AN APPEAL FOR HELP.
It was the fifteenth of July when the Girl Scouts of Pansy Troop left
the town of Rawlins, in Wyoming, and struck out towards the desert. All
had been going well since their encounter with the mud outside of
Chicago; they had travelled on schedule time, meeting with no delays of
any sort. Nor had they seen anything of the red car since that last
encounter; perhaps the men were really nowhere in the vicinity, as they
had said; or perhaps they knew that they were in high disfavor. Even
Daisy and Florence forbore to mention their names to the other girls.
Now only two weeks more of their time remained, but, according to all
their calculations they believed that they could cover the ground in ten
days. Even Ethel and Marjorie felt extremely optimistic with their five
days to the good.
They came to the desert—a vast expanse of gray and brown sand, where
water was so scarce that it was sometimes sold at the railroad stations.
There was very little of interest to be seen along the way; now and
again they noticed the dried-up carcasses of sheep and cattle which had
probably been killed in the severe storms that raged in the winter. Once
they had to stop for a long freight train, whose conductor waved
friendly greetings, pleased it seemed, to see some human beings in this
lonely place. And many times the girls noticed the remains of former
camps.
Food and water were both scarce, so they held on to what they had,
fearful lest their former misfortune might be repeated. But, when they
had been travelling steadily forward for two days across the desert
without any signs of being molested, they began to feel that they would
go the rest of the way in safety.
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could drive up to the ranch,” observed
Marjorie, as they passed over the ground nearly south of it. “Only two
years ago—”
“Ah, if we only had the time!” sighed Ethel. “How I should love to see
my old horse!”
“Well, we have five days,” Alice reminded them. “Why not use them?”
“Because something tells me that we shall need every single one of them
yet,” responded Marjorie. “Whether it is fate, or whether Aunt Emeline
actually has arranged obstacles for our path, it just seems as if we
have so many delays to meet—”
“But how could Aunt Emeline do anything?” interrupted Alice. “Remember
her age!”
“Well, anyway, we’re not wasting any time! We’ve kept all the other
regulations—not taken help from any men, and lived within our allowance,
and worn our uniforms all the time—we mustn’t slip up on our time. So
let’s go as straight as we can to San Francisco!”
“Marjorie,” put in Mrs. Remington, “don’t you think we had better stop
soon? It’s getting dark, and you know how hard it is to make camp
without being able to see what we are doing.”
“Besides,” added Alice, “I’m about starved.”
Marjorie glanced at her speedometer before replying.
“But we have only made seventy-two miles today,” she said. “And you know
our resolution to cover a hundred!”
“Remember that this is the desert!” Florence reminded her; “And we can’t
expect—” She stopped abruptly, her attention drawn by the loud sobs of a
woman, coming from an abandoned wagon by the side of the road. Marjorie
too heard the weeping and instinctively stopped her car a few feet
beyond. The scouts looked at each other in doubt as to their proper
course of action.
“Ask her whether we can help,” whispered Alice to Mrs. Remington.
“Maybe the child is hurt,” suggested Florence. “There is a child beside
her, isn’t there?”
“Yes, I think so,” replied Mrs. Remington. “And perhaps I had better get
out.”
The girls watched their leader in admiration as she walked back to the
stranger and offered assistance in her tactful, reassuring tone. The
woman’s sobs ceased, and though the scouts were too polite to look
around, they knew that Mrs. Remington had made herself welcome.
“But you’re goin’ the wrong way!” protested the woman. “And it’s gettin’
awful dark now.”
As she uttered these words the smaller car pulled up behind the wagon
and came to a stop. Mrs. Remington nodded briefly to the girls and went
on with her conversation.
“But I do wish you would tell me your trouble,” she pleaded. “Is—your
little girl hurt?”
The stranger bent tenderly over the sleeping form at her side.
“No, not hurt,” she answered; “but sick. She’s got a fever.”
“But how do you happen to be here?”
