Virginia of Elk Creek Valley Part 21

MacDuff is tired, I know, and there are some things I want to get straightened out before we go down home."

The next afternoon while Jack searched the ranch for his scattered possessions and tried in vain to stow them all away in his trunk, while three crestfallen girls packed at the Hunter ranch, Carver, fresh from an interview with Mr. Keith, sat down to write his father. The letter, received four days later in place of its author by the Standish family, brought surprise and consternation in its wake.

"I simply can't understand it," said Mrs. Carver Standish II, on the verge of hysterical tears. "I've never known him to do such a thing before.

There's Ruth Sherman's house-party coming off, and the St. Clair wedding, and the tennis tournament, and our trip to the Adirondacks--and everything! Whatever shall I tell people who inquire? There's something wrong with him, Carver! I never did want him to go to that place, anyway.

You'd better wire!"

"I can't see but that it's plain enough," said his father. "He simply prefers thres.h.i.+ng on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party or a wedding or a tennis tournament or the Adirondacks. Let him alone. Maybe a little work won't hurt him."

"Hurt him!" cried a certain gray-haired old gentleman, slapping his knees.

"Hurt him! It'll be the best thing that ever happened to him, in _my_ opinion! Work, and being with that little girl out there!"

"And I did so want Mrs. Van Arsdale to see him!" continued his mother.

"I'd planned all sorts of things for September. Read the letter again, Carver."

Mr. Carver Standish II read the letter. It was brief and to the point.

"'DEAR DAD:

"'I'm not coming home till school opens. I'm going to stay out here and help thresh. Mr. Keith is short on hands, and he says I'll do. I wanted to help for nothing, they've all been so good to me--but he says I mustn't. You needn't send me any money, because I'm going to be earning two dollars a day, and maybe three if I'm any good. Please don't let Mother object. It won't do any good anyhow, because I've already signed a contract to stay. Mr. Keith didn't want to draw it up, but I insisted. He does it with the other men, and I'm no better than the rest.

"'I've got a great scheme about bringing the business West when I'm through college. It sure is some country out here! Love to Grandfather.

"'CARVER.'"

That Carver Standish III preferred thres.h.i.+ng on a Wyoming ranch to a house-party was the subject of conversation at every social affair for a week and more. Poor Mrs. Carver Standish II found explanations most difficult.

"Carver's so in love with the country and riding and all that he just won't come back," she said.

But Carver's grandfather, the old Colonel, found no such difficulty.

"My grandson," he said, his fine head thrown back, and his blue eyes glowing with pride, "my grandson is discovering the dignity of labor on a Wyoming ranch!"

CHAPTER XX

COMRADES

Wyoming, to be appreciated, should be explored on horseback and not viewed from the observation platform of a limited train. Barren stretches of sagebrush and cactus, and grim, ugly b.u.t.tes guard too well the secret that golden wheat-fields lie beyond them; the rugged, far-away mountains never tell that their canyon-cut sides are clothed with timber and carpeted with a thousand flowers; and tired, dusty travelers, quite unaware of these things, find themselves actually longing for Nebraska to break the monotony!

The half-dozen weary persons who on the afternoon of September 6th sat on the observation platform of the Puget Sound Limited, together with the scores who peered from its windows in vain search of something besides sagebrush, were no exception to the rule. To a man, they were all giving fervent thanks that Fate had cast their lots in California or New England or, at the worst, Iowa. The a.s.surances of the brakeman, who was loquacious beyond his kind, that once past Elk Creek they would strike a better country brought some much-needed cheerfulness; and Elk Creek itself afforded such amus.e.m.e.nt and entertainment that they really began to have a better impression of Wyoming. Apparently, there were civilized persons even in so desolate an environment as this!

The sources of their entertainment, for they were several, stood on the little station platform at Elk Creek. The central figure was a tall, middle-aged man, whose hands were filled with trunk checks and tickets, and to whom three very excited girls were saying good-by all at the same time. Three boys, two in khaki and one in traveling clothes, were shaking hands heartily; a fresh-faced young woman with marigolds at her waist stood a little apart from the others and talked earnestly with a tall young man; and a hatless, brown-haired girl in a riding suit seemed to be everywhere at once.

"Oh, I can't bear to think it's all over!" the interested travelers heard her say, as she embraced the three girls in turn. "It's been absolutely the most perfect six weeks I've ever, ever known. Don't lose your quirt, Vivian! And don't leave Allan's knife around, Mary. It isn't fair to tempt even a porter. You'll write from every large place, won't you, Priscilla?"

