"We were due in Denver three hours ago, and it's an
hour's run or more
yet," remarked Beth De Graf, walking briskly up and
down the platform
of a way station where the train had stopped for
orders.
"And it's beginning to snow," observed Patricia
Doyle, beside her.
"I'm afraid this weather isn't very propitious for
an automobile
trip."
"Uncle John doesn't worry," said Beth. "He believes
there is perpetual
sunshine west of Denver."
"Yes; a man named Haggerty told him. But you'll
notice that Daddy
doesn't seem to believe the tale. Anyhow, we shall
soon know the
truth, Beth, and the trip is somewhat on the order
of a voyage of
discovery, which renders it fascinating to look
forward to. There is
such fun in not knowing just what is going to happen
next."
"When one travels with Uncle John," returned Beth,
smiling, "she
knows exactly--nothing. That is why I am always
eager to accept if he
invites me to go anywhere with him."
The passengers thronging the platform--"stretching
their legs" after
the confinement of the tedious railway journey--eyed
these two girls
admiringly. Beth was admitted a beauty, and one of
the society
journals had lately announced that she had few peers
in all the great
metropolis. Chestnut brown hair; dark, serious and
steady eyes; an
exquisite complexion and rarely regular features all
conspired to
render the young girl wonderfully attractive. Her
stride was athletic,
free and graceful; her slender form well poised and
dignified. Patsy,
the "plug-ugly," as she called herself, was so
bright and animated and
her blue eyes sparkled so constantly with fun and
good humor, that
she attracted fully as much attention as her more
sedate and more
beautiful cousin, and wherever she went was sure to
make a host of
friends.
"See!" she cried, clasping Beth's arm; "there is
that lovely girl at
the window again. I've noticed her ever since the
train left Chicago,
and she is always in the same seat in that tourist
coach. I wonder why
she doesn't get out for a bit of fresh air now and
then."
Beth looked up at the fair, girlish face that gazed
wistfully from
the window. The unknown seemed very young--not more
than fourteen or
fifteen years of age. She wore a blue serge suit of
rather coarse
weave, but it was neat and becoming. Around the
modest, sweet eyes
were deep circles, denoting physical suffering or
prolonged worry; yet
the lips smiled, wanly but persistently. She had
evidently noticed
Uncle John's two nieces, for her eyes followed them
as they marched
up and down the platform and when Patsy looked up
and nodded, a soft
flush suffused her features and she bowed her head
in return.
At the cry of "all aboard!" a scramble was made for
the coaches and
Beth and Patsy, re-entering their staterooms, found
their Uncle and
the Major still intent upon their interminable game
of cribbage.
"Let's go back and talk to the girl," suggested
Patsy. "Somehow,
the poor thing seems lonely, and her smile was more
pathetic than
cheerful."
So they made their way through the long train to the
tourist coach,
and there found the girl they were seeking. The
surrounding seats were
occupied by groups of passengers of rather coarse
caliber, many being
foreign laborers accompanied by their wives and
children. The air in
the car was close and "stuffy" and the passengers
seemed none too neat
in their habits and appearance. So the solitary girl
appeared like a
rose blooming in a barnyard and her two visitors
were instantly sorry
for her. She sat in her corner, leaning wearily
against the back of
the cane seat, with a blanket spread over her lap.
Strangely
enough the consideration of her fellow passengers
left the girl in
undisturbed possession of a double seat.
"Perhaps she is ill," thought Patsy, as she and Beth
sat down opposite
and entered into conversation with the child. She
was frankly
communicative and they soon learned that her name
was Myrtle Dean, and
that she was an orphan. Although scarcely fifteen
years of age she
had for more than two years gained a livelihood by
working in a skirt
factory in Chicago, paying her board regularly to a
cross old aunt who
was her only relative in the big city. Three months
ago, however, she
had met with an accident, having been knocked down
by an automobile
while going to her work and seriously injured.
"The doctors say," she confided to her new friends,
"that I shall
always be lame, although not quite helpless. Indeed,
I can creep
around a little now, when I am obliged to move, and
I shall get better
every day. One of my hips was so badly injured that
it will never be
quite right again, and my Aunt Martha was dreadfully
worried for fear
I would become a tax upon her. I cannot blame her,
for she has really
but little money to pay for her own support. So,
when the man who ran
over me paid us a hundred dollars for damages--"
"Only a hundred dollars!" cried Beth, amazed.
