THE PRAIRIE--AND MOONLIGHT
One by one the long, happy July days slipped away. There was no lack of
amusement, no time that hung heavy--there was so much to be seen, so
much to be done!
Very soon after the trip to Quentina's home, Mr. Tim produced from
somewhere five stout little ponies, warranted to be broken to
"skirts"--which Genevieve had said would be absolutely necessary, as the
girls would never consent to ride astride.
It was a nervous morning, however, for five of the Happy Hexagons when
the horses were led up to the door. Cordelia was frankly white-faced and
trembling. Even Tilly looked a little doubtful, as she said, trying to
speak with her usual lightness:
"Oh, we _know_, of course, Genevieve, that these little beasts won't
teeter up and down like Reddy's broncho; and we hope they'll bear in
mind that Westerners ought to be politely gentle with Easterners, who
aren't brought up to ride jumping jacks. But still, we can't help
wondering."
"Genevieve, I--I really think I won't ride at all to-day," stammered
Cordelia, faintly; "that is, if you don't mind."
"But I do mind," rejoined Genevieve, looking much distressed. "Of
course, girls, I wouldn't urge you against your will, for the world; but
we can't have half the fun here unless you ride, for we go everywhere,
'most, in the saddle. And, honestly, Mr. Tim says these horses are
regular cows. Father told him he must get steady ones. Won't you
please--try it? It will break my heart, if you don't. You see I've said
so much to the boys, since I came, about your riding! They were so
surprised to think you could ride, and I was so proud to say you did!"
"You--you were?" stammered Cordelia.
"Yes."
"Well, young ladies," called Mr. Tim, at that moment, "here's the
steadiest little string of horses going! Who'll have the first pick?"
"I will," cried Cordelia, wetting her dry lips, and speaking with a
stern determination that yet did not quite hide the shake in her voice.
"That is--I don't care about my pick, but I'm going to ride--right
away--quick!" she finished, determined that at least Genevieve should
not be ashamed--of her.
After all, it was only the first five minutes that were hard. The little
horses were politeness itself, and seemed fully to realize the
responsibilities of their position. The girls, determined not to shame
Genevieve, acquitted themselves with a grace and ease that brought forth
an appreciative cheer from the boys as the young people rode away.
"Now I feel as if I were in Texas," exulted Tilly, drawing in a full
breath of the fresh, early morning air.
"I'm so glad--so glad we're all in Texas," cried Genevieve, looking
about her with shining eyes.
* * * * *
According to Tilly, there was always "something doing" at the ranch
house. The boys--much to their own surprise, it must be confessed--had
adopted "the whole bunch" (as Long John called the young people), and
were never too busy or too tired to display their skill as ropers or
riders. Always there was the fascinating morning start to work to watch,
and frequently there was in the afternoon some wild little broncho that
needed to be broken to the saddle, or to be trained to stop, wheel
instantly, stand motionless, or to start at top speed, according to his
master's wishes; all of which was a never-ending source of delight to
unaccustomed Eastern eyes.
For pleasant days there were, too, rides, drives to Bolo, picnic
luncheons, and frolics of every sort. For rainy days there were games
and music in the living room, to say nothing of letters from home to be
read and answered. Most of the twilights--if fair--were spent by
everybody on the front gallery watching the golden ball in the west set
the whole prairie, as well as the sky itself, on fire. In the early
afternoon, of course, there was the inevitable siesta--Tilly's abhorred
"naps."
There were callers at the ranch house, too. Sometimes a cowboy from a
neighboring ranch came to look after a lost pony, or to see if his
cattle had strayed off the range through a broken fence. Sometimes a
hunter or trapper would stop for a chat on his way to or from Bolo. Once
Susie Billings in her khaki suit and cowboy hat came to spend the day;
and once, on Sunday, Mr. Jones came to hold service again. Much to the
girls' disappointment, Quentina did not come with him. The mother's foot
was better, Mr. Jones said, but the twins had come down with the
whooping cough, and poor Quentina could not be spared to leave home.
Sometimes a score of men and teams and cowboys with their strings of
horses would pass on their way to a round-up; and once two huge prairie
schooners "docked in the yard," as Tilly termed it; and their weary
owners, at Mr. Hartley's invitation, stopped for a night's rest.
That was, indeed, a time of great excitement for the Happy Hexagons, for
under Genevieve's fearless leadership they promptly made friends with
the sallow-faced women and the forlorn children, and soon were shown
the mysteries of the inside of the wagon-homes.
"Mercy! it looks just like play housekeeping; doesn't it?" gurgled
Tilly.
"But it isn't play at all, my dear," replied one of the women, a little
sadly. "Seems now like as if I ever had a home again what stayed put,
that I'd be happy, no matter where 'twas. Ain't that the way you feel,
Mis' Higgins?"
"Yes," nodded the other woman, dully, from her perch on the driver's
seat. "But I reckon my man ain't never goin' ter quit wheelin', now."
