Meg of Mystery Mountain

For another two long hours Jane sat in the porch chair as one stunned. She had lost hope. She was sure Julie and Gerald, of their own free will, would not stay away so long. They must have been attacked by wild animals or kidnapped by that Ute Indian.

When the clock struck four, Jane leaped to her feet. She could no longer stand the inactivity. She simply must do something. Going to her room, she again unpacked her trunk and took from it a riding habit of dark blue tweed. She donned the neat fitting trousers that laced to the ankles, her high riding boots, the long skirted coat and a small visored cap. None of her costumes was more becoming, but not once did Jane glance in the mirror. She had but one desire and that was to help find the children. She was about to write a note to tell Dan that she also had gone in search of Julie and Gerald when she again heard a step on the porch, a light, quick footfall which she had not heard before. In the open doorway stood Meg Heger. Without a word of greeting she said: “The children, have they been found?”

“No, no!” Jane cried. “Dan was here two hours ago, and, oh, Miss Heger, he is all worn out. I am as troubled about him, or nearly, as I am about Julie and Gerald. He told me to stay here for the children might return, but it is so long now. They left at nine this morning. I am sure they will not come back alone and I, also, must go in search of them.”

The mountain girl’s dusky eyes had been closely watching the speaker and she seemed to sense that the proud girl was in no way considering herself. “Jane Abbott,” she said seriously, “it would be foolhardy for you, an Easterner, unused to our wilderness ways, to start out alone. You would better heed your brother’s wishes and remain here.”

But the girl to whom she spoke was beyond the power to reason. “No! No!” she cried. “Oh, Meg Heger, if you are going, I beg of you let me go with you.”

The mountain girl thought for a moment, then she said: “I will leave word for whoever may return.” Taking from her pocket the notebook and pencil she always carried, she tore out a page and wrote upon it:

“Jane Abbott and Meg Heger are going to the Crazy Creek Camp in search of the children. The hour is now 4:30. If we think best, we will remain there all night.”

The Eastern girl shuddered when she read the note, but made no comment. “Let us tack it on the door after we have closed it,” she suggested.

This was done, and taking the stout staff Dan had cut for her, Jane followed her companion, whom she was glad to see carried a gun.

Silently they climbed the natural stairway of rocks that ascended by the brook until they reached the pine which, having fallen across the stream, formed a bridge. Meg uttered an exclamation and turning back she said: “We are on the right trail, Jane Abbott. There is a torn bit of your sister’s red gingham dress on the tree. She evidently feared to walk across and so she jumped over.”

Jane’s eyes glowed with hope. “How happy I would be if we were the ones to find them, although, of course, the important thing is that they shall be found.”

Meg often broke through dense undergrowth, holding open a place for Jane to pass, then again she took the lead, beating ahead with her staff to startle serpent or wild creature that might be in hiding.

Jane, though greatly frightened, followed quietly, but now and then, when back of Meg, she pressed her hand to her heart to still its too rapid beating. They came to a wall of almost perpendicular rocks which the mountain girl said would save them many minutes if they could scale. How Meg climbed them alone and unaided was indeed a mystery to the watcher below. The toe of her boot fitted into a crevice so small that it did not seem possible that it could be used as a stair, but with little apparent effort the ascent was made, and then, kneeling on the top, Meg leaned far down and pulled Jane to a place at her side.

At last they came to what appeared to be a grove of poles so straight and tall were the pines. They were on a wide, slowly ascending mountainside. The ground was soft with the drying needles and it was easier to walk. Jane commented on the grove-like aspect of the place, and Meg at once told her that they were called lodge-pole trees because Indians had used them as the main poles in their wigwams. “It is the Tamarack Pine,” the mountain girl said, and then, as the ground was level for a considerable distance, she walked more rapidly, and neither spoke for some time. Jane was wretchedly unhappy and she well knew that she never again would be happy unless the children were found.

“Redfords Peak is one of the lowest in the range,” Meg turned to say when they had left the pole-pine grove and were climbing over rugged bare rocks which in the distance had looked to Jane unscaleable, but Meg, in each instance, found a way. At last they stood on a large flat rock which formed a small plateau. “This is the left shoulder of the peak,” Meg paused to say, “and it is here that we begin the descent to Crazy Creek mine. See, far down there beyond the foothills is the Packard ranch. The buildings are large, but they do not appear so from here.” Jane, sitting on a rock to rest, at Meg’s suggestion, looked about her, eager to find some trace of the lost children. From time to time they had both shouted, but there had been no answer save the startled cry of birds, or the scolding of squirrels, who greatly objected to intruders.