“Our hoss up and died on us, and me husband started to walk to our
shack—about forty mile on a piece. That was yesterday noon. But we have
so little food, and less water—”
“We can help you out!” cried Ethel, who had been listening from the
driver’s seat of the small car. “We have lots—”
“But me child may die before me husband gets back with another hoss!
It’s a doctor we want—” She broke into sobs again—“or a comfortable
bed—”
Mrs. Remington’s heart was sincerely touched; she hesitated no longer,
for she knew that the scouts would be with her to a girl. They would
sacrifice some of their surplus time and money to drive the child to
safety.
“We will take you to your husband,” she volunteered; “at least if you
are willing to leave your wagon here.”
A look of intense gratitude crossed the woman’s face.
“You mean to say you would go forty mile out of yer way, just to help a
woman you have never seen before?” she asked, incredulously.
“Why certainly!” exclaimed Lily. “We’re Girl Scouts, and they have to do
good turns every day.”
“And what are Girl Scouts?” inquired the woman, wearily, but the girls
knew from her tone that she was not really desirous of an explanation.
Instead, Marjorie suggested action.
“Let’s start immediately,” she said. Then turning to the other girls,
she added, “It ought to cost us only one day, and you know we have five
to spare.”
Both cars turned about and started again towards the east. Travelling at
night, which was never a pleasure to the girls, seemed doubly difficult
in the desert; yet Marjorie felt that they did not dare wait until the
morning; for, even though they might be able to afford the time, she
understood the necessity of getting the sick child to safety. So she
pressed resolutely on, and said nothing of her hunger pangs.
After they had been driving an hour or so, however, Mrs. Remington felt
that it would be unwise to go further without food, and suggested that
they stop and make a hasty meal. The scouts were all heartily in favor
of this proposition.
“How about you?” asked Mrs. Remington, turning to the stranger.
“A bite to eat would taste mighty good,” she responded, wearily.
They pulled up the cars by the road-side, and took out their folding
stove. If they were to continue on their way during the night, they
would need coffee and substantial food to re-enforce them.
While Lily and Marjorie were unpacking the hamper, Alice spread a
blanket on the seat for the sleeping child. To her surprise, however,
the little girl awoke and immediately began to manifest a remarkable
interest in the whole proceeding.
It was Mrs. Remington who first began to doubt the truth of the woman’s
story.
“I don’t believe that your little girl has any fever, Mrs.—?” She
stopped for the stranger to supply her name.
“Hook,” answered the latter, briefly.
“But I’ll get my thermometer—it’s right here in the kit,” she continued.
She wiped the little instrument off, and inserted it between the child’s
lips. A minute later she announced that her temperature was normal.
“Are you hungry?” she asked the little girl.
“You bet!” replied the child, without the slightest hesitation.
It was after the meal was over that Mrs. Remington confided her
suspicions to Marjorie.
“That little girl isn’t sick at all,” she whispered; “it was merely a
ruse to get us to drive them back. Still, I’m not sorry that we are
doing it—”
“No, a night alone in the desert isn’t particularly enviable,” remarked
the young lieutenant. “And besides, she seemed awfully poor.”
Less than an hour had elapsed before the girls were back in their cars
again, resigned to the undertaking they had assumed. The weary monotony
of the desert stretched before them, but they did not flinch. Each girl
took her turn at the wheel, drove for an hour, and wakened the next in
turn. Marjorie alone had been keeping watch on the speedometer; she did
not want to pass the shack that was to be their destination without
knowing it.
She was driving herself when the thirty-five mile mark was passed, and
she began to scan the distance eagerly for some sign of a structure. Yet
she continued to see nothing except the monotonous expanse of gray sand
in every direction. Tired as she was, she began to question the
existence of such a shack as the woman had mentioned. How would it be
possible, she thought, for a family to live in the desert, to own a
shack only forty miles away from the place where the wagon was standing?
Gradually as the speedometer crept on to the forty mark, her suspicions
became verified; there was no structure of any sort within sight.
Nevertheless she resolved to arouse the stranger and ask her for
information.
She waited until they came to a station of the railroad—a lonely,
forsaken building—and brought her car to a stop.
