Dorothy Dale in the West

by Margaret Penrose

  “I—don’t—know,” responded Dorothy, slowly.

  “Well, I do! The boys will tease us to death about it. There the ponies were, tied where we left them, just in another opening in the woods, not a hundred yards away from where we spent the night. But when I first heard them whinnying for water at daybreak, I was scared into fits—weren’t you, Doro?”

  Dorothy admitted her fright. Tavia’s whole statement was not far from correct. The entire adventure had been preventable. Dorothy considered herself seriously to blame.

  If she and her chum had marked their path up the steep hillside beyond the spot where the ponies had been abandoned, they would have had no difficulty in finding their mounts again.

  So, had they recovered the ponies they could easily have returned to the ranch-house by dark. Aunt Winnie, Dorothy knew, must have been dreadfully worried over their disappearance.

  Indeed, the whole country round about had been roused, as the girls quickly learned. Half a dozen search parties were out after them. While they still followed the course of Lost River they heard whooping, and rifle shots, ahead.

  “Come on!” cried Tavia, “they are searching for us.”

  Both girls hurried their ponies, rounded a turn in the path, and were hailed with delight by Ned, Nat and half a dozen cowpunchers, who had started into the hills for a second search for the lost girls.

  They had ridden over the ranges and lower country all night, searching for the runaways, and after breakfasting at the bunkhouse, had started forth again.

  Dorothy and Tavia were warmly welcomed—and scolded just as warmly by Ned and Nat, too! When Mrs. White had kissed and hugged them, she, too, turned upon them and threatened to take away their ponies if they ever rode more than two miles from the ranch-house again without a guide.

  Dorothy knew she had no right to complain about this restriction. It had been a reckless thing to do—that trip to the mountain-top. And she could not get over the fact that her own oversight had caused her and Tavia to remain out in the open all night.

  There had been no serious results, however, and in a day or two the escapade was forgotten. The girls had agreed not to tell of their awful fright caused by the bits of mica shining in the rock. If Ned and Nat had gotten hold of that tale the girls never would have heard the last of it.

  It was about this time that Dorothy heard from Major Dale regarding the Lincoln letter that John Dempsey had found among Colonel Hardin’s discarded papers. Dorothy had told her father the whole story—of Philo Marsh’s desire to purchase the letter, and all. She had likewise expressed herself as being more than ever antagonistic to the Dugonne lawyer.

  “Don’t fret your pretty head, Little Captain, about matters that do not concern you,” Major Dale wrote. “I have confidence in Winifred’s good sense, and she will be a match for a man like Marsh. As for the old soldier and his famous letter—tell him not to put any great trust in the validity of the letter, and if he can sell it for a good round sum, to do so.”

  Major Dale went on to tell his daughter of a test by which she could assure herself and Dempsey as to the actual value of the letter. This amazed Dorothy, and she ran off to tell the old soldier and to follow her father’s suggestion.

  The letter to the Massachusetts widow proved to be valid. It really was a very interesting document. After Dorothy and John Dempsey had talked it over, the old man changed his mind about selling it.

  “If that snake in the grass raises his offer to me much higher, I’ll jest natcherly be obleeged to sell,” he said, grimly. “Let it be on his own head.”

  Philo Marsh was at the ranch-house almost every day. Aunt Winnie wondered why some of the other interested parties had not called to get her views upon the water-rights question; but not a person from the farming land to the south or from Desert City, came to the Hardin ranch.

  “It must be,” she told the boys and Dorothy, “that these Desert people have left the whole matter—as he says—in Mr. Marsh’s hands. I would have felt better about it had I talked with others—to make sure that this agreement Philo Marsh offers suits all hands. I believe I shall sign the preliminary papers the next time Mr. Marsh calls.”

  “I guess it’s all right, mother,” said big Ned, carelessly. “And the fellow is getting to be a nuisance hanging about here.”

  Dorothy was tempted to tell her aunt of the conversation she had overheard between Marsh and the foreman, Hank Ledger, despite the fact that the conference seemed to have led to nothing. The foreman was a good sort, and Dorothy liked Mrs. Ledger, so the girl did not wish to make her aunt suspicious of Hank.