In spite of an amused and impatient conductor, the last-named girl turned back for a last hug. Her hat was askew, her brown hair disheveled, and her brown eyes full of tears, which were coursing freely down her cheeks.

"Oh, Virginia," she cried, "you're the biggest peach I ever knew!

Remember, you're going to think of me every night at seven o'clock. It'll be nine for me in Boston, but I'll not forget. And it's only three weeks before I see you again. That's a comfort!"

She hurried toward the waiting train, at the steps of which a boy in khaki stood ready to help her.

"Good-by, Carver," she cried, shaking hands for at least the fourth time.

"I'm going to see your grandfather the very first thing and tell him what a good sport you are!"

A mad rush for the observation platform ensued--the three girls, the boy, and the young woman reaching it just in time to wave good-by to those left behind. The brown-eyed girl swept the faces of her fellow travelers at one glance, nodded to the interested brakeman with a surprised and pleased smile, and then, just as the train began to move, hurried to the railing.

"Oh, Virginia!" she cried to the girl in the riding-suit. "What do you think! I've got the very same brakeman! Doesn't that make the ending just perfect?"

Two hours later a boy and a girl on horseback forded Elk Creek, rode up the Valley, and to the summit of the highest foot-hill.

"I'm glad we rode up here," said Virginia. "I'm missing them already, and to be up here with you helps a lot! Do you remember a year ago, Don? 'Twas in this very spot that we planned and planned, and the day was just like this, too--all clear and golden. It just seems as though every year is lovelier than the last, and this one has been the very loveliest of all my life."

"I guess," said Donald thoughtfully, leaning forward in his saddle to pat MacDuff, "I guess it's been the best of my life, too, counting this summer and all. Last year at school was great, with college always ahead--sort of a dream almost true, you know. And then to have Jack and Carver here, and all the girls with you, finished everything up just right. But the best part of the year to me, Virginia," he finished hesitatingly, "was June when you came back, and I found you weren't a young lady after all. I was some glad, I tell you!"

Virginia's gray eyes looked at the mountains, swept the golden prairie stretches, and lingered for a long moment on the cottonwoods which bordered Elk Creek before they came back to Donald's blue ones.

"I'm glad, too," she said simply.

Pedro and MacDuff sniffed the September air and gloried in it. They were impatient for a wild run across the brow of the hills, and wondered why their riders chose to look so long at the mountains on such an afternoon as this. If they sat so silently much longer, there would be no time to make the mesa, to gallop across its wide surface, and at last, perhaps, to have supper among the sagebrush with Robert Bruce. They felt somewhat encouraged when Virginia began to speak.

"I've been trying to decide the very loveliest thing of all the year," she said. "I mean from September to June. I don't know whether 'twas the Vigilantes or Miss Wallace or Grandmother Webster, but I'm almost sure 'twas Grandmother Webster learning to love Father. The others were joys for me, but that was one for all of us. Of course we know the loveliest thing of this summer. Everything's been perfect, but Aunt Nan and Malcolm the most perfect of all. Yesterday, when Grandmother Webster's letter came, I just cried for joy, it was so lovely!

"I--I couldn't help comparing it with the one she wrote Mother about Father," she continued, a little break in her voice. "I found it--afterward--in Mother's things. She didn't understand at all then. I guess it takes some people a long time to understand things. But I'm going to try to forget that because Grandmother Webster knows now just how splendid Father is. Besides," she finished thoughtfully, "it's going to be very hard for Grandmother to give Aunt Nan up. I guess we can't even imagine how hard it's going to be."

"Of course we can't I think it's fine of her to take it the way she does.

What relation will that make you and me?" he finished practically.

"Priscilla and I figured it all out. You're no relation at all--just my uncle's brother. Makes you sound about forty-five, doesn't it?"

"It doesn't sound exactly young. When do you suppose it will happen?"

"Aunt Nan doesn't know. Malcolm says Christmas, but she says no, she must have a year with Grandmother. So I think it will be in June--just after school is out. Webster is lovely then--all filled with daisies and b.u.t.tercups and wild roses. And you'll come on, Don--of course you will.

And Priscilla will be there, and Mary and Vivian and Carver and Jack and maybe Dorothy! I want you to see Dorothy. Oh, won't it be the happiest time? I'm getting excited already!"

"The horses want to go," said Donald. "I'll race you to the edge of the mesa. Come on!"

Five minutes later they looked at each other, red-cheeked and radiant.

"In together, just as usual," cried Donald. "There's never much difference!"