Suddenly the Eastern girl uttered an exclamation of surprise. “Why, there is the stage road not very far below us. Wouldn’t it have been easier for us to follow that?”

Meg nodded. “Much easier, but I had been told that the children started away along the brook, so if they were to be found we would have to hunt in the way they had gone.”

“Of course, and we did find that torn bit of Julie’s dress.”

Meg looked at her companion eagerly. “Are you rested enough now to start down? It is an easy descent to the road and we will follow it directly into the camp.” As she spoke she glanced anxiously at the sun. “It is dropping rapidly to the horizon,” Jane, having followed the glance of the other, commented.

Silently they began the descent. Jane found it much easier than she had supposed and before long they were on the stage road which zigzagged downward. They had not gone far when Jane said: “What a queer color the sunlight is becoming.” She turned to look toward the west and uttered an exclamation. “Meg!” she cried, unconsciously using the mountain girl’s Christian name, “the sun looks like a ball of orange fire and the mountain range is being hidden by a yellow haze. What can it mean?”

“It means that a summer storm is brewing. Let us make haste. We will soon be under the shelter of the pines and just below them is the Crazy Creek camp. We will keep dry in one of the old cabins. These sudden storms, though often cloudbursts, are of short duration.”

There was a weird light under the great old pines, but in the spaces between they saw that clouds were rapidly gathering close above them. Then a vivid flash of lightning almost blinded them. Instantly it was followed by a crash of thunder which seemed to make the very mountain rock. Big drops of rain could be heard pelting among the trees, though few of them could be felt because of the densely interwoven branches. Meg drew her companion close to one of the great old trunks.

“It isn’t safe under trees, is it?” Jane’s face was white with fear. Her companion’s matter-of-fact voice calmed her. “As safe as it is anywhere,” she commented. “It won’t last five minutes and we won’t be much wet.”

The flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder were incessant and the road out of which they had scrambled became for a moment a raging torrent. “I’ve been struck,” Jane cried out. “I know I have! I feel the electricity pulling at my hair.”

Again the calm voice: “You are all right. That is because we are so near the cloud. The air is charged with electricity.”

The storm was gone as quickly as it had come, but there was a roaring, rushing noise near. “That’s the Crazy Creek. It floods for a few moments after every cloudburst. Quick now, let’s make for the shelter of a cabin. The camp is just below here.” Meg fairly dragged Jane out from under the pines. The light was brighter and the Eastern girl saw beneath her a scene of desolation, but before she could clearly define it, Meg had dragged her into an old log cabin. There was a joyous cry from within. It was Gerald shouting, “Meg, you’ve come. I knew you would.”

CHAPTER XXVI

A RECONCILIATION

The small boy, ignoring Jane, sprang toward the mountain girl and dragged her into the cabin. On the floor lay Julie, her cheeks wet with tears, her eyes dulled with suffering.

With a glad cry Jane leaped into the darkened room and was about to take the small girl in her arms, but Julie turned away and held her hands out toward Meg, when to their surprise Jane sank down in a worn-out heap on the floor and began to sob bitterly.

“Oh, mother, mother!” she cried, as though addressing someone she knew must be present, “help me to take your place with Julie and Gerald. Tell them to forgive me.”

Meg feared that Jane’s long day of anguish had temporarily unbalanced her mind, but Julie, hearing that cry, reached out a comforting hand.

“Jane,” she said weakly, “don’t feel so badly. I guess we were awfully trying, me and Gerald.”

Passionately Jane caught the child in her arms and held her close. She kissed her forehead and her tumbled hair. Then she reached out a hand to the boy, who had drawn near amazed to see his usually cold, hard sister so affected.

“Give me another chance, Gerald!” she cried, tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks. “Don’t hate me yet. I’m going to begin all over. I’m going to try to be like mother.”

A cry of pain from the small girl then caught her attention.

“Julie, what is it, dear? Are you hurt? What has happened?”

Gerald spoke up: “That’s why we came in here. We were headin’ down the mountain for the Packard ranch when Julie fell. I guess her ankle is hurt.”

