THE LOST SHEEP
"OH, Carita, do you really have to go to-day?" Genuine regret was in
Blue Bonnet's eyes and tone.
Carita sighed.
"Yes, Grandfather expects us back at the farm to-night, and Mother
never disappoints him. He's getting old and she doesn't like to leave
him alone much. We may come up again before the summer is
over,--Father has to be here for several weeks yet."
"But we'll be gone,--we're to leave on Wednesday, you know. Did ever
days fly so before? I haven't seen half enough of you, Carita."
"You seem to belong to so many people," Carita said rather wistfully,
"I've been afraid to claim too much of your time. But there are other
summers. Maybe when you come back from the East next year you can come
to the farm,--it isn't much of a journey on the cars."
Blue Bonnet lost herself a moment in reflection. "When she came back
from the East"--why, she hadn't even decided that she was going East
again--yet.
"And you can come to see me--at the Blue Bonnet ranch," she said.
Carita shook her head.
"Railroad fares are pretty high. We have to be very careful since
Father lost his health. That's why we came back from India, you know.
The doctors said that this climate was best for his trouble, and when
Grandfather offered us a home on the farm we were so glad. But
Father's not having a church--only once in a while when he fills a
pulpit for a few weeks at a time--keeps us a little short. I reckon
you don't know much about--being short. You have everything you want,
don't you?"
"Everybody seems to think that; they forget that I haven't a mother or
father--or any brothers and sisters," Blue Bonnet said very simply.
Carita threw her arms impulsively about her friend and gave her a warm
kiss. "How mean of me to forget! I wish you were my sister. Boys don't
always understand. But you have so many people to love you, you can't
ever get lonesome. And having lots of money must be so nice, and to go
away to school, and have pretty clothes and go to parties and travel,
why--" Carita's breath failed her.
"I ought to be mighty thankful. And I am most of the time," Blue
Bonnet replied. "But the people who love you always expect a great
deal of you, and it's very hard to live up to their expectations.
Besides, going to school isn't all fun, I can tell you."
"I wouldn't care if it weren't all fun, if I could only go. Father
teaches me at home, but we have so many interruptions. There are
dishes to wash, babies to mind, Grandfather to wait upon, till neither
of us knows whether we're doing arithmetic or grammar." Carita rose.
"I must hurry back to camp--Mother's packing."
"You never forget what's expected of you, do you?" Blue Bonnet asked,
with a mixture of wonder and admiration.
"It wouldn't do for me to forget,--I'm the eldest, you know. Mother
depends on me." Carita spoke as though it were the most natural thing
in the world for a fourteen-year-old girl to be "depended upon."
"Nobody ever depends on me--for a very good reason!" Blue Bonnet
laughed. "Somehow it's so much easier for me to forget than to
remember. It's the only thing I do with shining success."
"You'll learn to be responsible when you have children of your own,"
Carita said as sagely as if she were forty instead of fourteen.
Blue Bonnet's eyes shone.
"I'm going to have a whole dozen!" she declared.
"I wouldn't, if I were you--it would be so hard on the eldest," Carita
reminded her.
And Blue Bonnet, noticing the care-worn look in the eyes of her
"missionary girl," decided that being the eldest of a big family might
have its disadvantages.
"Grandmother, I wish there were something I could do for Carita," she
said later that morning, as she and Mrs. Clyde found themselves alone.
"You have already done a great deal for her," her grandmother
remarked. "Mrs. Judson has told me how much your letters and presents
have meant to Carita."
"But that was so little,--and it was just fun for me. She has all work
and no play, and I don't think it's fair."
"Perhaps you can do something for her, later on. But you must be
careful how you assume responsibilities, Blue Bonnet. You seem to have
taken upon yourself a great many already."
"What ones?" Blue Bonnet questioned in surprise.
"In the first place--you've me!" Grandmother smiled.
"That's so,--I'm responsible to Aunt Lucinda for you. And what
others?"
