Dorothy Dale in the West

by Margaret Penrose

  “You put yourself out to make her comfortable.”

  “I did not.”

  “Then you picked up old John Dempsey,” went on Tavia, accusingly. “You have given that old boy a new lease of life, Doro.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said her friend. “Anybody would have done the same. And it was really Aunt Winnie who helped him.”

  “She’d never have heard of John Dempsey if it hadn’t been for you,” said Tavia. “Then there is Flores. It never entered my head to try to teach her English. Why? Because all I can do—all I think of—is to have a good time. I never thought of helping Lance Petterby, even,” and she wickedly grinned again. “I’ve just been having fun with him.”

  “And thank goodness! that’s got to stop now,” said Dorothy, with confidence.

  “You are super-human, Doro,” pursued Tavia, shaking her head. “While I—well, I’m just an animal, I guess—a ‘featherless biped.’ Of course, I have tastes similar to yours and other humans; but I don’t use my intellect as a real human being ought—not even as a Boston bean should,” added Tavia, making one of her very worst puns.

  “You display many traits common to the human family,” said Dorothy, her eyes twinkling.

  “Don’t I?” responded Tavia, briskly. “That reminds me of the little girl to whom the teacher was explaining about the friendship certain animals have for man.

  “‘Now, do animals ever possess sentiment or affection?’ she finally asked the kid.

  “‘Yes, Ma’am,’ says the embryo.

  “‘Tell me,’ says the teacher, ‘what animal has the greatest affection for man?’

  “And the kid knew. ‘Woman!’ she exclaims, very promptly. You can laugh! I think I have that human trait very well developed. I am fond of the boys. They’re lots more fun than girls—present company excepted, of course, Doro. But I’m never thoughtful about others, and you are.”

  “Serious talk from Miss Flyaway Travers,” said Dorothy, lightly, yet pleased that her chum should really display some gravity. “Don’t you show too much fondness for Lance Petterby to-day—now mind!”

  Tavia was lively and irresponsible enough when they came to the cowpuncher’s camp. He had built a lean-to shelter and was comfortably fixed—so he said. Once a week he was relieved for a day by one of the Mexicans whom Hank could trust, and on that day Lance had always appeared at the ranch-house.

  “Why, ladies, I shore am glad tuh see yuh,” was the big cowpuncher’s welcome.

  “I know,” said Tavia, nodding. “If you suffered from ophthalmia you’d be cured.”

  “Huh? I reckon so,” agreed Lance, “though I ain’t jest next to that ‘opthmy’ word.”

  “She means if your eyes were inflamed the sight of us would cure them,” explained Dorothy, smilingly.

  “Ain’t she the great little josher?” quoth Lance, admiringly. “I never see a gal like her.”

  “And you won’t want to again,” said Tavia, pertly. “Now! confess.”

  “Yuh got me there, Miss,” said Lance. “One of yuh at a time is jest enough. Two like yuh would drive a man plumb distracted.”

  “You will not be plagued by my presence for long, sir,” said Tavia, making a little face at him. “This is a real good-bye visit. You’ll probably never see me again, Mr. Lance.”

  “Hold on, now! Don’t say that,” cried the cowboy. “You folks will be comin’ out yere frequent. Miz White Says so.”

  “Dorothy will,” replied Tavia. “But I may not. You see, I have to be specially invited to come.”

  “I invite yuh right now,” said Lance, with emphasis. “Me and my old lady will be mighty glad to see yuh.”

  “I can’t promise,” Tavia said.

  “Let a feller hear from yuh,” urged Lance, devouring her piquant face with his bold eyes.

  “Oh, yes! we’ll write Mrs. Petterby,” agreed Tavia.

  “You will surely hear from us,” interposed Dorothy, before Lance could say any more. “And we’ll hear about you, too. Mr. Lance, you have been very kind to us all and we never shall forget you.”

  She shook hands with the cowboy and then hastened Tavia into the saddle again. Lance evidently wished them to linger and tried to keep Tavia engaged in conversation.

  Slily Dorothy touched the flank of Tavia’s pony with her heel. The nervous little beast sprang away—almost unseating its rider; but the movement broke up any “private confab” between her chum and the cowpuncher.

  “Good-bye, Mr. Lance!” cried Dorothy, spurring after Tavia.

  Tavia was again her trifling self. She chuckled as they rode away.

  “Poor Lance! He’ll wake up some day. Hope it will be a real nice ‘cowgirl’ who gets him. Meanwhile we’ll just slip back East, Dorothy, leaving him nothing but fond recollections of us as he dreams over his campfire at night.”

  Aunt Winnie refused to send for the big stagecoach in which to ride to town, so the young folk rode in the saddle to Dugonne the next afternoon, where the ponies were left at a stable to be called for the next time Hank Ledger had occasion to go to town. John Dempsey drove Mrs. White in a single-seated buckboard.

  Old John Dempsey had made a place for himself at the ranch and was to be continued on the payroll. The veteran’s eyes overflowed when he bade Dorothy Dale good-bye at the hotel.

  “You was my salvation, Miss Dorothy, that’s what you was,” he said. “I got a chance to live out o’ doors an’ work—and when I can’t work I hope the good Lord’ll take me away, Miss.”

  “That will be many, many years hence, Mr. Dempsey,” cried Dorothy, smiling.

  He drove away, but half an hour afterward the bellhop came to Mrs. White’s suite and said that an old man wanted to see Dorothy. It was John Dempsey. His wrinkled old face was twisted into a wry grin and he thrust a handful of banknotes into the hand of the surprised girl before he said a word.

  “I done it,” he cackled. “Dunno as I’d oughter; but that snake in the grass insisted. I sold him the letter. When he finds out it’s only a lithograph copy of the original letter Old Abe wrote to that poor widder woman, he’ll be hoppin’ like a hen on a hot griddle, I reckon. A hundred dollars he give me,” added John Dempsey, “and ha’f of it belongs to you, Miss.”

  “Not a penny shall I take,” declared Dorothy. “You must put it all in the bank against a rainy day, Mr. Dempsey.”

  Dempsey then drove away, and the sight of his stooped shoulders as the ponies turned the corner was the last glimpse Dorothy Dale had of the Hardin Ranch folk for some time.

  Ere she would see that great property again Dorothy was to have many new adventures, and some of them will be related in “Dorothy Dale’s Strange Discovery.”

  Dugonne had faded from sight behind them when the girls went back to the observation platform. The Great West was flying past them.

  “It is a wonderfully interesting country,” said Dorothy, thoughtfully. “And the people—most of them—are awfully nice.”

  “Poor Lance!” sighed Tavia, in a most lugubrious tone; but she turned her face away that Dorothy might not see her dancing eyes.

  THE END

  SHE WALKED RIGHT UP TO THE PONY’S HEAD.

  Dorothy Dale in the West