"Wasn't that enough?" inquired Myrtle innocently.
"By no means," said Patsy, with prompt indignation.
"He should have
given you five thousand, at least. Don't you
realize, my dear, that
this accident has probably deprived you of the means
of earning a
livelihood?"
"I can still sew," returned the girl, courageously,
"although of
course I cannot get about easily to search for
employment."
"But why did you leave Chicago?" asked Beth.
"I was coming to that part of my story. When I got
the hundred dollars
Aunt Martha decided I must use it to go to
Leadville, to my Uncle
Anson, who is my mother's only brother. He is a
miner out there, and
Aunt Martha says he is quite able to take care of
me. So she bought my
ticket and put me on the train and I'm now on my way
to Leadville to
find Uncle Anson."
"To _find_ him!" exclaimed Patsy. "Don't you know
his address?"
"No; we haven't had a letter from him for two years.
But Aunt Martha
says he must be a prominent man, and everybody in
Leadville will know
him, as it's a small place."
"Does he know you are coming?" asked Beth,
thoughtfully.
"My aunt wrote him a letter two days before I
started, so he ought
to receive it two days before I get there," replied
Myrtle, a little
uneasily. "Of course I can't help worrying some,
because if I failed
to find Uncle Anson I don't know what might happen
to me."
"Have you money?" asked Beth.
"A little. About three dollars. Aunt gave me a
basket of food to last
until I get to Leadville, and after paying for my
ticket and taking
what I owed her for board there wasn't much left
from the hundred
dollars."
"What a cruel old woman!" cried Patsy, wrathfully.
"She ought to be
horsewhipped!"
"I am sure it was wrong for her to cast you off in
this heartless
way," added Beth, more conservatively.
"She is not really bad," returned Myrtle, the tears
starting to her
eyes. "But Aunt Martha has grown selfish, and does
not care for me
very much. I hope Uncle Anson will be different. He
is my mother's
brother, you know, while Aunt Martha is only my
father's sister, and
an old maid who has had rather a hard life.
Perhaps," she added,
wistfully, "Uncle Anson will love me--although I'm
not strong or
well."
Both Patsy and Beth felt desperately sorry for the
girl.
"What is Uncle Anson's other name?" asked the
latter, for Beth was
the more practical of Uncle John's nieces and noted
for her clear
thinking.
"Jones. Mr. Anson Jones."
"Rather a common name, if you have to hunt for him,"
observed the
questioner, musingly. "Has he been in Leadville
long?"
"I do not know," replied Myrtle. "His last letter
proved that he was
in Leadville two years ago, and he said he had been
very successful
and made money; but he has been in other mining
camps, I know, and has
wandered for years all over the West."
"Suppose he should be wandering now?" suggested
Patsy; but at the look
of alarm on Myrtle's face she quickly changed the
subject, saying:
"You must come in to dinner with us, my dear, for
you have had nothing
but cold truck to eat since you left Chicago. They
say we shall be in
Denver in another hour, but I'm afraid to believe
it. Anyhow, there is
plenty of time for dinner."
"Oh, I can't go, really!" cried the girl.
"It's--it's so hard for me
to walk when the train is moving; and--and--I
wouldn't feel happy in
that gay, luxurious dining car."
"Well, we must go, anyway, or the Major will be very
disagreeable,"
said Patsy. "Good-bye, Myrtle; we shall see you
again before we leave
the train."
As the two girls went forward to their coach Beth
said to Patsy:
"I'm afraid that poor thing will be greatly
disappointed when she gets
to Leadville. Imagine anyone sending a child on such
a wild goose
chase--and an injured and almost helpless child, at
that!"
"I shudder to think what would become of her, with
no uncle to care
for her and only three dollars to her name," added
Patsy. "I have
never heard of such an inhuman creature as that Aunt
Martha, Beth. I
hope there are not many like her in the world."
