Meg of Mystery Mountain

“Of course I got it, but as soon as I could I asked Jean to go for a canter with me that I might tell him how heart-broken his family was because he had disappeared as he did.” Jane was no longer reclining among the cushions. She sat up, listening intently.

“You and Bob know Jean’s family?”

“Yes, indeed, both his father and older brother Ken. We met them every summer on the coast of Maine, where our parents had cottages next to each other.”

“Jean told me of that cottage where he went that summer, alone with his mother,” Jane said. “I mean the summer she died.”

“Poor boy! He never was happy in his home life after that,” Merry replied. “Ken, his brother, is a commissioned officer on one of the war boats. He had little shore leave and that left Jean and his father quite alone in their big house in New York. They never had been congenial in their interests, but the final break came when the father entered into some oil deal which Jean considered dishonorable. He told his father exactly how he felt about it. He said that he refused to inherit money that was taken from the poor who had invested their savings in the wildcat scheme, believing the firm to be honest. Of course his father was angry, and Jean, refusing to take one penny of what he called ‘tainted’ money, left home to make his own way in the world.

“The father did not seem to care at first, for he had always loved Ken more than he did Jean, but when Ken came home on a leave he took Jean’s part, and also denounced his father’s dishonorable business methods.”

Jane was sitting very erect and her breath came hard. At last she interrupted. “Merry,” she said in a voice she could hardly recognize as her own, “Jean’s father, Mr. Willoughby, was my father’s partner.” Then she burst into unexpected tears. “Jean was nobler than I! Oh, Merry, I never can be his friend again. I am not worthy of him. I want you to be his best friend. You are so good. I am sure that in his heart of hearts he must love you.” Merry leaned over and kissed her friend tenderly. “I hope Jean does love me,” she said simply. “He is to be my brother, for I am engaged to Ken Willoughby. His three years in the navy are nearly over. Ken is coming home for good on September first.”

Jane’s heart was filled with conflicting emotions. She was indeed happy when she heard the wonderful secret which Merry assured her she would have told her at once but Ken had wanted her to wait until he had given her the ring which he had bought for her in Paris. “But I just had to tell you, dear girl, when I realized that my friendship with Jean might lead you to believe that we cared for each other.” Then, slipping an arm affectionately about her companion, Merry continued: “And now there is just one thing for which I am going to wish until it comes true, and that is that you and Jean may care for each other in the way Ken and I care. Then, Jane, I will be your sister. Think what that would mean, for we would share all of the joy that the future holds.”

But Jane, tears brimming her eyes, said sadly: “That can never be! If Jean knew the truth; if he knew that I wanted father to cheat those poor people who had trusted him, he would scorn me, even as I now scorn myself. I never knew father’s partners except by name. We lived so very far apart and Dad always wanted to just rest when he reached our village home, and so, even when I was with him, which was seldom, we had no social life.” Then, turning with a startled expression, Jane inquired, “Oh, do you suppose that Jean knows? Do you suppose he recognized our name as being the same as his father’s partner?”

Merry replied thoughtfully: “There are a good many Abbotts in the world, dear, and just at first Jean did not suspect that your father was the one who had withdrawn from the firm, and who, by so doing, had incurred the hatred and wrath of Mr. Willoughby, but, when I happened to mention why your father had lost everything, as Dan had told him, Jean’s face brightened. ‘I am glad,’ he said, ’that the father of Jane had the courage to do the honorable thing.’ I noticed at the time that he said ‘the father of Jane’ and not of Dan. That means, dear, that you are often in his thoughts.”

But Jane had again burst into tears, and rising, she hurried to her own room and begged Merry, who had followed her with tender solicitude, to leave her alone. “I never, never can be Jean’s friend again, but don’t tell him how dishonorable I have been, Merry. Promise me that you will not tell him.”

“Of course I will not tell, but, oh, Jane, you are over-imaginative tonight. I am sure that you never wished your father to rob the poor that you might have luxury. But there, please don’t answer me, dear. You are all worn out and your poor head is throbbing cruelly. Let me help you undress. Tomorrow morning when you awake you will see everything in a different light.”