Meg at once was on her knees unbuttoning the high shoe. The ankle was swollen, but there were no bones broken.

“It is a bad sprain,” she said.

Then, swinging the knapsack which she always carried when on a mountain hike from her back, she took out her emergency kit. She washed the angry looking place with soothing liniment and then wound tightly about it strips of clean white cloth.

“Now,” she said, “we will have some refreshments.”

This amazed her listeners and greatly pleased at least one of them.

“Gee-golly!” Gerald cried. “I hadn’t thought of it before, but I guess I’m starving to death more’n likely.”

Meg smiled as she produced a box of raisins. “This may not seem much of a menu, but it is all one needs for several days to sustain life.”

The small boy took a generous handful and gobbled it with speed. Then the mountain girl brought out a canteen.

“Bring us some water from the creek,” she told him. Jane held out a detaining hand.

“Oh, Meg,” she implored, “don’t send Gerry to that raging torrent. Don’t you remember how we heard it roaring?”

“But you don’t hear it now,” was the reply. “The water from the cloudburst has long since gone to the valley to be absorbed, much of it, in the coarse gravel. You’ll find Crazy Creek just as it always is.”

“That’s where Julie sprained her ankle,” Gerald said. “We were trying to reach it to get a drink.”

He soon returned with the canteen full of ice-cold water. His eyes were wide.

“Say, girls,” he began, “we can’t make it home tonight, can we? The sun’s going down west of our peak right this minute.”

“We didn’t expect to,” Meg replied. “Gerald, you come with me and we will bring in pine branches or kinnikinick, if we can find any, for our beds.”

From her knapsack Meg took a folding knife as she talked.

“Kinnikinick?” the boy gayly repeated. Everything that had happened now appeared to him in the light of a jolly adventure except, of course, Julie’s ankle, and she no longer seemed to be in pain. “What sort of a thing is that?”

Meg had led the way out of the cabin.

“Here’s some!” she shouted, and the boy raced over to find the girl whom he so admired bending over a dense evergreen vine.

“It’s prettier in winter,” she told him, “for then it has red berries among the bright green leaves. It makes a wonderful bed. It is so soft and springy.”

After half an hour of effort branches of pine and some of the kinnikinick were laid on the floor, Julie was made comfortable, but Jane would not lie down. She sat with her back against the wall holding the small girl’s head on her lap. Dan had been right. One could carve oneself after a model. Never, never again would she lose sight, she assured herself, of her chosen goal, which was to do in all things as her dear mother would have done.

As soon as the sun sank it began to grow dark. Meg had at once barred the door, and also she had examined the floor and walls to be sure that there was no yawning knothole large enough to admit a snake.

The children slept from sheer exhaustion, but Jane and Meg stayed awake through the seemingly endless hours, while night prowlers howled many times close to their cabin.

At the first gray streak of dawn, Julie stirred uneasily and began to cry softly. Meg begged Jane to change positions with her, and, completely worn out, Jane did lie down on the pine boughs which had been so placed that they were springy and comfortable. Almost at once she fell asleep.

Meg removed the bandages that were hot from the little girl’s hurt ankle and again applied the cooling liniment. Other fresh strips of cloth were used and then, with the small head pillowed on Meg’s lap, Julie again fell asleep. Gerald had not wakened through the night, not even when a curious wolf had sniffed at their doorsill and had then lifted his head to wail out his displeasure.

The sun was high above the peak when Jane leaped up, startled, from her restless slumber. “What was that? I thought I heard a gun shot.”

“You did.” Nothing seemed to stir Meg from her undisturbed calm. “Someone is coming. Julie, will you sit up against the wall, dear, and I will open the door.”

Gerald, half awake, but sensing some excitement, leaped out of the cabin, his small gun held in readiness. “Do you ’spect it’s the Utes?” he asked, almost hoping that the answer would be in the affirmative. But Meg laughed. “No,” she said. “It is probably someone searching for you.” Then she fired in answer. From not far above them came two gun shots in rapid succession.

“Oh, boy!” Gerald leaped to a position where he could see the road as it wound under the pines. “There are two horsemen. Gee! One of ’em is Dan.”

“And the other is Jean Sawyer!” his companion told him.