At dinner they arranged with the head waiter of the
dining car to send
in a substantial meal, smoking hot, to Myrtle Dean,
and Patsy herself
inspected the tray before it went to make sure
everything was there
that was ordered. They had to satisfy Uncle John's
curiosity at this
proceeding by relating to him Myrtle Dean's story,
and the kindly
little man became very thoughtful and agreed with
them that it was a
cruel act to send the poor girl into a strange
country in search of an
uncle who had not been heard of in two years.
When the train pulled into the station at Denver the
first care of
John Merrick's party was to look after the welfare
of the lame girl.
They got a porter to assist her into the depot
waiting room and then
Uncle John inquired about the next train for
Leadville, and found it
would not start until the following morning, the
late overland train
having missed that day's connections. This was a
serious discovery for
poor Myrtle, but she smiled bravely and said:
"I can pass the night in this seat very comfortably,
so please don't
worry about me. It is warm here, you know, and I
won't mind a bit the
sitting up. Thank you all very much for your
kindness, and good-bye.
I'll be all right, never fear."
Uncle John stood looking down at her thoughtfully.
"Did you engage a carriage, Major?" he asked.
"Yes; there's one now waiting," was the reply.
"All right. Now, then, my dear, let's wrap this
blanket around you
tight and snug."
"What are you going to do?" asked Myrtle with a
startled look.
"Carry you outside. It's pretty cold and snowy, so
we must wrap you up.
Now, Major, take hold on the other side. Here we
go!"
Patsy smiled--rather pitifully--at the expression of
bewilderment on
Myrtle's face. Uncle John and the Major carried her
tenderly to a
carriage and put her in the back seat. Patsy sprang
in next, with
Mumbles clasped tightly in her arms, the small dog
having been forced
to make the journey thus far in the baggage car.
Beth and the Major
entered the carriage next, while Uncle John mounted
beside the driver
and directed him to the Crown Palace Hotel.
It was growing dark when they reached the dingy
hostelry, which might
have been palatial when it was named but was now
sadly faded and
tawdry. It proved to be fairly comfortable, however,
and the first
care of the party was to see Myrtle Dean safely
established in a cosy
room, with a grate fire to cheer her. Patsy and Beth
had adjoining
rooms and kept running in for a word with their
protege, who was
so astonished and confused by her sudden good
fortune that she was
incapable of speech and more inclined to cry than to
laugh.
During the evening Uncle John was busy at the
telegraph booth. He sent
several messages to Leadville, to Anson Jones, to
the Chief of Police
and to the various hotels; but long before midnight,
when the last
replies were received, he knew that Anson Jones had
left Leadville
five months ago, and his present whereabouts were
unknown. Having
learned these facts the little man went to bed and
slept peacefully
until morning.
Myrtle had begged them to see that she was called at
five o'clock,
that she might have ample time to get to the depot
for her train, but
no one called her and the poor child was so weary
and worn with her
trip that the soft bed enthralled her for many hours
after daybreak.
Patsy finally aroused her, opening the blinds to let
in the sunshine
and then sitting beside Myrtle's bed to stroke her
fair hair and tell
her it was nearly noon.
"But my train!" wailed the girl, greatly distressed.
"Oh, the train has gone hours ago. But never mind
that, dear. Uncle
John has telegraphed to Leadville and found that
Anson Jones is
not there. He left months ago, and is now wandering;
in fields and
pastures unknown."
Myrtle sat up in bed and glared at Patsy wild-eyed.
"Gone!" she said. "Gone! Then what am I to do?"
"I can't imagine, dear," said Patsy, soothingly.
"What do you think
you will do?"
The girl seemed dazed and for a time could not
reply.
"You must have thought of this thing," suggested her
new friend, "for
it was quite possible Anson Jones would not be in
Leadville when you
arrived there."
"I did not dare think of it," returned Myrtle in a
low, frightened
tone. "I once asked Aunt Martha what I could do in
case Uncle Anson
wasn't to be found, and she said he _must_ be found,
for otherwise I
would be obliged to earn my own living."
"And she knew you to be so helpless!"
