“And yet,” Dick put in wisely, “since Little Bodil was thrown from the stage coach forty years ago, how can anything that was already in her trunk prove to us whether she was devoured by wild animals or carried away by bandits?”
“Oh-oo!” Mary shuddered. “I don’t know which would be worse.”
Dora was agreeing with Dick. “You’re right of course,” she said thoughtfully, “but, nevertheless I’ve a hunch that we’ll find something that will, in some roundabout way, prove to us whether Little Bodil is dead or alive.”
“Now, if that’s settled, let the ceremony proceed,” Jerry announced. In the dim lantern light Mary’s fair face and Dora’s olive-tinted glowed with excited animation as they took hold of the trunk ends.
The top, however, did not come off as readily as they had anticipated. The many winter storms and the burning summer heat to which the box had been exposed had warped the cover, binding it, tight. Jerry, glancing about the room, found a broken tool which he could use as a wedge. With it he loosened the cover. Then it was easily removed.
The first emotion was one of disappointment. The small trunk contained little, nothing at all, the young people decided, that could be considered as a clue. There was a plaid woolen dress for a child of about eight or ten and the coarsest of home-made underwear, knit stockings and a small pair of carpet slippers with patched soles.
A hand-carved wooden doll, in a plaid dress, which evidently had been made by the child, had been lovingly wrapped in a small red shawl. Lastly, tied up in a quilted blue bonnet with the strings, was a carved wooden bowl and spoon.
In the flickering lantern light, the expression on the four faces changed from eager excitement to genuine disappointment.
“Not a clue among them,” Dora announced dramatically.
“Not a line of writing of any kind, is there?” Mary was confident that she knew the answer to her question before she asked it.
Dick was closely scrutinizing the empty leather box. “Usually in mystery stories,” he looked up from his inspection to say, “there’s a lining in the trunk and the lost will, or, what have you, is safely reposing under it, but unfortunately Little Bodil’s trunk has no lining nor hide-it-away places of any kind.”
Mary was holding the small doll near to the lantern and the others saw tears in her pitying blue eyes. Suddenly she held the doll comfortingly close as she said, a sob in her voice, “Poor little old wooden dollie, all these long years you’ve been waiting, wondering, perhaps, why Little Bodil didn’t take you out and mother you.”
“Like Eugene Fields’ ‘Little Toy Dog,’” Dora said, looking lovingly at her friend. Then, “Mary, you can write the sweetest verses. Someday when we’re back at school, write about Little Bodil’s wooden doll. It may make you famous.” Then she modified, “At least it will help you fill space in ‘The Sunnybank Say-So.’”
“Promise to send me a copy if she does,” Jerry said.
Dick, who had not been listening, had at last given up hope of finding a scrap of writing. He had felt in the small pocket of the plaid dress and had closely examined the quilted hood.
“Well,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “since there isn’t a clue to be found, shall we put the things back into the trunk and go in?”
“I reckon we might as well,” Jerry acquiesced. “We’ll have to be up early tomorrow so that we can drive the girls over to Gleeson along about noon.”
Dora was examining the hand-carved wooden bowl and long wooden spoon. “I wonder if Little Bodil’s father made this leaf pattern on the handle,” she said, then began, jokingly, “If I were a trance medium, I would say, as I hold this article, I feel the presence of someone who, when alive in the flesh, dearly loved the child, Little Bodil. This someone, this spirit presence that we cannot see with our outward eyes, wishes very much to help us find a clue.” Dora’s voice had become mysteriously low.
Lifting her eyes slowly from the wooden bowl, she gazed intently at a dark corner where junk was piled.
Mary’s gaze followed. “Goodness, Dora!” she implored nervously, “don’t stare that way into space. Anyone would think that you saw someone and—”
“I’m not sure but that I do see something.” Dora’s tone had changed to one of startled seriousness. “Jerry,” she continued, pointing toward the dark corner, “don’t you see a palely luminous object over there?”
“I reckon I do,” the cowboy agreed. “But one thing I’m sure is, it can’t be a ghost since there isn’t any such thing.”
“How do we know that—” Dora began when Mary, clutching her friend’s arm, whispered excitedly, “I see it now! Oh, Jerry, if it isn’t a ghost, what is it?”