“Is this where you wanted to go?” she asked, leaning back and touching
Mrs. Hook’s knee. “We have gone forty-three miles.”
The woman raised her head and looked about wearily.
“Land! No! This a’int half way! There must be somethin’ ailin’ your
clock.”
“No there isn’t!” replied Marjorie. “How much farther is it?”
“Not so very far, I reckon. I’ll watch and tell you!”
With a tired sigh, Marjorie turned to the wheel again, and drove until
her time was up. Then she resigned her place to the next in turn, and
she to the next, until the darkness faded into a gray, and the gray into
dawn. If the girls had not been so utterly worn-out, they might have
been thrilled at the sight of the sunrise; as it was, they scarcely
noticed it.
At six o’clock Lily stopped the big car.
“We’ll have to get some sleep!” she declared—“Before it gets too hot—or
we’ll be dead!”
“You’re right,” agreed Mrs. Remington, wearily. She had long ago begun
to doubt the wisdom of their proceeding.
The girls climbed out of the car and stretched themselves on their
blankets in its shadow. But they could not sleep long; the heat soon
grew too intense, and they began to feel hungry. While Alice and Lily
were preparing a hasty breakfast, Mrs. Remington and Marjorie and Ethel
took council together.
“It’s my opinion,” observed Ethel caustically, “that this woman is
making a good thing of us—for free passage across the desert!”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” said Marjorie. “And yet you can’t blame
her. She’s poor and deserted—”
“Marj, would you make a pun at a time like this!” remonstrated Ethel.
“Why, you’re almost talking in your sleep!”
“And the child isn’t a bit sick,” added Mrs. Remington, with an attempt
to bring the girls back to the subject in question. “And yet—what can we
do? Not leave them here in the middle of the desert—?”
“It’s where we found them!” flashed Ethel.
“But at least they had a wagon!” put in Marjorie. “No, let’s take her
all the way—wherever it is—”
“She expects to go all the way back to Rawlins!” remarked Ethel. “That’s
her scheme—”
“I know—but—well, if she didn’t have a child it would be different. No,
let’s take her back to civilization.”
In the end Marjorie won. All day long they continued to drive eastward
at a greater rate of speed, contenting themselves with crackers and
fruit for luncheon in order to save time. At nine o’clock that evening
they pulled into Rawlins, and went straight to the hotel. In spite of
her feeling that Mrs. Hook had been deceiving them, Marjorie invited her
and her child to remain there all night at her expense.
Mrs. Hook, however, refused to take advantage of the offer.
“I expect to find some money waiting for me here, thank you,” she
replied, stepping up to the desk.
“Money!” gasped Marjorie, scrutinizing the woman in amazement. “Then it
was Rawlins where you expected to come to all the time—and not a shack
in the desert?”
Mrs. Hook nodded, shame-facedly.
“And you did mean to deceive us?”
Again the woman acquiesced.
Marjorie looked chagrined, and said nothing more; but she remained at
her side while she waited for the clerk.
“Any mail for Mrs. Hook?” she asked.
The young man produced an envelope, which, however, bore no stamp or
postmark, and she opened it eagerly, yet cautiously, and peered inside.
But she was not quick enough, for before she had slipped it into her
bag, Marjorie had identified the contents as a one-hundred dollar bill!
The girl was never so puzzled in her life.
Turning hastily away, she joined the rest of the party just as they were
entering the dining-room, and managed to secure a seat next to Ethel. As
soon as her opportunity came, she confided the news to her.
“There’s something queer about that woman,” remarked her companion when
she had heard Marjorie’s story. “I guessed all along that she wasn’t
straight.”
“What I would like to find out,” said Marjorie, “is whether she is just
an ordinary sponger, or somebody set on our track. Now, we have two
mysteries to solve—this and the one of the stolen food!”
“Perhaps,” remarked Ethel, “when we meet Aunt Emeline she’ll have
something to say.”
“If only we get there on time!” sighed Marjorie. “Three more of our
extra days are gone!”
“And yet,” added Ethel, “we still have two to the good!”