Even Genevieve seemed scarcely to know what to reply to this; but a few
minutes later she had succeeded in gaining the confidence of the several
children hanging about their mothers' skirts. Laughingly, then, the
young people trooped away together to look at the flowers--all but
Cordelia Wilson. Cordelia remained behind with the two women.
"Please--I beg your pardon--but did you say your name was 'Mrs.
Higgins'?" she asked eagerly, turning to the woman on the driver's seat.
"Why, no--I didn't, Miss. But that's my name."
"Yes, I know; 'twas the other lady who called you that, of course; but
it doesn't matter, so long as I know 'tis that."
"Oh, don't it?" murmured the woman, a little curiously.
"No; and--you came from New Hampshire, once, didn't you?"
An odd look crossed the woman's face.
"Well, I ain't sayin' that."
"But you did--please say that you did," begged Cordelia. "You see, I'm
so anxious to find you!"
A look that was almost terror came to the woman's eyes now.
"I don't know nothin' what you're talkin' about, and I don't want to
know, neither," she finished coldly, turning squarely around in her
seat.
Cordelia hesitated; then she stammered:
"If--if you think it's because your mother will scold you, I can assure
you that she will not. She is very anxious to hear from you--that's all.
She's been so worried! She wants to know if you're doing well, and all
that."
"What _are_ you talking about?" demanded the woman, turning sharply back
to Cordelia.
"Your--mother."
"My mother is--dead, Miss."
"Oh-h!" gasped Cordelia. "You mean you _aren't_ Mrs. Lizzie Higgins--she
that was Lizzie Snow of Sunbridge, New Hampshire, who eloped with Mr.
Higgins and ran away to Texas years ago?"
The woman laughed. Her face cleared. Whatever it was that she had
feared--she evidently feared it no longer.
"No, Miss. My name isn't 'Lizzie,' and it wa'n't 'Snow,' and I never
heard of Sunbridge, New Hampshire."
"O dear!" quavered Cordelia. "Mrs. Snow will be so sorry--that is, of
course she'll be glad, too; for you aren't--" With a little gasp of
dismay Cordelia pulled herself up before the words were uttered, but not
before their meaning was quite clear to the woman.
"Oh, yes, she'll be glad, too, no doubt," she cut in bitterly; "because
I'm not exactly what a woman would want for a lost daughter, now, am I?"
Cordelia blushed painfully.
"Oh, please, please don't talk like that! I am sure Mrs. Snow would be
glad to find any one for a daughter--she wants her so! And she's
her--mother, you know."
The woman's face softened.
"All right," she smiled, a little bitterly. "If I find her I'll send her
to you."
"Oh, will you? Thank you so much," cried Cordelia. "And there are some
others, too, that I'm hunting for. Maybe you can find them--traveling
around so much as you do. If you've got a little piece of paper and a
pencil, I'll just write them down, please."
Thus it happened that when the prairie schooners "sailed away" (again
to quote Tilly), one of them carried a bit of paper on which had been
written full instructions how to proceed should the wife of its owner
ever run across John Sanborn, Lizzie Higgins, Lester Goodwin, or James
Hunt.
* * * * *
It was soon after this that the Happy Hexagons and Mr. Tim, returning on
horseback from a long day on the range, met with a delay that would
prevent their reaching the ranch house until some time after dark.
"Oh, goody! I don't care a bit," chuckled Genevieve, when she realized
the facts of the case. "There is a perfectly glorious moon, and now you
can see the prairie by moonlight. And you never really have seen the
prairie until you do see it by moonlight, you know!"
"But we have seen it by moonlight--right from your steps," cried Tilly.
"Oh, but not the same as it will be out here--away from the ranch
house," cried Genevieve. "You just wait! You'll see."
And they did wait. And they did see.
It did seem, indeed, that they never before had really seen the prairie;
they all agreed to that, as they gazed in awed delight at the vast,
silvery wonder all about them, some time later.
"Why, it looks more than ever like the ocean," cried Bertha.
"That grass over there actually ripples like water in the moonlight,"
declared Elsie.
"I didn't suppose anything could be so beautiful," breathed Cordelia.
"But, Genevieve, won't Mrs. Kennedy be dreadfully worried, at our being
so late?"
Genevieve gave a sigh.
"Yes, I'm afraid so," she admitted. "Still, she has Father to comfort
her, and he'll remind her that Mr. Tim is with us, and that delays are
always happening on a day's run like ours."
"I wish she could see this beautiful sight herself," cried Alma. "She
wouldn't blame us, then, for going wild over it and not minding if we
are a little hungry."
Tilly, for once, was silent.
"Well?" questioned Genevieve, after a time, riding up to her side.
"I don't know any one--only Quentina--who could do justice to it,"
breathed Tilly. And, to Genevieve's amazement, the moonlight showed a
tear on Tilly's cheek.
There was a long minute of silence. The moon was very bright, yet the
many swift-flying clouds brought moments of soft darkness, and cast
weird shadows across the far-reaching prairie.
