“Hark, Big Brother, what was that?” Mary held up a finger and listened intently. On their left was a deep brush-tangled arroyo. They all heard distinctly a low moan that seemed to form the word “Help.”
The boys looked at each other puzzled and wondering. Jerry’s hand slipped instinctively to his holster and, finding it empty, he held out his hand for Dick’s gun. Then he went cautiously to the rock-piled edge of the arroyo. Dora asked, “Does Jerry think it’s one of the bandits, do you suppose, who tried to get away and was hurt somehow?”
“Probably,” Dick replied. He leaped out to the road and Harry joined him. They watched Jerry’s every move, ready to go to him if he beckoned. Suddenly Mary screamed and Harry leaped back to her. They had heard the report of a gun although Jerry had not fired.
CHAPTER XXVI
IS IT A CLUE?
The shot undeniably had been fired from the brush-tangled arroyo. Jerry stepped back that he might not be a helpless target while he conferred with the other boys.
“I cain’t understand it at all,” he said. “If we missed getting one of the bandits, he wouldn’t be staying around here. By this time, he’d be miles away.”
“You’re right about that,” Dick agreed. “My theory is that the man who called for help was the one who fired the shot.”
Harry said, “Don’t you think that possibly someone is hurt and fearing that his call wasn’t heard, he fired his gun to attract our attention? He may have heard our cars climbing the grade. They made noise enough.”
Jerry, feeling convinced that this was more than likely a fact, went again to the edge of the arroyo, and, keeping hidden behind the jagged pile of rocks, he looked intently through the dark tangle to the dry creek in the arroyo bottom. As his eyes became accustomed to the dimness he saw the figure of an old man lying on his back, one leg bent under him, his arms thrown out helplessly. One hand held a gun. Undeniably he it was who had fired the shot.
Without waiting to inform the others of his decision, Jerry leaped over the rocks and crashed through the brush. Dick and Harry followed a second later.
As they stood looking down at the wan face of a very old man their hearts were touched.
“Poor fellow,” Jerry said, kneeling and lifting the hand that held the gun. “I reckon firing that shot was the last act he did in this life.”
“I’m not so sure.” Dick had opened the old man’s torn shirt and was listening to his heart. “He’s still alive. Hadn’t we better get him back to Tombstone to a doctor?”
For answer the boys lifted the stranger who was lighter than they had dreamed possible and carried him slowly back up to the road. The girls, awed and silent, asked if they could help, but Jerry shook his head. At his suggestion the old man was placed at his side. The girls rolled their sweater coats to place under his head and shoulders. Dick, from the back, through a tear in the curtain, held him in position.
Turning the cars was difficult but not impossible. Awed and in silence they returned to town.
Dr. Conrad, luckily, was in his office in a small adobe building near the hotel. The old man was still breathing when he was carried in and laid on a couch. Restoratives quickly applied were effective and soon the tired sunken eyes opened. The unkempt grizzled head turned restlessly, then pleadingly he asked, “Jackie, have you seen him?”
There was such a yearning eagerness in the old man’s face that Mary hated to have to shake her head and say, “No.”
Jerry asked, “Who is Jackie?” But the old man did not reply. As though the effort had been too much for him, he closed his eyes and rested.
Dick exclaimed eagerly, “Jerry, you know that young boy we brought over with the bandits. Couldn’t we ask Deputy Sheriff Goode to bring him over here? He would know if this old man belongs to the robber band, although that boy certainly didn’t look like a criminal.”
The plan seemed a good one and was carried out. The boy, fair-haired and about nine years old, cried out when he saw the old man and running to him, threw himself down beside the lounge and sobbed, “Granddad! Granddad! Oh, do wake up. I’m so glad you found me. I thought this time they’d make away with me for sure.”
Slowly a smile spread over the wan features. The sunken eyes opened and looked directly at the tear-wet face of the boy. “Jackie,” the old man said, and there was infinite love in his voice. “Thank God you’re safe! They’ve ruined me. They mustn’t ruin you. Go to Sister Theresa. Hide there.” For a long moment he breathed heavily, his gaze on the face of the boy he so loved. Then he made another effort to speak. “I’m dying, Jackie. I give you to Sister Theresa. Goodbye. Be—a—good boy.”