Julie had wanted to see what was going on, so hopping on one foot, she appeared in the doorway, supported by Jane. The two lads uttered whoops of joy when they saw the group awaiting them. Dan at once caught Gerald in his arms and then glanced tenderly toward the two in the doorway. Little did Jane guess that in that moment, white and worn as she was, she had never looked so beautiful to her brother. And as for Jean Sawyer, he saw in the face which had charmed him, a softer expression, and he knew that some great transformation had taken place in the soul of the girl. Leaping forward, he said with deep solicitude: “Oh, Miss Jane, how you have suffered!”

Dan lifted Julie most carefully to the back of his horse as he said: “Meg, can you ride in front of this little miss and I will walk at your side?” Then he smiled, and Jane, glancing at him anxiously, rejoiced to note he was not ill as she had feared he would be, though he did look very tired. The lad continued: “You see, Jean and I expected to find you all here. Intuitive knowledge, if you wish to call it that, and so we planned what we would do. Jane is to ride on Silver, which Mr. Packard loaned us, and Jean will lead the way.”

“But where are we going?” his older sister inquired.

“Down to the ranch,” Jean replied. “I had strict orders to bring you back with me, all of you, for that visit that you were to have paid at the weekend.”

Meg was about to demur, but the lad hastened to say: “I told your father that I would telephone the forest ranger as soon as you all were located. He is waiting there for a message, and I cannot until I get you to the ranch.”

Still Meg thought she ought to climb back to her own home, but Jane implored: “Oh, don’t leave me! I do so want you to go with us.” That settled it and though the girl from the East little dreamed it, there was a warm glow of joy in the heart of the mountain girl who had so wanted a friend of her own age.

Jane shuddered as they rode down the old trail of the deserted mining camp. Shacks in all degrees of ruin stood about, machinery was rusting where it had been left. The beauty of the mountain had been marred by dark tunnels, outside of which stood heaps of orange and blue-gray refuse. Even in the more substantial log huts, made of aspen poles, windows were broken and doors hung on one hinge. “The desolation of the place will haunt my dreams forever,” the girl from the East said.

“And all this,” Jean made a wide sweep with his arm, “because the paying vein they had been so frantically following was lost. It might have been found, Mr. Packard told me, but another rich strike was made on Eagle Head Mountain and the inhabitants of this camp, to a man, deserted it and flocked to that new mine, and from there they probably followed other lures, ending, I suppose, as poor, or poorer, than when they began.”

Dan was interested. “Then the lost vein may still be here, who knows?” he commented with a backward glance at the deserted camp they had left. And yet, was it deserted? As soon as the young people were gone a stealthy figure appeared, slinking out of one of the huts. It was the old Ute Indian and since he carried a pick and shovel, it was quite evident that he had started out to dig. Was it the lost vein or some other treasure that he sought?

CHAPTER XXVII

THE GREEN HILLS RANCH

Shielded from the fury of the storms by gently sloping foothills, the rambling Packard ranch house presented a very inviting appearance to the young people as the two big horses carefully picked their way down the last steep trail.

“O, how beautiful!” was Jane’s involuntary exclamation when the level road, having been reached, she felt freer to look about and admire the scene.

“I had no idea that a mere ranch could be so attractive.” A great change was evident in the Eastern girl, and Jean Sawyer had been quick to notice it. Not once that morning had she seemed to be posing that she might appear more charming to him. She was just sweetly, sincerely natural. The reason, perhaps, was that Jane had suffered so much since his last visit that she had changed her estimate of real values. She was so happy, so at peace deep in her heart. She had learned that her mother’s little ones were dearer to her than all else, and so the impression she might make had dwindled in importance. If Jean had thought her beautiful on the day of their first meeting, he thought her more lovely now, although her face showed evidence of a great weariness and the hours of anxiety through which she had passed. He smiled up at her as he walked at her side, one hand resting on the horse’s bridle. “Mr. Packard and I have tried out many schemes to make our home more beautiful,” he told her. “That little artificial lake surrounded by cottonwood trees and willows we made quite by ourselves. A mountain stream flows into it. Indeed, there are many springs in these foothills and that is why they have such a soft, velvety-green appearance when the desert and mountains are so dry.” They were passing through a vegetable garden where a beaming Chinaman, hoe in hand, nodded to them.