But Merry was wrong. Because of Jane, the young people did not start at sunrise as they had planned, but delayed until after Mr. and Mrs. Starr had been driven away to the Redfords station. Mr. Packard accompanied them. Bob was pleased indeed that he and his sister were to remain in the Rockies for another fortnight, and Merry was glad to be with Jane, who, more than ever, seemed to need her friendship.

When the young people were gathered at the corral, preparing to start, Jean glanced across at Jane and noting how pale and weary she looked, he strode over to her, saying: “Aren’t you afraid the ride will be too hard for you? Suppose we let the others start now, if Meg feels that she must get home. You and I could follow them more leisurely, starting later, when you are rested.”

There was a sad expression in the dark eyes that were lifted to his, but the girl’s reply was: “Thank you, Jean, I would rather go now, with the others.” Merry felt Jane’s clasp tighten about her hand, and well knew that she was suffering cruelly, and that it was a mental, not a physical torture.

Jean assisted both of the girls to mount and then the string of horses started toward the mountain trail, for Bob was eager to visit the old deserted Crazy Creek mine. Jean Sawyer glanced often at the pale, beautiful face of the girl who seemed purposely to avoid him.

CHAPTER XXXI

AN UNCANNY EXPERIENCE

At the foot of the trail that led up the mountain, Dan, who had been in the lead with Meg, called: “Jean, we’re waiting for you to go ahead, since you have so often ridden this trail.”

The boy, who had been silently riding at Jane’s side whenever it had been possible, turned to ask: “Will you ride on ahead with me?”

The girl tried to smile at him, but her lips quivered. “No, thank you, Jean. I think I will stay with Merry.”

A boyish voice called, “Ask me and hear what I’ll say.” It was Bob, and before Jean could express a desire for his companionship, the black horse which the younger lad rode was scrambling up the rocky trail following the leader. Julie and Gerald, on their agile ponies, were next; Meg and Dan followed, while Jane and Merry rode more slowly, each putting her entire trust in the horse on which she was mounted. “We do not need to try to guide them,” Merry had said. “Jean told me that the horses climb best without direction. Just pull up on the rein if it should happen to stumble.”

Bob’s enthusiasm over all he saw was given such constant expression that Jane’s silence was not so noticeable. Dan, now and then, glanced back anxiously. He also had noted Jean’s apparent devotion to Merry on the two days previous, and he wondered if it had saddened Jane, and yet she had never said that she really cared for Jean.

When they reached a wide rock plateau their guide whirled in his saddle to ask if any of the riders were tired and wished to rest for a while, but they all preferred to keep on. A few moments later they were passing through the deserted mining camp. There was not a breath of wind stirring and the only sounds they heard were the humming of insects and now and then a bird song.

The cabins, many of them falling into ruins, looked as though they might be haunted with ghosts of the men who had given their lives trying to find gold. “Say, boy!” Bob drew rein to look about him. “This places gives one the shivers, all right! At any minute I expect to hear a ghost groan or – ”

“Hark! What was that?” Merry interrupted. “I did hear a groan! I am positive that I did.” They all listened and there was no mistaking the fact that a groaning noise was coming from a cabin that stood near a deep pit beside which was a pile of red and yellow ore.

“What do you suppose it is, since we know there is no such thing as a ghost?” Dan turned toward Meg to inquire. Surely the mountain girl would know.

But it was Jean who replied: “Don’t you believe that some wounded animal may have dragged itself into the cabin to die? They always do try to hide away when they are hurt, don’t they, Meg?”

The girl nodded, her sweet face serious as she said: “I will ride over and see what it is. A moan like that always means that some creature needs help.”

“You must not go alone,” Dan told her. “I will ride over there with you.”

Meg turned to the others. “Please wait here,” she said. “If it is a hurt animal, so many of us would frighten it.”

In silence the group waited, watching the two who rode toward the yawning pit. When they were near the place, Meg dismounted and Dan did likewise. Together they approached the door of the isolated cabin. Dan swung his gun from his shoulder and held it in readiness if harm were to threaten them. Meg glanced at the door, then turning, motioned the lad to put up his gun. Wondering what the girl had seen, the boy hastened to her side.

Meg entered the old cabin and Dan, standing at the door, saw on the rotting floor the twisted form of the old Ute Indian.