The girls, unable to keep back their tears, turned away, but Mary, hearing the child’s pitiful sobs, went over to him and, kneeling at his side, put a comforting arm about him. Trustingly he leaned his head against her shoulder and clung to her as though he knew she must be a friend.
Later, when the boy’s grief had been quieted, the young people, at the doctor’s suggestion, took him into another room and questioned him.
“How had he happened to be with the robber band?”
“Who was his grandfather?”
“Where would they find Sister Theresa that they might take him there as his granddad had requested?”
Still in the loving shelter of Mary’s arm, the boy, at first chokingly, then more clearly, told all that he knew. His grandfather, he said, had been a marked man by that robber band. He had done something years ago to turn them against him, Jackie didn’t know what. They had robbed him. They had destroyed his ranch and his cattle. They had stolen Jackie once before, but he had gotten away that time, but this time they had watched him too closely. Granddad had been hunting for him.
Sister Theresa? She was a nun and lived in a convent on the Papago reservation up to the north, quite far to the north, Jackie thought.
Deputy Sheriff Goode came in and listened to what Jerry had to tell him of the child’s story. He nodded solemnly. “I know that good woman,” he said; “she is one of the world’s best. I reckon the kid’s telling the truth. If you have the time, Jerry, I wish you’d take him over there right away.”
The combination ambulance and police car was brought out. That it was seldom used was evidenced by the sand on the seats and floor. Jerry drove it to a gas station and had the tank filled. Jackie, who clung to Mary as though she alone could understand his grief, nestled close to her in the big car.
Harry said to Jerry, “Old man, I think I’d better fly over. The Papago reservation is close to Tucson, isn’t it, and I must turn in a report. Then I’ll join you all and come back with you perhaps.”
“Oh, please do!” Mary called to him. “I want you to meet the nicest dad in the world. He’ll be so interested in hearing about your trip from the East.”
A crowd of townspeople had gathered in the square and silently watched as the big police car started and the “Seagull” took to the air.
As they were rumbling along, Dora, across from Mary, silently pointed at the boy. “He’s asleep, little dear,” she said softly.
Dick was on the driver’s seat with Jerry.
“Dora,” Mary whispered, “how tangled up things are. We were hunting for one child and find another. Something seems always to lead us farther away from solving the mystery of poor Little Bodil.”
“I know,” Dora agreed, “but after all, we could hardly expect, I suppose, after all these years, to unravel that mystery.”
It was not a long ride. The road was smooth and hard. The car rolled along so rapidly that the forty miles were covered in less than an hour. Dora, looking out of the opening in the back of the wagon, was delighted when she saw tepees along the roadside. Also, there were small adobe shacks with yucca stalk fences and drying ears of corn and red peppers in strings hanging over them.
“Oh, how fascinating this place is!” she whispered. “Do look! There’s a Papago family. The mother has her baby strapped to her back.” The convent was an unpretentious
rambling adobe building painted a glistening white. Jerry turned in through an arched adobe gate over which stood a wooden cross.
At a side door he stopped, got out and, climbing a few steps, pulled on a rope which hung there. Almost at once the door was opened by a sweet-faced nun who smiled a welcome. Jerry asked, “May we speak with Sister Theresa?”
“Yes, will you come in?” Then, glancing out at the car and seeing the two girls, she added hospitably, “all of you.”
Jerry lifted out the sleeping boy and carried him into the long, cool waiting room. The sister who had opened the door had gone to call Sister Theresa and so she did not see the child.
Mary glanced skyward before she entered the convent and, seeing the silver plane circling about, wondered if Harry would be able to land. Evidently he decided that it would be unwise, for he was dropping the small aluminum bottle once again. Mary ran to the spot where it fell and read the note. “Unsafe to land on the sand. Will return to Tombstone and wait for you there.”
Dora glanced at Mary’s face and saw an expression which told her disappointment. Once again she thought, “Poor Jerry!”