“We’ll soon know.” There was no fear in the cowboy’s voice as he leaped to his feet and walked toward the corner. The girls watched breathlessly expecting to see the apparition fade into darkness, but, if anything, it seemed clearer, as Jerry approached it.
His hearty laugh dispelled their fears before he explained, “The moon is rising. That’s moonlight coming in through a long crack in the wall.” Then, with a shrug which told his disbelief in all things supernatural, he dismissed the subject with, “I reckon that’s as near being a ghost as anything ever is.”
Mary was tenderly placing the coarse little undergarments back into the small trunk. Dora less sentimental than her friend, nevertheless felt a pitying sadness in her heart as she refolded the little plaid dress and laid it on top. Before closing the box, Mary, still on her knees, looked up at Jerry, her eyes luminous. “Big Brother,” she said, “do you think Little Bodil would mind if I kept her doll? It’s a funny, homely little thing with only a wooden heart, but I can’t get over feeling that it’s lonesome and needs comforting.”
Jerry’s gray eyes were very gentle as he looked down at the girl. His voice was a bit husky as he replied, “I reckon Little Bodil would be grateful to you if she knew. She probably set a store by that doll baby.”
He held out a strong brown hand to help her to rise and there was a tenderness in the clasp.
Dora had not packed the wooden bowl and spoon. “I would so like to keep these,” she said, adding hastily, “Of course, if Little Bodil is found, I’ll give them back to her. Don’t you think it would he all right?”
“Sure thing!” Dick replied. Stooping, he picked up the worn little carpet slippers, saying, “You overlooked these, girls, while you were packing.”
“Oh, so we did.” Dora reached up a hand to take them, then she hesitated, inquiring, “Why don’t you and Jerry each take one for a keepsake, or don’t boys care for such things?” Dick took one of the slippers and dropped it, unconcernedly, into a deep leather pocket. The other slipper he handed to Jerry who stowed it away. The boys replaced the cover of the box, not without difficulty, and then they all four stood for a silent moment looking down at it with varying emotions. Mary spoke in a small awed voice. “What shall we do with the little box?”
“I reckoned we’d leave it here,” Jerry began, then asked, “What were you thinking about it?”
“I was wondering,” Mary said, looking from one to another with large star-like eyes, “if it wouldn’t be a good plan to take the box up to the rock house and leave it there.”
“Why, Mary Moore,” Dora was frankly amazed, “you wouldn’t dare climb up there and be looked at by that Evil Eye Turquoise, would you?”
Before Mary could reply, Jerry said, “The plan is a good one, all right, but we’d better leave it here, I reckon, till we know if there’s any way to get up to the rock house. The cliff that broke off in front of it used to be Mr. Pedersen’s stairway.”
Mary agreed and so they ascended the wall ladder. As they stood in the harness-room below, Mary said in a low voice, “Although we have not found a clue, that trunk has done one thing; it has made me feel in my heart that Little Bodil was a real child. Before, it seemed to me more like a fanciful story. Now, more than ever, I hope that somewhere we will find a clue that will someday prove to
us that no harm came to the little girl.”
Jerry had picked up the second lantern and, taking Mary’s arm, he led her through the low door and along the dark path. Neither spoke. Dora and Dick followed, walking single file. Dora, remembering the dead snakes, glanced about, but Mr. Newcomb had thoughtfully buried them, not wishing the girls to be needlessly startled.
At the kitchen door, the boys said good night and returned to their bunk house out near the corral.
CHAPTER XVII
A WOODEN DOLL
The girls, with the lantern Jerry had given them, tip-toed through the darkened hall to their bedroom. Mary placed the lantern on the table, and, after having kissed the little wooden doll good night, she put it to bed on a cushioned chair. She smiled wistfully up at Dora. “What is there about even a poor forlorn homely wooden doll that stirs in one’s heart a sort of mother love?”
“I guess you’ve answered your own question,” Dora replied in her matter-of-fact tone. “I never felt that way about dolls. In fact, I never owned one after the cradle-age.” Then, fearing that Mary would think that she was critical of her sentiment, she hurried on to say, “I always wanted tom-boy, noisy toys that I could romp around with.” Then, gazing lovingly at Mary, she added, “Someday you’ll make a wonderful mother. I hope you’ll want to name one of your little girls after me. How would Dorabelle do?”
