they walked along the quiet streets, seeing her father
and Allen in such high spirits, she wondered. Had they made all that
fuss on her account or were they satisfying some secret desire of their
own?
The very next day John Lurie announced his decision to climb Maroon Peak
on Sunday. All summer he had been promising himself one good climb. The
movie did it! As Judy phrased it, “The close-up of the mountain trails
whetted his ‘blunted purpose,’” something she had culled from her
favorite play of Shakespeare. Whatever the reason, John Lurie cleared
his calendar and made his plans.
Fran accepted the role of guide, since he knew the trails well. Karl was
invited “to please a certain nameless young lady,” he said. “Oh,
Father!” came ecstatically from Judy at this bit of news. Minna was
invited but refused as she didn’t feel equal to so difficult a climb and
might spoil the day for the others.
The final arrangements were discussed. Extra jackets and sweaters were
to be taken in their knapsacks as the summit was often bitterly cold,
even in summer. Each one was to provide his own sandwiches and a drink
of some kind or water in a canteen and heavy socks and shoes were to be
worn. The agreed to meet at eight o’clock in the morning at the foot of
the trail twelve miles from Aspen. Judy and her father were getting a
lift through the kindness of a neighbor, but Fran cheerfully volunteered
not only to get Karl and himself to the trail, but also to have a car
meet them at seven that night to take them back to Aspen.
The night before the climb Judy lay in bed unable to sleep. A whole day
with Karl ahead of her! She felt like a general mapping out her
strategy. Her father would race ahead with Fran, but she, affecting an
air of languor (lovely thought, she hoped she could bring it off!) would
set a slower pace and Karl, with his usual consideration, would be
beside her. She sighed luxuriously. There would be hours and hours to
talk! And at the summit, resting amid the clouds, they would read
poetry! She had slipped a volume of her grandfather’s poems into the
knapsack, just in case—although she knew a few of them by heart.
As she tossed on her bed, the thought of Marian crossed her mind. Karl
hadn’t mentioned her name in days, yet her pretty face still troubled
Judy. Jealous! Of course not! That was over and done with. “Jealousy was
degrading,” she muttered into the pillow, turning it for the tenth time.
It was good to feel cleansed and serene. But a sweet and consoling
thought lulled her to sleep. The words repeated themselves like a
lullaby: “Marian would soon return to Chicago. Soon, soon—the sooner,
the better!”
“Judy, you’re a fine one to depend on! I thought you’d be up at dawn.”
It was her father, fully dressed, ready for their trip.
They reached the trail long ahead of the scheduled time. During the
half-hour wait the crystal-clear air gave Judy such an appetite that she
consumed a sandwich and was nibbling on a hard boiled egg when her
father rescued what remained of her lunch and replaced it in his
knapsack.
At the sound of a motor Judy jumped up, “Here they are!”
A beautiful, shiny, black convertible roared toward them, swung into the
brush and came to a stop. She stared at it. Every car in Aspen was laden
with weeks of dust. No one they knew ever bothered to clean a car that
would get just as dusty an hour later.
Fran stepped out of the car and walked toward them. His face was
shining, his heavy boots were laced to the knees, and a coil of rope and
knapsack were jauntily slung over his shoulder.
“Where’s Karl?” Judy asked as he came nearer.
“He’s here. Like a real gentleman, he’s helping the lady.”
“The lady?” Judy repeated stupidly, her eyes fixed on the car.
Yes! There she was walking with Karl, a hand on his arm, a dainty figure
in dark blue jeans, a cap to match and a bright red sweater. It couldn’t
be—No!—that was impossible!
They approached slowly. Karl, with a battered old rucksack borrowed from
his uncle, heavy-booted and heavy of tongue, smiled feebly, “I hope you
won’t mind. Marian begged to come along.”
Marian gave Judy a little nod and held out her pretty manicured hand to
Mr. Lurie. “I know I’m just an interloper, but to be in the heart of the
Rockies and not able to boast of one little climb—” She gave Mr. Lurie a
ravishing smile.
“Little climb,” Judy muttered under her breath, but she noticed that her
father looked as pleased as Punch and said, “We’re delighted to have you
come along.”
“That’s sweet of you, Mr. Lurie.” Then as if just remembering Judy’s
existence, she said, “How are you?” And without waiting for an answer
continued, “I bet you’re glad not to be the only girl in the party!”
“Well, let’s get started,” Fran said. “We’ve a novice with us,” he
chuckled. “Marian may look like an ad for the ski patrol, but, brother,
she’s never climbed a mountain except in a car. Well, there always has
to be a first time. Besides, if we hadn’t Marian’s car, we would have
had to hike the twelve miles to get here. The guy who was to take us
found himself with five passengers for Denver. A break for him, but—”
Judy stood in the circle and except for a hollow “Hello, Marian,” had
been too numb to say anything. Her heart was sore with all her useless,
foolish planning. As her grandmother remarked when an irrepressible
neighbor invaded her privacy with stupid visits and more stupid
conversation, “This neighborhood was always so lovely. Now _she_ has to
move next door. There’s always a fly in the ointment!”