  She understood that this preliminary agreement between her aunt and those who desired water from Lost River, was not a binding document. Aunt Winnie said the lawyers in Dugonne would look after the estate’s interest before the matter was concluded, and make everything legal and shipshape.

  Naturally, even Dorothy—with all her suspicion of Philo Marsh—did not pay much attention to the business of the water-rights, only when the subject was brought up in family conclave. The young folk were having too good a time to think of much but their own pleasure—the boys in their way, and the girls in theirs.

  Old Mrs. Petterby had caught Ophelia and now was anxious to go back to the Nicholson place, where she was to meet Lance again. She was to drive over in a buckboard, one of the Mexican hands being employed as driver, and of course there were two empty seats.

  “Let’s go with her—you and I, Doro,” proposed Tavia, eagerly.

  Dorothy suspected that her chum was just roguish enough to want to plague Lance Petterby, and she tried to veto the proposal.

  “All right for you, then!” said Tavia, coolly. “If you won’t go with me, I’ll go anyway.”

  That settled it. Dorothy did not want Tavia to go without her. So they drove away in the buckboard with the old lady from Rand’s Falls, Massachusetts.

  It was a jolly ride, for Mrs. Petterby was good fun and both the girls were fond of her. When they arrived at the squatter’s double cabin, sure enough, there was Lance and his pony, Gaby.

  “Sartain shore am glad tuh see yuh!” was the cowboy’s welcome, smiling broadly upon the girls. But it was plain to Dorothy that his bold eyes lingered longer upon Tavia’s brilliant face.

  Tavia was at her best—sprightly, talkative, laughing—behaving indeed in a most bewildering fashion. A much more sophisticated fellow than Lance Petterby might have had his head turned over Tavia Travers on that particular day.

  Dorothy knew very well that it was only Tavia’s fun, but the cowboy did not know. Even old Mrs. Petterby said:

  “I declare for’t! I never did see sech a gal for runnin’ on as you do. Can’t tell when ye air funnin’ an’ when ye air in earnest.”

  Lance had something to say to Dorothy in private.

  “Yuh axed me about Philo Marsh last time I seen yuh, Miss Dale. Has yuh aunt signed up for them water-rights yet?”

  “No. But she is about to.”

  “Tell her to wait a bit longer. I got a line on something queer.”

  “Oh, Mr. Lance! What is it? About Philo Marsh?”

  “Yes, Ma’am. You say he’s workin’ for the Desert City folks?”

  “Why—yes. He must be.”

  “Then he’s got two strings to his bow. I got a straight tip that he’s employed by the Consolidated Ackron Company.”

  “The mining company?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “But what is he doing for them?”

  “Why, they tell me he’s been in their pay for a long time. Does their dirty work, Miss Dale. Meanin’ that he settles damage cases out o’ court. Man gits hurt in the shaft, or somehow. Before he kin git fixed up by the doctor, ’round comes Philo and offers to pay bills and give the man a small sum. Otherwise man loses his job—you see? If the poor feller’s killed, Philo settles with the widder.”

  “I understand,” said Dorothy. “But that would not keep him from taking cases for other people?”
<
br />   “No, Ma’am. But Philo wouldn’t be likely to take a job that might queer him with the mining company. And them folks want the water jest as bad as they want it out in the desert.”

  “But how could they get it?” cried Dorothy, in wonder. “That gorge by which Lost River can be drained off, runs to the edge of the desert. It doesn’t slope north at all.”

  “That’s shore an’ sartain, Miss,” declared Lance. “But thet thar ain’t the only way Lost River kin be turned—don’t think it!”

  Suddenly the thought of the surveyors she and Tavia had seen, flashed into Dorothy’s mind.

  Eagerly the girl told the cowpuncher of what she and Tavia had observed behind the green mountain. He listened closely and nodded at the end.

  “Shore as you air a foot high, them surveyors was runnin’ a line to Lost River for the mining corporation. Once they git the water—— Well! good- night! They’ve got plenty of money to fight you folks in the courts. Possession, in this case, I reckon, would be nine p’ints of the law.