Dick, who had waited for them, said, “He’s a wise bird, that Harry Hulbert. He takes no chances.” Then they three went indoors and joined Jerry who, seated on a bench, held the sleeping child.
CHAPTER XXVII
IT WAS A CLUE
Jackie wakened and opened wondering eyes at the moment when a kind-faced woman in nun’s garb entered from an inner corridor. With a glad cry he slipped from Jerry and ran with arms outstretched.
The young people rose and waited, sure that this woman, who had stooped to comfort the sobbing child, must be the Sister Theresa to whom he had been given. She was evidently questioning him and brokenly he was telling that the robbers had carried him off and that Granddad was dead.
She lifted a sorrowful face toward the strange young people and without questioning their identity, she said, “It was very kind of you all to bring Jackie to me. Did Mr. Weston send me a message?”
Jerry, realizing that formal introductions were unnecessary at a time like this, replied, “Yes, Sister Theresa. The old man was so nearly dead when we found him in an arroyo over near ‘The Dragoons’ that he could say little. However, he did give Jackie to you.”
The nun had seated herself and had motioned the others to do likewise. The boy, standing at her side, was looking up into her face with tear-filled, anxious eyes.
“Poor little fellow,” she said. “His life has been full of fear, but now, if those tormentors of his grandfather are in prison, he will be free of the constant dread of being kidnapped.”
“Sister Theresa,” Mary leaned forward to ask, “why did those cruel men wish to harm so helpless a child?”
The nun shook her head sadly. “It is a long story,” she said, “and one that causes me much pain to recall, but I will tell you. Years ago this good man, who had the largest cattle ranch in these parts, was riding over the mountains carrying about his person large sums of money. He was overtaken by two highwaymen, who, after robbing him, forced him to continue with them over a lonely mountain road. When they were at a high spot, they heard a stage coming and they forced Mr. Weston to hide with them around a curve. When the stage was almost upon them, the bandits rode out, shot the driver and stole the bags of gold they found. The frightened horses plunged over a cliff taking with it the dead driver and one man passenger. A child, that man’s sister, was thrown into the road. The bandits thought only of escape, and, for a time, they forgot their captive. Seeing a chance to get away, he turned his horse and galloped back toward his ranch. Finding the child in the road, he took time to snatch her up and take her with him. He brought her to this convent where she has been ever since.”
The listeners, who, one and all had guessed the speaker’s true identity, could hardly wait until she had finished to ask if she were the long lost Little Bodil.
Tense emotion brought tears to the woman’s kind eyes. “My dears,” she said, looking from one to another of them. “My dears, can you tell me of my brother, Sven Pedersen? I have always thought that he must have been killed when the stage plunged over the cliff. At first I hoped this was not true, but when he never came to find me—”
Mary interrupted, “Oh, Sister Theresa, your brother never stopped trying to find you.”
Jerry said, “He advertised in newspapers.”
The nun shook her head. “We do not take newspapers here and Mr. Weston, who had a nervous collapse for a long time, was not permitted to read. Yes, that accounts for it. My poor brother! How needlessly he grieved.”
Jerry and Dick exchanged glances and Dick’s lips formed the word “money.”
The cowboy said, “Sister Theresa, from the tale of an old storekeeper in Gleeson, who knew your brother well, we have learned that he has a letter for you written in Danish which tells where he left some money for you.”
“I shall be glad to have the letter,” the woman said, her face lightening, “not because of the money which I will use for others, as we here take the vow of poverty, but because of some message I am sure the letter will contain.”
Mary, thinking of the Dooleys, wanted to ask if the money might, part of it at least, be used for them but she thought better of it.
The nun, looking tenderly down at the boy who still nestled close to her, said lovingly, “Poor Little Jackie, how I wish I could keep him here with me, but that would not be permitted since he is a boy.” As though inspired, she told them, “If that money is found, I will give a good part of it to someone who will make a happy home for this little fellow.”
Mary also was inspired. “Oh, Sister Theresa,” how eagerly she spoke. “I know the very nicest family and they’re in great need. Caring for Jackie would be a godsend to them and bring great happiness into his life, I’m sure of that.”