Mr. Lurie was laughing at something Marian was saying. He turned to
Fran, “Maybe you’re right about the stylish outfit, but why didn’t you
tell Marian to wear heavy shoes?”
“I did tell her.”
“They both did,” Mirian said with a careless shrug. “But I don’t own a
pair of delightfully sensible cowhide boots such as Judy is sporting.”
Only Judy noticed the subtle sarcasm, “delightfully sensible.” She
looked at her thick socks, the mud-colored boots inherited from her
mother’s climbing era. She clenched her teeth.
“Don’t worry about me,” Marian added lightly. She lifted a trim little
foot. “These sneakers are the best—new and strong. I’ll manage.”
Judy said nothing but silently prayed those sneakers of hers would fall
apart and expose her bleeding toes on the rocks.
They began to climb in single file. The first half hour was easy, a slow
upward grade. Marian’s teasing voice could be heard.
“You call this a climb?”
She talked incessantly until Fran told her brusquely to save her breath.
“You’ll need it,” he warned.
The next three or four hours were hard. Fran leaped ahead like a goat
while Judy and her father, with set faces and their bodies bent forward,
plodded steadily on. Breathing hard and frequently panting, they were
glad of the rest periods Fran ordered at fifteen-minute intervals. The
trail led over rocks and huge boulders, mud ankle deep from hidden
springs. The trees grew more sparse, then disappeared altogether. In
spite of herself, Judy was enjoying the climb, the exertion, the clear,
exhilarating air, the sudden views of deep chasms that fell away a
thousand feet.
Of Karl and Marian they saw nothing after the first hour. Every once in
a while Fran would give his weird call, “Halloo,” and on hearing a faint
answering “Halloo,” would say briefly, “They’re on the trail. O.K. Let’s
keep moving.”
At one-fifteen the three stopped for lunch. They were on a plateau of
smooth rock and before eating, they rested, lying down on the hard
surface to dry their soaked shirts and perspiring bodies, then turned
over on their stomachs, warming their backs in the hot rays of the sun.
In five minutes they were completely refreshed and sat up to eat and
marvel at the view.
Giant peaks cut into the sky, deep forests of black pine were far below,
and in the distance a thread of silver shimmered, a river, perhaps
unknown, uncharted on any map. In a craterlike hollow, barely seen at
first, lay a lake of dazzling color, like a giant emerald, sparkling in
the sun.
Mr. Lurie at last broke the silence. “You know,” he said in a meditative
voice, “it’s hard to explain one’s love for mountain climbing to anyone
who doesn’t share your enthusiasm. Most people see it as a foolhardy,
backbreaking, unnecessary exertion. ‘Knock yourself out! For what?’ they
ask with undisguised condescension, sometimes with a sort of incredulous
contempt. And we lovers of the sport can’t explain.” He flung out his
arms in a sort of ecstasy. “We say it’s the extraordinary view one gets
as a reward for the struggle. No,” Mr. Lurie continued, letting his arms
drop beside him, “you get an incomparable view from Pike’s Peak driving
up in a car or bus. No, it isn’t the view alone.”
“It’s like a dare or a challenge, isn’t it?” Fran said. “You set out to
do what you know is hard and tough. Maybe reach a peak no one ever saw
before. You don’t go out for the pleasure of the kill as a hunter does.
You’re making a new trail of following someone else’s who had dared
before you. And when you’ve done it, boy, you feel good!”
“That’s about it, Fran. You’ve conquered one of the difficulties Nature
constantly presents. You push yourself ahead, beyond endurance
sometimes, but when you reach the summit, you want to shout, ‘Look, I’m
here too! I share your lonely grandeur if only for a moment of time.’”
Then in a more matter-of-fact tone he said to Judy, “I guess you haven’t
climbed enough to feel that way about it, but it’s that spirit in one
form or another that has led to opening up parts of the world that would
otherwise have remained unknown.”
“Oh, I agree with you perfectly, Father, but I was only wondering what
happened to Karl and Marian.”
“Yes, where are they?” Fran said impatiently. “We’ve been here for half
an hour.”
Mr. Lurie looked at his watch. “It’s only one-twenty-five. How long do
you figure, Fran, it will take us to reach North Maroon Peak?”
“At least another hour. We ought to leave now.”
Fran gave his call and after repeating it several times, a faint answer
could be heard. At last, they caught a glimpse of the two figures slowly
toiling upward.
“They’re O.K. Come on, let’s push on,” Fran said, settling his rope and
knapsack on his shoulder.
“I think we ought to wait for them,” Mr. Lurie suggested. “Marian looks
as if she could use a little encouragement.”
Fran grudgingly agreed. “They’re holding up,” he grumbled, still chafing
at the delay. They watched the slow, painful progress of the two
climbers and noticed Karl at times pulling Marian by her hands over the
large, smooth boulders.