“Fine!” Mary smiled her approval of the name. “There must be four girls so that the oldest may have my mother’s name and the other three be called Dorabelle, Patsy and Polly. What’s more, I hope each one will grow up to be just like her name-mother, if there is any such thing.”
A few moments later, when they were nestled in the soft bed, Dora asked in a low voice, “What kind of a man would you like to marry?”
Mary’s thoughts had again wandered back to Little Bodil and so she replied indifferently, “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never thought that far. I do want a home and children, someday, of course, but first, for a long time, I hope, I’m going to keep house for Daddy.”
Dora was more than ever convinced that Mary thought of the cowboy merely as the Big Brother, which so frequently she called him. However, before entirely giving up, she asked, “If you have little boys, what will you name them?”
Mary laughed, not at all suspecting her friend’s real reason for all the questioning. “That’s an easy one to answer,” she said artlessly. “The oldest, of course, will be named after Dad. The other two—if—why, Dick and Jerry will do as well as any, and yet,” she paused and seemed to think a bit, then merrily she said, “Dora, let’s postpone all this christening for ten years at least. The fond father of the brood may want to have a finger in the pie.”
Dora thought, “Mary’s voice sounds amused. Maybe she’s wise to my scheming. I’d better soft pedal it, if I’m ever going to get at the truth.”
Aloud she said with elaborate indifference—yawning to add to the effect, “Oh, well, it really doesn’t matter. After all I had quite forgotten our agreement to both remain old maids, me to teach school and you to keep house for me.” Again she yawned, saying sleepily, “Good night and pleasant dreams.”
It was daybreak when the girls woke up. Already there were sounds of activity within and without. Barnyard fowls were clamoring, each in its own way, for the breakfast which Dick was carrying to them.
Jerry—in the cow corral—was milking under difficulties as a long-legged calf was noisily demanding a share.
From the kitchen came faintly the clatter of dishes, a sizzling sound and a most appetizing fragrance of coffee, bacon and frying potatoes.
“Let’s get up and surprise the boys,” Mary whispered.
This they did and were in time to help pleased Mrs. Newcomb carry in the hot viands.
Jerry and Dick welcomed them with delighted grins and Mr. Newcomb gave them each a fatherly pat as he passed.
“How will you girls spend the morning?” Jerry inquired. “Dick and I have branding to do and I reckon you wouldn’t care to ‘spectate’ as an old cowboy we once had used to say.”
Mary shuddered. “I certainly do not,” she declared. “I hope branding doesn’t hurt the poor calf half as much as it would hurt me to watch it.”
“The thing that gets me,” Dick, still a tenderfoot, commented, “is the smell of burning hair and flesh. I can’t get used to it.” Then, glancing half apologetically toward Mrs. Newcomb, he said, “Not a very nice breakfast subject, is it?”
Placidly that good woman replied, “On a ranch one gets used to unappetizing subjects—sort of like nurses do in hospitals, I suppose. During meals is about all the time cowmen have to talk over what they’ve been doing and make plans.”
“You haven’t told us yet what you’d like to do this morning,” Jerry said, as he glanced fondly at the curly, sun-gold head close to his shoulder.
Mary replied, with a quick eager glance at the older woman, “Aunt Mollie, can’t you make use of two very capable young women? We can sweep and dust and—”
“No need to!” was the laughing reply. “Yesterday was clean-up day.”
“I can do some wicked churning,” Dora assured their hostess.
“No sour cream ready, dearie.” Then, realizing that the girls truly wished to be of assistance, Mrs. Newcomb turned brightly toward her son. “Jerry, I wish you’d saddle a couple of horses before you go. I’d like to send a parcel over to Etta Dooley. What’s more, I’d like Mary and Dora to meet Etta. She’s about your age, dear.” She had turned toward Mary. “A fine girl, we think, but a mighty lonesome one, yet never a word of complaint. She has four to cook for—five counting herself—and beside that, there’s the patching and the cleaning. Then in between times she’s studying to try to pass the Douglas high school examinations, hoping someday to be a teacher. You’ll both like Etta. Don’t you think they will, Jerry?”