"How about the We are Sevens whom you've brought so far away from
their homes? And Alec?"
Blue Bonnet's eyes opened.
"I hadn't thought of them in that way. But I reckon you're right. And
there's Solomon, too."
Grandmother's mouth twitched. "You must be sure you can do your full
duty by the responsibilities you have before you assume new ones."
Blue Bonnet looked very serious. "Seems to me life has a heap of
complications. Now there's Alec,--he's worse than a complication. He's
a downright puzzle."
"Has he said anything more about his trouble?" Mrs. Clyde asked.
"Just hints. But they sound as if he were hiding something pretty bad.
Sometimes I wish he would come right out with it, and then again, I'm
afraid. If he keeps on looking dark and broody every time the
conversation turns on the subject of health, I'm going to write the
General about it. I think _that's_ my duty."
"But Alec looks wonderfully well, bigger, broader and better in every
way than when he left Woodford," Mrs. Clyde insisted.
"I know he does. But when I remarked to Knight how well Alec looked,
and said I thought he ought to get rid of his foolish notion about
himself now, Knight looked queer and asked, 'Do you think it a foolish
notion? I think he's dead right.' And Knight's a sensible boy and
wouldn't say that unless he thought so."
Mrs. Clyde's eyes reflected Blue Bonnet's look of perplexity. "Have
you talked with your uncle about him?"
"No. Just after I talked with you Alec asked me not to mention the
matter to any one else. That shuts out Uncle Cliff. I'm sorry, for I'm
sure he'd suggest the right thing. There comes Miguel with the horses.
You don't mind our riding a little way with the Judsons do you?
They're nearly ready to start."
"No, so long as you are back for lunch," said her grandmother.
The boys had all gone hunting early that morning, and only the girls
of _Poco Tiempo_ were on hand to escort the departing guests. Mrs.
Clyde said good-bye to Mrs. Judson with genuine regret, and kissed all
the small Judsons warmly at parting.
The whole family was packed into the two seats of the heavy
farm-wagon, the mother driving with one of the boys beside her; Carita
in the back seat holding Joe and, at the same time, keeping a watchful
eye on the two lively youngsters by her side. Bedding and camp
equipment were heaped high in the wagon-box.
"You look like a picture of 'Crossing the Plains,'" Blue Bonnet
exclaimed.
"Play you're the Injuns going to scalp us!" begged Carita's brother
Harry, his big dark eyes shining with eagerness.
Blue Bonnet gave a shrill "Ho, ye ho, ho!" that passed for a
war-whoop, and in a minute they were all off, the farm horses rather
startled at the carryings-on; the small boys wild with excitement; and
the We are Sevens tearing madly down the road "ki-yi-ing" at the top
of their voices.
Mrs. Clyde turned with a smile to Dr. Judson, who stood looking rather
amazedly after his departing family. "Blue Bonnet is alternately five
and fifteen," she remarked.
"She is decidedly refreshing," he returned. "I hope you will try to
keep her a child as long as possible."
"I don't need to try!" she replied with a laugh.
The parting between the "emigrants" and the Indians was not such as
history records of leave-takings between these sworn enemies. Carita
had to wink hard to keep back the tears when she said good-bye to Blue
Bonnet, and the little Judsons set up a loud wail when their former
pursuers waved them farewell.
"It's a shame Carita has to go back and slave on that old farm," Blue
Bonnet declared, as she looked after the little figure holding on to
the baby with one hand and waving her handkerchief in the other.
"It seems selfish of us to be having a whole summer of fun when she's
only had two or three days," said Sarah.
"Sarah talks as if it's downright wicked for any of us to be having a
good time," Kitty retorted. "Maybe you think one of us ought to change
places with Carita?" she challenged Sarah.
"Sarah is the only one of us that's unselfish enough to do such a
thing!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed warmly; and Sarah sent her a grateful
glance.