His wrinkled, leathery face showed how cruelly he was suffering, but when he saw Meg, who at once knelt at his side, his expression changed to one of eagerness, almost of gladness. He tried to reach out his shriveled arm, but groaned instead.

Dan stepped inside and looked down pityingly. Meg, glancing up with tears in her wonderful eyes, said, “Poor old Ute. He has had another stroke, and this one is his last.” They both knew that the old Indian was making a great effort to speak, and the lad bent to whisper, “Perhaps he is trying to tell you something.”

“Oh, if he only would! If he only could.” Meg was rubbing the poor limp hand that was crusted with dirt in her own. Then, close to his ear, she asked clearly: “Could you tell me about my father?”

Again there was a lightening of the eyes that were beginning to dim. “Fadder he die – hid box – . Dig, dig, no find box. You find box, then you know – ” The old Ute could say no more, for another contortion had seized him and it was the last.

Meg was trembling so that Dan had to assist her to rise. The others, having been eager to know what had happened, had approached the cabin and dismounted. Jane saw that, for the first time in their acquaintance, the mountain girl was nearly overcome with emotion, and going to her, she slipped an arm about her, saying sincerely, “Meg, dear, what is it? Can we help you?” But almost at once Meg regained at least outward composure. “It is the old Ute Indian who has died,” she told them. “How thankful I am that we came this way, for he has told me about my father. Perhaps I shall know more, but that much is enough.”

Turning back, she looked thoughtfully at the cabin, then said, “Dan, will you help me bar the door that no wild creature can get in? The windows were long ago boarded up. The old Ute shall have it for his tomb.”

When this was done, a solemn group of young people rode away. Meg said little, and Dan, riding at her side, understood her thoughtfulness. When the Abbott cabin was reached, Meg said goodbye to the friends who were to remain there, but Dan insisted upon accompanying her to her home.

When they were quite alone the lad rode close to her, and placed a hand on hers as he said, “Meg, dear, how much, how very much this means to you.”

Such a wonderful light there was in the dusky eyes that were lifted to his. “O, Dan, now I can feel that I have a right to accept your friendship; yours and Jane’s.” But with sincere feeling the lad replied: “It is for your sake only that I am glad. Your parentage mattered not at all to me, nor, of late, has it to Jane.” Then, although Dan had not planned on speaking so soon, he heard himself saying: “Meg, you are all to me that my most idealistic dreams could picture for the girl I would wish to marry. Do you think that some day you might care for me if I regain my health and am able to make a home for you?”

There was infinite tenderness in the dark eyes, but the girl shook her head. “Your companionship means very much to me, Dan, but I must teach. I want to care for the two old people who took me in out of the storm and who have given me all that I have had.”

“You shall, dearest girl. That is, we shall, if you will let me help you.”

Then before Meg could refuse, Dan implored, “Don’t answer me yet. I can wait if you will try to love me.” They had reached the cabin and saw Ma Heger, wiping sudsy hands on her apron, hurrying out to greet them. Dan detained the girl. “Promise me that you will try to care,” he pleaded. “I won’t have to try,” she said, then turned to greet the angular woman who had been the only mother she had ever known.

CHAPTER XXXII

HUNTING FOR THE BOX

Jean Sawyer, troubled indeed, because Jane Abbott continued to avoid him, changed his plan and decided not to remain at the cabin until late afternoon; and so, bidding them goodbye, he went down the road toward Redfords, leading the string of horses. The other young people climbed the stone stairway.

“Oh, Jane, what a perfectly adorable place,” Merry exclaimed when the door had been unlocked and the young people had entered the long rustic living-room. “I like it so much better than those elaborately furnished cottages at Newport. They are too much like our own homes, but this cabin savors of camping out. It’s a wonderful spot for a real vacation.”

“It surely is different,” Jane agreed as she led her friend into the comfortable front bedroom which they were to share. Then she confessed: “I do like it much more than I had supposed that I would when I first came. Honestly, Merry, I feel differently inside. When I believed that those poor little children had been driven out of their home by my temper, and might never be found, something inside of me snapped; something that had been holding me tense, I can’t explain it, and I felt as though I had been set free from – well, free from myself. Self, that is it,” she continued bitterly, “planning for oneself, living for oneself, living for one’s selfish pleasure and comfort, slowly but surely deadens sympathy and love and understanding.” Then taking from the table near the wide window a delicate miniature, Jane handed it to her companion. “That is my mother’s portrait.”