  “Now, tell your a’nt tuh go slow. Don’t let her sign a paper that Philo brings her. There’ll be some quirk about it that’ll tie her hands. Or else, he is seeking to delay matters until the mining folks can put in dynamite and blow out a channel for the river.”

  CHAPTER XXIII

  “WHERE IS AUNT WINNIE?”

  Tavia declared Dorothy’s insisting upon going back to the ranch so early “spoiled all her fun.”

  “You can miss that fun, Miss,” said her chum, somewhat sharply. “Teasing Mr. Petterby is a good deal like a cat playing with a mouse. It’s fun for the cat, but tragic for the mouse.”

  “Tragedy! Fancy!” responded Tavia, tossing her head. “As though my innocent little conversations with Lance were tragic in any way.”

  “He thinks you are in earnest when you show interest in his affairs,” declared Dorothy.

  “But you know, dear, he’s such fun!” pouted Tavia. “I can’t help plaguing him. He is so very innocent—a big man like him!—that he’s fair game. You are a regular spoil-sport.”

  “I’ve another reason for going home,” said Dorothy, seriously. “Just the same, you are not to be trusted, Tavia. I am ashamed of you.”

  “You needn’t be. I wouldn’t harm poor little Lance Petterby for the world!” giggled the black-eyed girl.

  Dorothy was too worried over what the cowboy had told her about Philo Marsh to keep on joking with her friend. The instant they reached the ranch-house she ran to find Aunt Winnie.

  “Oh, Auntie! you haven’t signed those horrid papers, have you?” Dorothy cried.

  “What do you mean, child?” asked Mrs. White.

  “For that Marsh man.”

  “Why, Dorothy! you are greatly excited. What is the matter?”

  “Then you have signed?” wailed Dorothy.

  “No. I told him I would to-morrow if he brought out a commissioner of deeds with him. I cannot go to town now.”

  “Don’t do it!” begged her niece, excitedly. “There’s something queer about it. Let me tell you,” and there poured forth then all her suspicions and her reasons for holding them. She told her aunt about the strange talk she had overheard between the foreman of the ranch and Philo Marsh, as well as about the surveying party she and Tavia had seen back in the hills. She likewise repeated what Lance Petterby had told her that very day.

  “I cannot understand it,” Mrs. White said. “I have read the agreement Mr. Marsh offers very carefully. It is between your father and me, as party of the first part (that is the legal phrase), and Mr. Marsh, Mr. Kendrick, and Mr. Stephen Goode, who jointly agree to take the water of Lost River under certain conditions. There is no corporation formed as yet, I am told, and these men constitute a committee.”

  “A committee for whom?” asked Dorothy, briskly.

  “Why—why, for the people who want the water.”

  “But who are they, Aunt Winnie? Philo Marsh says he is acting for the Desert people; but you don’t really know if it is so.”

  “Child! it can’t be possible that the man would boldly conspire to gain my signature for a different purpose from that Colonel Hardin intended?”

  “That’s exactly what I believe Marsh is aiming to do,” cried Dorothy. “Don’t you sign.”

  “I won’t. A bad promise is better broken than kept. I shall write to Mr. Jermyn. When I spoke to him in Dugonne he said he had had no reason for looking into the matter, but he supposed that Mr. Marsh was acting in good faith. Lawyers, I am afraid, are like doctors. The ethics of the profession sometimes stand before their duty to a client.

  “But Mr. Jermyn shall come out here and examine the papers and talk with Mr. Marsh in my presence, before I sign,” added Mrs. White. “Thank you, my dear, for being so helpful. Go tell Dempsey to find a man to ride into Dugonne at once with a note.”

  Dorothy ran to do as she was bid, while Mrs. White went to write the letter. A man came to the ranch-house in a few minutes, a-straddle of a vicious pony. He was a sullen, rough looking fellow, but Mrs. White presumed he was to be trusted as a messenger.

  However, had she known that the fellow carried her note to Philo Marsh instead of to Mr. Jermyn—being in Marsh’s pay—the lady from the East would not have been so tranquil in her mind. Having been unsuccessful in wheedling Hank Ledger into aiding him, Marsh had hired this Mexican to play the spy at the Hardin ranch.

  Tavia and the boys were not informed of the new mystery regarding the water-rights affair. Dorothy had promised Aunt Winnie not to speak of it at present.