They were in a part of the country that Blue Bonnet called "the other
side of the hills,"--a land of sheep-ranches, for the most part;
rather barren and level, unlike the rolling green prairie of the
cattle-country she loved. They could see the Judson's wagon winding
its way across the plain, until only a blur of dust marked its course
towards the horizon.
"Let's hurry," said Blue Bonnet, "I promised Grandmother we'd surely
be back for lunch."
"It isn't your turn to cook, is it?" asked Kitty.
"No,--it's my turn to eat!" And Blue Bonnet, urging Firefly, was off
at a lively clip towards camp.
"Please stop, Blue Bonnet," panted Kitty after a few minutes of this
sort of going. "I've a dreadful pain in my side."
Blue Bonnet good-naturedly fell back with her, and the rest swept past
them with a chorus of taunts for being "quitters." Both girls looked
after Comanche and his rider with something like wonder in their eyes.
Sarah was riding like a veteran; it was plain that she and Comanche
understood each other at last.
"Sarah's coming on, isn't she?" said Kitty.
"Coming?--I think she's arrived!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed.
"She can thank me for picking out Comanche for her," remarked Kitty;
she preferred herself to be the object of Blue Bonnet's approbation
and could not be roused to much enthusiasm on Sarah's account.
"Considering your motive, Kitty-Kat, I'm not so sure Sarah owes you
any gratitude," laughed Blue Bonnet. Suddenly she gave an exclamation.
"Why, there's a lamb,--I wonder if it's dead."
"Where?" asked Kitty.
Blue Bonnet pointed to a spot some distance off the road, but Kitty's
city-bred eyes could make out nothing. Just then there came a feeble
bleat, and in a second Blue Bonnet had slipped from the saddle and
handed the reins to Kitty.
"Hold Firefly a minute, please. That _is_ a lamb!"
Kitty obediently held the unwilling Firefly, while Blue Bonnet hurried
in the direction of the bleat. A moment later she stooped, and when
she straightened up, there was a small woolly object in her arms.
"It's too little to travel and the mean old mother's gone off with
the flock," Blue Bonnet said, coming up with the deserted baby.
"What are you going to do with it?" demanded Kitty helplessly.
"I'm going to find the flock. It's been driven along here and inside
that fence. I'm going to let down the bars and cross the field. You
see the little shanty over there?--I believe there must be a shepherd
somewhere about, and I'll give him the lamb. He isn't a very good
shepherd or he'd have been looking out for poor little lambs. Shady
used to herd sheep and he's told me lots about it."
"And what shall I do?" asked Kitty. "I'm afraid to hold Firefly,--he
nearly pulls me off the saddle."
"Then tie both horses to the bars here and help me with the lamb."
Kitty offered no protest. This was so like Blue Bonnet. It was always
a stray dog or a lost baby, or an old woman at the poor-house that
enlisted her ready sympathy; Kitty ran over a long list in her mind.
Of course it had to be a lost lamb or a calf in Texas; the wonder was
there hadn't been more of them.
Hastily tying both ponies to a fence-post with a scrambling knot of
the reins that would have brought down Blue Bonnet's wrath upon her
hapless head, Kitty hastened across the close-cropped meadow. It
seemed to her they trudged miles, taking turns carrying the lamb,
before they reached the little shack. A stupid young fellow,
half-asleep, lay sprawled in the shade.
"Here's a lamb we found by the road," said Blue Bonnet, proffering her
woolly burden.
Without uttering a word the sleepy youth took the lamb from her; but
Blue Bonnet, observing his manner of handling it, saw that he was wise
in the ways of sheep, and she was content to leave her charge with
him.
"Flock's over there," he said at length, pointing vaguely with his
thumb.
"All right. Come on, Kitty." As they turned away she said in an
undertone: "Shady says the herders are alone so much they almost
forget how to talk."
"He's evidently forgotten how to say 'thank you,'" Kitty said crossly.
"Why, Blue Bonnet--where are the horses?"
"You ought to know. Where did you tie them?"