“How beautiful she must have been.” Merry glanced from the sweet pictured face to that of the girl at her side. “You are so alike. It is only the expression that is different. I am sure that anyone in sorrow would have gone to your mother for comfort.”

Jane nodded. “I am not like that – yet; but Dan thinks that if we choose a model and keep it ever in thought, we will grow to be like that person or ideal, and I have chosen my mother.”

Silently Merry kissed her friend and then replaced the miniature on the table. Jane had indeed changed that she could talk, even with her best friend, of these things of the soul.

A moment later there came a jolly rapping on their closed door, and Bob called: “Come and see where I am going to hang out, or hang up rather.”

Merry and Jane went out on the front porch with the lad, who was brimming with enthusiasm. “Oh, aren’t you afraid a bear will devour you in the night?” his sister inquired, when she saw a hammock hung between two pines.

“Hope one will,” Bob replied jubilantly. “What a yarn that would be to tell when I get back to college.”

Practical Julie was wide-eyed. “Why, Bob Starr,” she exclaimed, “how could you tell about it after you were all eaten up?”

“Which reminds me,” Bob said irrelevantly, “of a story about the South Sea Islanders. A missionary was teaching them that they must take great care of their bodies, as they were to rise on the last day, and one native asked what would become of his poor brother who had been eaten by a tiger.”

“Bob, dear,” Merry rebuked, “you ought not to joke about such things. It does not matter what we believe ourselves, or how outlandish we consider the beliefs of others, we ought to treat them with respect.”

“Yes’m,” Bob pretended to be quite contrite. “I’m willing to change the subject if the next subject is something to eat.”

“I’ll get the lunch.” Julie, leaning on the staff Dan had cut for her, limped toward the kitchen, but her sister caught her and put her on the porch cot and piled pillows under her head. “Indeed not, little lady.” Jane kissed her affectionately. “It’s your turn now to pretend you are a princess and I will be your maid of waiting.”

Impulsively Julie threw her arms about her sister’s neck and clung to her as she whispered: “Oh, Janey, I love you so!” And Jane, when she arose, felt in her heart a greater happiness than had ever been there when she had received the adulation of the admiring girls at Highacres.

“And I will be your aide!” Merry, who had gone to the top of the stone stairway to look down at the road, skipped back to say, and, then, arm in arm, these two friends went, and from their merry laughter it was quite evident that Jane’s efforts as head cook were being mirthfully regarded by both of them. However, when the others were called to the back porch, where the table was set, they found as appetizing a lunch as could be desired. But underneath all her apparent pleasure Jane was sorrowing. She never again could be Jean Sawyer’s friend. He would not want her friendship if he knew how she had felt about her father’s sacrifice, but he must never, never know.

Jane glanced often at Dan during the lunch. Never had she seen him look so wonderfully happy. He had expressed his regret that Jean had departed before his return and exclaimed: “But the horse I rode also belongs to Mr. Packard. I wonder why he did not wait for it.”

“Mr. Packard told him to leave one horse with us,” his sister explained, “and more if we wished, but I thought one would be all you would want to care for.” Dan was pleased.

He said: “We have made good friends since we came here. It is hard to realize that it is not yet a fortnight ago.” Julie chimed in with: “Yep, haven’t we?” Then, beginning with one small thumb to count, “First there’s Meg Heger. Next to Janey, she’s the nicest girl I guess there is.” Merry pretended to be quite offended. “Little one, you surely are honest. You ought always to say present company excepted.”

“Oh, I do like you, Merry, awful much. You can be third. Will that be all right?” The golden haired girl laughed gaily: “Of course, I was only teasing, dear. Now who comes next?”

“Jean Sawyer and Mr. Packard and then the little spotted pony, and then my mountain lion baby.” The small girl put down her hand as she concluded. “I guess that’s all the new friends I’ve made here in the mountains.”

Bob suddenly thought of something. “Say, Dan, there is a sort of mystery about that trapper’s daughter, isn’t there? I understand that at first the old Ute Indian pretended he was her father in order to get the girl to give him money, and that this morning when he was dying he confessed that he was not.”