"I think I smell a storm coming--sometime," sniffed Mr. Tim, his face to
the wind.
"Wouldn't it be lovely to have it come while we were out here," gurgled
Tilly.
"Hardly!" rejoined Mr. Tim with emphasis. "I reckon you needn't worry
about that storm for some hours yet. I'll have you all safely corralled
long before it breaks--never fear."
"I wasn't fearing. I was hoping," retorted Tilly in a voice that brought
a chuckle to the man's lips.
A moment later Mr. Tim stopped his horse and pointed to the right.
"Do you see that black shadow over there?" he asked Bertha Brown, who
was nearest him.
"Yes. From a cloud, isn't it?" Bertha, too, stopped to look.
"I think not. It's a bunch of cattle, I reckon. I think I make out the
guards riding round them."
"What is it, Mr. Tim?" Genevieve and the other girls had caught up with
them now.
"Cattle--over there. See?" explained Mr. Tim, briefly.
At that moment the moon came out unusually clear.
"I can see two men on horseback, passing each other," cried Bertha.
Mr. Tim nodded.
"Yes--the guard. They ride around the bunch in opposite ways, you know."
"Let's go nearer! I want to see," proposed Tilly, trying to quiet the
restless movements of her pony.
[Illustration: "'FOLLOW ME--QUICK!' HE ORDERED"]
The man shook his head.
"I reckon not, Miss Tilly. A stampede ain't what I'm looking for to
amuse you all to-night."
"What's a stampede?" asked Tilly.
"Mr. Tim, look--quick!" Genevieve's voice was urgent, a little
frightened. But the man had not needed that. With a sharp word behind
his teeth, he spurred his horse.
"Follow me--quick!" he ordered. And with a frightened cry they obeyed.
Genevieve obeyed, too--but she looked back over her shoulder.
The moon was very bright now. The black shadow to the right had become a
wedge-shaped, compact, seething mass, sweeping rapidly toward them.
There was a rushing swish in the air, and the sound of hoarse shouts. A
few moments later the maddened beasts swept across their path, well to
the rear.
"I'll answer your question, now, Miss Tilly," said Mr. Tim, as they
reined in their horses and looked backward at the shadowy mass. "That
was a stampede."
"But what will they do with them?" chattered Cordelia, with white lips.
"How can they ever stop them?"
"Oh, they'll head them off--get them to running in a circle, probably,
till they can quiet them and make them lie down again."
"And will they be all right--then?" shivered Elsie.
"Hm-m; yes," nodded Mr. Tim, "--till the next thing sets them going.
Then they'll be again on their feet, every last one of them--heads and
tails erect. Oh, they're a pretty sight then--they are!"
"They must be," remarked Tilly. "Still--well, I sha'n't ask you again
what a stampede is--not to-night."
Mr. Tim laughed.
"Well, Miss Tilly, 'tain't likely I could show you one if you did. I
don't always keep 'em so handy! And now I reckon we'd better hit the
trail for the Six Star, and be right lively about it, too," he added,
"or we'll be having Mis' Kennedy out here herself on a broncho after
ye!"
Half an hour later a white-faced, teary-eyed little woman at the Six
Star Ranch was trying to get her joyful arms around six girls at once.
It was the next morning, and just before Mr. Tim's predicted storm
broke, that the girls found the injured man almost hidden in the tall
grass near the ranch house. They had gone out for a short ride, but had
kept near shelter owing to the threatening sky. Tilly saw the man first.
"Genevieve, there's a man down there," she cried softly. "He's hurt, I
think."
Genevieve was off her horse at once. The man was found to be breathing,
but apparently unconscious. He lay twisted in a little huddled heap,
with one of his legs bent under him. He groaned faintly when Genevieve
spoke to him.
Genevieve was a little white when she straightened up.
"I think we'll have to get a wagon, or something, and two of the boys,"
she said. "I'll ride back to the house if some of you girls will stay
here."
"We'll all stay," promised Cordelia; "only be quick," she added,
slipping from her pony's back, and giving the reins to Bertha. "Maybe if
I could hold his poor head he'd be more comfortable."
Cautiously she sat down on the ground and lifted the man's head to her
lap. He groaned again faintly, and opened his eyes. They were large and
dark. For a moment there was only pain in their depths; then, gradually,
there came a look of profound amazement.
"Where am I?" he asked feebly.
"Sh! Don't talk. You are on the prairie. You must have got hurt, some
way."
He tried to move, and groaned again.
"Please be still," begged Cordelia. "You'll make things worse. We've
sent for help, and they'll be here right away."
The man closed his eyes now. He did not speak again.
It seemed a long time, but it was really a very short one, before
Genevieve came with Carlos and Pedro and one of the ranch wagons. The
man groaned again, and grew frightfully white when they lifted him
carefully into the wagon. Then he fainted. He was still unconscious when
they reached the ranch house.