Then she told—with Jerry’s help—all that she knew of Etta Dooley and her family.
The nun turned to the cowboy. “I like what you tell me about that little family. If there is money to pay her, I would like to see your friend Etta.” She was rising as she spoke. A muffled gong was ringing in the inner corridor. The young people also rose.
“I am sure Etta will come, Sister Theresa,” Mary said.
Jerry promised to try to bring the letter on the morrow. The nun, smiling graciously at them all, held out her hand to first one and then another, saying, “Thank you and goodbye.” The little boy echoed, “Goodbye.” He was to remain with Sister Theresa until she had met and approved of Etta Dooley.
As the young people were about to leave the convent, the young nun who had admitted them appeared and said, “Sister Theresa invites you to lunch. It is long after the noon hour.”
She turned, not waiting for a possible refusal and so they followed her through a side door, along a narrow corridor which ended in descending steps. They found themselves in a bare basement room. There were plain wooden tables, clean and white, with benches on both sides. No one was in evidence as the noon meal had been cleared away. The young nun motioned them to a table, then glided away to the kitchen. She soon returned with four bowls of simple vegetable soup, glasses of milk and a plain coarse brown bread without butter.
“I hadn’t realized how starved I am!” Dora said when they were alone.
“Isn’t it too story-bookish for anything, our finding Little Bodil at last?” Mary exclaimed as she ate with a relish the appetizing soup.
“Righto. It sure is,” Jerry agreed.
Dick asked, “Do you think Etta Dooley will be too proud to take the money?”
“I don’t,” Mary said with conviction. “She won’t suspect that we had wanted to find some way of giving her the money. She’ll think that our first thought had been to recommend a good home for Jackie. That will make it all right with her, I’m sure.”
Dora glanced at Jerry somewhat anxiously. “They can stay where they are, can’t they? Etta said that if it weren’t for her feeling of being dep
endent on charity, she would simply love being there.”
Jerry nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure Dad will be glad to have them. I reckon he hasn’t any other plans for that cabin. We could lease them, say three acres, and if they paid a little rent that would make Etta feel independent.”
Dora added her thought, “If Etta passes those examinations she’s going to take in Douglas, maybe she could be teacher in that little school near your ranch, Jerry.”
The cowboy’s face brightened. “Say, that’s a bingo-fine idea! That school had to close because we hadn’t any children. All we need are eight youngsters to reopen it. Let’s see, there are the twins, Jackie will make three.” Then, anxiously he glanced at Mary. “How soon can Baby Bess go to school?”
“She’d have to go if Etta did,” was the laughing reply.
Dora suggested, “Couldn’t there be a kindergarten department?”
“I reckon so.” The cowboy’s face was troubled. “Four kids aren’t eight.”
Dick, remembering something Mr. Newcomb told his wife, inquired, “Jerry, your dad asked your mother if she minded having a cowboy next winter who had a wife and six children.”
“Jolly-O!” Dora cried. “What did Mrs. Newcomb say?”
It was Mary who replied, “You know what dear, big-hearted Aunt Mollie would say. I can almost hear her tell Uncle Henry that ‘the more the merrier.’”
“Of course,” Jerry told them, “even if we can work the school plan, the salary is mighty small. It wouldn’t more than pay their grocery bill but it’ll help all right, along with—”
Mary caught the cowboy’s arm, her expression alarmed. “Jerry, what if there isn’t any money in that rock house after our planning?”
“Tomorrow we will know,” Dick said. Then, as the young nun reappeared, they arose and thanked her for the good meal. Dora noticed that as Dick passed out he dropped a coin in a little box labeled, FOR THE POOR.
CHAPTER XXVIII
A NEW COMPLICATION
In the lumbering old police ambulance, the four young people returned to Tombstone and found Harry Hulbert sitting in a rocker on the hotel porch waiting for them. He ran toward them waving his cap boyishly. The “Seagull” reposed in the middle of the square surrounded by interested and curious cowboys who had ridden in from the range for the mail. Many of them had come from far and had heard nothing of the “Seagull’s” part in the recent raid.
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