  “After working as hard as we do all day,” quoth Ned at the supper table that night, “a fellow needs a little recreation in the evening. You girls aren’t at all entertaining. Why! you haven’t had even a ‘sing’ since we came out here to the ranch.”

  “What will we do for music?” asked Dorothy. “There isn’t even a banjo in the house.”

  “There are mandolins, or guitars, or something, down to the bunkhouse,” Nat broke in. “I heard somebody plunking one to-day. You know, these Mexicans are great on music—of a kind.”

  “I’ll ask Flores,” promised Dorothy, briskly. “Just as soon as supper is over.”

  “And we’ll all sing,” announced Ned, gravely.

  Tavia immediately relinquished her knife and fork. “I object,” she declared. “Perhaps I should say that I rise to a point of order.”

  “What about, Miss?” demanded Ned.

  “Are you going to attempt to sing?” asked Tavia, point blank.

  “What if I do?”

  “Prithee, don’t, dear Neddie,” begged the teasing girl. “We’ve heard you make the attempt before. You escaped with your life on that occasion, but remember it was in a comparatively ‘tame’ country.

  “This is the wild and woolly West. They hang people here for horse-stealing—and perhaps for eating with their knives, I don’t know! At any rate, Lance Petterby tells me that many of the ‘old-timers’ shoot from the hip, and without much provocation. Your sweet young life may be snuffed out, Neddie, if you try to sing, by some native with an ear for music.”

  “Ha, ha!” cried Nat. “Old Ned’s like the minister they tell about who was called to a new pastorate. One of the members of the new church asked a friend of the minister if he was a good man.

  “‘He is a very good man,’ agreed the minister’s friend.

  “‘Well, what are his faults? He must have some fault?’ said the curious one.

  “‘Since you press me,’ said the other, ‘I know of but one grave fault in your new minister.’

  “So the man asked him what that fault was. ‘He doesn’t know how to sing,’ declared the candid friend.

  “‘Well, that’s not a very serious fault,’ said the anxious one, much relieved.

  “‘No,’ was the reply; ‘but, you see, he sings just the same as if he did know.’”

  “That settles it,” growled Ned, appearing to be much offended. “I’ll not sing, no matter how much I am u
rged. I positively refuse.”

  “I can go on with my supper, then,” said Tavia, calmly, “and with a mind relieved of anxiety.”

  “And while you are finishing,” laughed Dorothy, “I’ll go hunt up Flores, and see if there is music to be had to soothe the savage breasts of these amateur cowpunchers.”

  She ran down to the shack where the foreman and his wife lived. The twilight was falling, and Dorothy thought the country beautiful. Bare as the ranges were, the vari-colored sky arching the rolling plain lent a softness to the earth’s outline that pleased the eye.

  By broad day she could see the boulders cropping out of the hillsides, and the scars of ancient land-slips upon the faces of the higher mountains, but now purple and saffron shadows mantled all these rude outlines of the landscape, while the little valleys were pits of gray mist and shadow.

  Dorothy came, cheerfully singing, to the door of the foreman’s house. “Where is Flores?” she asked Mrs. Ledger, who had hurried down from the big house as soon as supper there was served to get the evening meal for her husband and the hands.

  “Drat the gal!” replied Mrs. Ledger, with some exasperation. “I wish I knew. I left her here to get things started, and she’s run off.”

  “Run away?” cried the startled Dorothy.

  “Not fur, I reckon. She’s always buzzing some of the men. ’Druther play than work, any time, that gal had.”

  “I’ll find her,” promised the girl from the East, and went on toward the horse sheds.

  But she would have passed Flores in the dusk had she not heard excited voices speaking Spanish. Dorothy could not understand Spanish, but she recognized the tones of the Mexican girl’s voice.

  “Flores!”

  Instantly Dorothy saw one of the herdsmen dive into the deeper shadow beside the shed, while Flores came swiftly toward her. The Mexican girl had been crying, Dorothy knew, although it was too dark to see her face but dimly.

  “What is the matter, Flores?”

  “I—I no can tell you, Señorita,” sobbed Flores.

  “You won’t tell me?”