Dan nodded. Then turning to Jane, he said: “I am sure that Meg would not wish it kept a secret from any of us and so I will tell you what the old Indian said. His speech was almost incoherent, but we understood him to say that Meg’s father had died long ago. He must have told the squaw in Slinking Coyote’s hearing that he had hidden a box which he wished given to his little girl when she was older, but he must have died before he could tell where he had placed the box.”

“How I wish it could be found,” Jane said earnestly, “for without doubt it would contain identification papers. Although it is a great joy to Meg to know that she is not that old Ute’s daughter, she will have to seek out the squaw who took her to the Heger cabin before she can know who her father really was.”

“And even then I doubt if she would discover much,” Dan remarked. “My theory is that Meg’s father was a miner who had brought the three-year-old little girl to Crazy Creek Camp and had remained there for a time, even after the exodus. In fact, he must have stayed until the Indian tribe took possession of the otherwise deserted camp. Perhaps just after they came he was seized with a fatal illness and left his little one with the kindly old squaw, probably telling her to give the child to a white family, since that is what she did.”

“I believe you are right,” Jane agreed. “It all sounds very reasonable to me. But why do you suppose Meg’s father remained at the camp after everyone else had left? Do you think he had some clue to the whereabouts of the lost vein?”

“That we cannot tell,” Dan said. “He may have remained to hunt for it.” Then, rising, he smiled around at the group. “What shall we do this afternoon, or do you want to just rest?”

“Nary for me!” was energetic Bob’s reply. “I want to hunt for Meg Heger’s hidden box. Who will go with me and where shall we begin the search?”

Bob’s enthusiasm was contagious. “I believe that I now understand the real reason why the Ute Indian hung around the Crazy Creek Camp,” Dan told them. “He knew that the miner had hidden a box, an iron one, of course it must be, and he has been searching for it, probably believing it to contain whatever money Meg’s father had.”

“Of course,” Bob agreed. “That’s as clear as daylight. We have clues enough, but the thing is to try to reason out where would be a likely place for the miner to have hidden it.”

Gerald, not wishing to be left out of so interesting a discussion, wisely contributed, “Maybe under the floor-boards in the cabin where he lived, or some place like that.”

Dan smiled down into the chubby freckled face of his small brother as he replied: “One naturally might suppose so, but I do believe, Gerry, that the old Ute suspected the same thing and has been ransacking those cabins all these years. I would be more inclined to look in some of the dug-outs or tunnels where, if he were a miner, Meg’s father may have been searching for the lost vein.”

While the boys talked Jane and Merry had been washing and wiping the lunch dishes. When they joined the excited group on the front porch, Bob stood up, saying, “Shall we start now?”

Jane also arose, but, happening to glance down at Julie, she saw tears brimming the small girl’s eyes and that her lips were quivering. Instantly the older girl sat on the cot beside her, and, putting her arms about her little sister, she said compassionately: “Is your ankle hurting again, dearie? Since you cannot go, I will stay here with you and read to you. Don’t feel badly, Julie. Your foot will soon be well; long before they find the box, I am sure of that.”

The small girl leaned happily against her sister and looked up at her with adoration in her dark violet eyes. Then Merry announced: “This is a boys’ adventure anyway. We girls will sit on the porch and have the best kind of a time all together.”

And so the boys departed, armed with stout staffs and guns and calling that they would surely be back by supper time.

But when at last they did return, they had discovered nothing, and Bob was eager to start at dawn the next day and search everywhere around the Crazy Creek Camp.

Merry shuddered. “Goodness, don’t!” she ejaculated. “It was ghostly enough before, but now that we know that old Ute is entombed in one of those cabins, you couldn’t get me within a mile of the place.”

Bob retorted: “Well, we hadn’t invited you girls, had we? So you need not refuse with such gusto! We’re going to take the horse, so that Dan can ride most of the way.” But that lad interrupted: “You mean that we will take turns riding. Although I have been in the Rockies so short a time my cold is entirely cured, and, as my lungs had not really been affected, I am soon to be as husky as you, Bob.”

“Of course you are, old man,” Bob put a hand on his friend’s shoulder, “but soon isn’t now. I won’t go unless you will ride, when I think it is the best for you to do so.”