“Why, I reckon she’s likeable,” the cowboy said indifferently. He was thinking how much more enthusiasm he could have put into that reply if his mother had asked, “Etta will like Mary, won’t she, Jerry?” Rising, he smiled down at the girl of whom he was thinking. “I’ll go and saddle Dusky for you,” he told her. “She’s as easy riding as a rocking horse and as pretty a creature as we ever had on Bar N.”
When the boys were gone, the girls insisted on washing the breakfast dishes. Then they made their beds. As they expected, they found the saddled ponies waiting for them near the side door.
Mrs. Newcomb gave Mary a flat, soft parcel. “Slip it over your saddle horn, dear,” she suggested, “and tell Etta that the flannel in the parcel is for her to make into nighties for Baby Bess.”
Dusky was as beautiful a horse as Jerry had said. Graceful, slender-limbed, with a coat of soft gray-black velvet—the color of dusk. Dora’s mount was named “Old Reliable.” Mrs. Newcomb smoothed its near flank lovingly. “I used to ride this one all over the range, and even into town, when we were both younger,” she told them.
The girls cantered leisurely down the cottonwood shaded lane and then turned, not toward the right which led to the highway, but toward the left on a rough canyon road that ascended gradually up a low tree-covered mountain.
Brambly bushes grew along the trail showing that the ground was not entirely dry. A curve in the road revealed the reason. A wide, stony creek-bed was ahead of them, and, in the middle of it, was a crystal-clear, rushing stream.
The horses waded through the water spatteringly. Old Reliable seemed not to notice the little whirlpools at his feet, but Dusky put back his ears and did a bit of side stepping. Mary, unafraid, spoke gently and patted his glossy neck. With a graceful leap, the bank was reached. There was a steep scramble for both horses; loose rock rattled down to the brook bed.
When they were on the rutty, climbing road again, Dora laughingly remarked, “Dusky already knows the voice of his mistress.” If there was a hidden meaning in Dora’s remark, Mary did not notice it, for what she said was, “Dora, who would ever expect a cowboy to be poetic, but
Jerry surely was when he named this horse, don’t you think so?”
“Yeah!” Dora replied inelegantly. To herself she thought, “That may be a hopeful sign, thinking Jerry is a poet in cowboy guise.”
“It’s lovely up this canyon road, isn’t it?” All unconsciously Mary was gazing about her, contentedly drinking in the beauty of the cool, shadowy, rocky places on either side. Aspen, ash and cottonwood trees grew tall, their long roots drawing moisture from the tumbling brook.
Half a mile up the canyon there was a clearing, and in it stood a very old log hut with adobe-filled cracks. A lean-to on one side had recently been put up. In a small, fenced-in yard were a dozen hens, and down nearer the brook was a garden patch. Two small, red-headed boys in overalls were there busily weeding. Near them, on a grassy plot, a spotted cow was tethered. Back of the house, hanging on a line, was a rather nondescript wash, but, nevertheless, it was clean.
The front door stood open but no one was in sight. Mary and Dora, leaving the road, turned their horses toward the small house.
“I feel sort of queer,” Mary said, “sort of story-bookish—coming to call on a strange girl in this romantic canyon and—”
“Shh!” Dora warned. “Someone’s coming to the door.”
CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGE HOSTESS
Etta Dooley, evidently unused to receiving calls, stood in the open door, her rather sad mouth and her fine hazel eyes unsmiling. Her plain brown cloth dress hid the graceful lines of her young form. She was wondering and waiting.
Mary and Dora dismounted, and, as the red-headed, ten-year-old twins had come pell-mell from the garden, Mary, smiling down at them in her captivating way, asked them not to let the horses wander far from the house. Then, with the same irresistible smile, she approached the still silent, solemn girl.
“Good morning, Etta,” Mary said brightly, pretending not to notice the other girl’s rather disconcerting gaze. “We are friends of Mrs. Newcomb, and she wanted us to become acquainted with you. I am Mary Moore. I live in Gleeson across the valley and Dora Bellman is my best friend from the East.”
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