Then came the flower gardens and Meg’s enthusiasm, though expressed in her usual quiet way, was very evident. “How you do love flowers,” Dan said, smiling up at her.

“Indeed I do!” Meg replied. “They seem like live things to me, and so I was not surprised to read recently that a scientist, with some very delicate instrument, has learned that many plants are sentient, though not acutely so. Since then I have never torn a plant ruthlessly. That scientist advised cutting flowers rather than breaking them.”

It was indeed Meg’s much-loved subject and her eyes glowed as she gazed at the banks of scarlet salvia, at the masses of golden glow, and many-hued asters.

“Someone else must love flowers,” she commented, turning to look back at Jean. He nodded. “It is my best friend, Mr. Packard. You two ought to be great cronies. I sometimes tell him that I think it is the color effect, rather than the individual flower, that he so greatly admires, but here he comes now.”

They were riding up to the circling drive which passed under a vine-covered portico. Mr. Packard leaped down the steps with an agility which seemed to dispute the years his graying hair attributed to him.

“Welcome!” he cried, with a wide sweep of his sombrero. “This is indeed a pleasant surprise, although I can hardly call it that as I have been watching for just such a cavalcade to come riding down my foothills ever since the dawn broke.” He held out his strong arms to lift little Julie, whose face, still tear-stained and white with pain, appealed to him. He held her close as he listened sympathetically while Gerald told what had happened to the poor little foot. Then, after giving a word of greeting to each of the guests, he bade them follow him indoors to the breakfast that had long been awaiting them.

The girls found that a wing, containing two rooms and a bath, and overlooking the little lake, had been prepared for their comfort. Gerald, with the two older boys, sought quarters elsewhere in the rambling ranch house, which had room for the accommodation of many guests.

“When you girls have prinked enough,” Mr. Packard said merrily, “follow the scent of the coffee and you will find the rest of us.” When the door had closed and the three girls were alone, Jane held out a hand to Meg, saying: “Will you forgive me for everything, and let me try to be a real friend?” An expression of gladness in the mountain girl’s dusky eyes was her most eloquent reply.

Directly after breakfast in the dining-room, which seemed to be all windows and where they were served by a silently moving Chinaman, the girls were told that they were to go to their wing and rest until noon.

This was in no way a displeasing suggestion and in a very short while Julie and Jane in one room and Meg in the other were deep in slumber. Gerald was also advised to rest, but he declared that he would rather stay awake and see what was going to happen. Dan laughed as he said that Gerald seemed always to believe that an adventure might begin at any moment.

“What boy does not?” Mr. Packard smiled understandingly down at the stocky little fellow whose clear blue eyes and freckled face beamed good nature. Then, quite as though he could read the small boy’s thought, the man exclaimed: “Gerald, you ought to wear my grandson’s cowboy outfit. He’d be glad to loan it to you.” That this suggestion met with the youngster’s entire approval was quite evident by the wild dance which he executed then and there.

Jean led the little fellow away and before long Gerald reappeared, clothed in a costume of the most approved style, a fringed buckskin suit, a red bandana handkerchief loosely knotted about his neck, while in one hand he held a wide felt hat on which to his great joy a dried rattlesnake skin served as band. His own small gun was never out of his possession.

“Great!” Dan said with brotherly pride. “I wish our dad and dear old grandmother might see you now, Gerry. You do indeed look ready to start on an adventure.”

“Where’ll we go to look for it?” The small boy gazed eagerly, hopefully up at their genial host.

“Well, sonny, what kind of an adventure would you prefer?” the amused man asked as though he were willing, at least, to attempt to provide whatever adventure his small guest might desire.

“I’d like an Indian raid best, or a hold-up.” The boy was thinking of the most exciting things he could recall in his set of Wild-West books, but Mr. Packard shook his head. “Sorry to disappoint you, sonny, but the Utes are a friendly tribe: peaceable, anyway, and they are no longer our near neighbors. They have moved their camp deeper into the mountains. And, as for hold-ups, since we are neither on a stage or a train we cannot provide that, but if you boys are not too weary I am going to suggest that you ride with me to the old stage road. I’ve been losing some calves lately and Jean believes that they might have been driven into an abandoned corral over in the foothills at night, and later were spirited away.” He hesitated. “It’s a hard ride, though. Perhaps you boys would rather not undertake it until tomorrow.”