Kitty's startled eyes rested on the post beside the bars. "To that
post there. Oh, Blue Bonnet, some one must have stolen them!"
"Stolen? Who'd steal them, I'd like to know? This comes, Kitty Clark,
of letting you hitch a horse!" Blue Bonnet was straining her eyes for
a sight of the runaways.
"This comes, Blue Bonnet Ashe, of following you on every wild-goose
chase you choose to lead me!" Cross, tired and out of patience, Kitty
flared up in one of her sudden outbursts, and Blue Bonnet took fire at
once.
"If you think I'm going to let a poor creature starve to death rather
than disturb your comfort, you're much mistaken!" An angry glance
passed between them.
Sarah, the pacifier, was several miles away by this time; and even she
would have felt her resources sorely taxed to meet this emergency.
Miles from camp and no horses!
Kitty stalked into the road and started to walk, holding her head high
and swinging her arms as though _she_ didn't mind a little matter of
five or six miles. Blue Bonnet, with the training of a lifetime,
stopped to put up the bars before setting out on the long tramp. It
was already noon and the sun glared down, unbearably hot. Before she
had gone a mile Blue Bonnet looked about for a mesquite bush, and
finding one sank down in its shade. Kitty kept doggedly on.
"Oh, Kitty!" Blue Bonnet called after her. "I've heard of people who
hadn't sense enough to come in out of the rain, and I think it's a
heap sillier not to have sense enough to come in out of the sun!"
Kitty wavered; and was lost. Turning back she threw herself beside
Blue Bonnet with a groan.
"My feet are one big blister," she moaned, her anger swallowed up in
the anguish of the moment.
"We can't possibly walk," said Blue Bonnet. "And I've an idea. If that
cloud of dust I saw on the road towards camp was Firefly and
Rowdy--and it probably was--the girls will soon be after us."
And so it proved; except that it was Alec and Knight instead of the
girls who came riding furiously down the road in search of them. When
Alec heard Blue Bonnet's ranch-call he threw his hat in the air with a
whoop of relief.
"We've been looking for your mangled remains all along the way," he
declared, as they reached the girls. "We had the fright of our lives
when Firefly and Rowdy came trotting into camp minus their riders."
"You thought we'd been thrown?" Blue Bonnet asked.
"I would have thought so if there had been only one, but it didn't
seem likely that both of you could have come a cropper," Knight
replied.
"Is Grandmother worried?" Blue Bonnet asked hastily.
"She doesn't know. The girls didn't tell her anything except that you
and Kitty had loafed along the way. She didn't see the horses. But
we'd better hurry back."
Each boy had led one of the errant ponies, and now the girls mounted
and lost no time in getting back to camp.
"I'm so sorry--" Blue Bonnet began to speak as soon as she came within
sight of her grandmother, "--I didn't mean to be so late."
"I can't quite understand, Blue Bonnet, why you and Kitty could not
come back with the other girls. It is long past noon." Mrs. Clyde had
been worried, and required more of an explanation than an apology.
Blue Bonnet's tired face and dusty, dishevelled clothes spoke
eloquently of adventure.
"I stopped to pick up a lamb,--its mother had gone on with the flock
and left it to starve. Shady says lots of sheep don't care about their
children. That's why he likes beef-critters best,--cows always make
good mothers. And Kitty and I found the shepherd and gave him the lamb
to take care of."
The annoyance faded from Grandmother's face and her eyes softened.
Uncle Joe, who had been an interested listener, spoke up--"Say, Honey,
why didn't you bring the lamb home?--fresh meat is just what we've
been needing."
"Uncle Joe!" Horror rang in Blue Bonnet's voice. "Do you think I'd
have eaten that poor little darling?"
He scratched a puzzled head. "Why seems like I've known you to eat
nice young roast lamb, Blue Bonnet."
"That's different," she insisted.
"The only acquaintances Blue Bonnet is willing to have roasted are her
friends!" said Kitty; and Blue Bonnet generously let her have the last
word.