"She knows I can sew, if only I can get work to do,"
said the girl,
simply. "I'm not really a cripple, and I'm getting
better of my hurt
every day. Aunt Martha said I would be just as well
off in Denver or
Leadville as in Chicago, and made me promise, if the
worst came, not
to let any charitable organization send me back to
her."
"In other words," exclaimed Patsy, indignantly, "she
wanted to get rid
of you, and did not care what became of you."
"She was afraid I would cost her money," admitted
the poor child, with
shamed, downcast eyes.
Patsy went to the window and stood looking out for a
time. Myrtle
began to dress herself. As she said, she was not
utterly helpless,
moving the upper part of her body freely and being
able to walk slowly
about a room by holding on to chairs or other
furniture.
"I'm afraid I'm causing you a lot of worry over me,"
said she, smiling
sadly as Patsy turned toward her; "and that is
ungrateful when I
remember how kind you have all been. Why, these
hours since I met you
have seemed like fairyland. I shall treasure them as
long as I live.
There must be another train to Leadville soon, and
I'll take that. As
soon as I am ready I will go to the depot and wait
there."
Patsy looked at her reflectively. The poor child was
called upon to
solve a queer problem--one which might well have
bewildered the brain
of a more experienced person.
"Tell me," she said; "why should you go to Leadville
at all, now that
you have no friend or relative there to care for
you?"
"My ticket is to Leadville, you know," replied
Myrtle. "If I did not
go I would waste the money it cost."
Patsy laughed at this.
"You're a wonderfully impractical child," she said,
deftly assisting
Myrtle to finish dressing. "What you really need is
some one to order
you around and tell you what to do. So you must stop
thinking about
yourself, for a time, and let _us_ do the thinking.
Here--sit in this
chair by the window. Do you want Mumbles in your
lap? All right. Now
gaze upon the scenery until I come back. There's a
man washing windows
across the street; watch and see if he does his work
properly."
Then she went away to join a conference in Uncle
John's sitting room.
Major Doyle was speaking when she entered and his
voice was coldly
ironical.
"The temperature outside is six degrees above
freezing," he observed.
"The clerk downstairs says the snow is nine feet
deep over the
mountain trails and the wind would cut an iron beam
in two. If you
take an automobile to California, John, you must put
it on snowshoes
and connect it with a steam heating-plant."
Uncle John, his hands thrust deep in his pockets,
paced thoughtfully
up and down the room.
"Haggerty said--"
"Didn't I give you Haggerty's record, then?" asked
the Major. "If
you want the exact truth it's safe to go directly
opposite to what
Haggerty says."
"He's a very decent fellow," protested Mr. Merrick,
"and is considered
in the city to be strictly honest."
"But after this?"
"You can't blame him for the weather conditions
here. I've been
talking with Denver people myself, this morning, and
they all say
it's unusual to have such cold weather at this time
of year. The
thermometer hasn't been so low in the past
twenty-six years, the
natives say."
"Are they all named Haggerty?" asked the Major,
scornfully.
"If you will kindly allow me to speak, and tell you
what Haggerty
said," remarked Uncle John tersely, "I shall be able
to add to your
information."
"Go ahead, then."
"Haggerty said that in case we ran into cold weather
in Denver, which
was possible--"
"Quite possible!"
"Then we had best go south to Santa Fe and take the
route of the old
Santa Fe Trail as far as Albuquerque, or even to El
Paso. Either way
we will be sure to find fine weather, and good roads
into California."
"So Haggerty says."
"It stands to reason," continued Mr. Merrick, "that
on the Southern
route we will escape the severe weather. So I have
decided to adopt
that plan."
"I think you are quite wise in that," broke in
Patsy, before her
father could object.
"All those queer Spanish names sound interesting,"
said Beth. "When do
we start, Uncle?"
"In a day or two. I have some things here to attend
to that may delay
us that long. But when once we are started southward
we shall bowl
along right merrily."
"Unless we run into more snowstorms." Of course it
was the Major who
said that, and pointedly ignoring the remark Uncle
John turned to
Patsy and said:
"How did you find Myrtle Dean this morning?"
"She is rested, and seems very bright and cheerful,
Uncle; but of
course she is much distressed by the news that her
Uncle Anson has
vanished from Leadville. Yet she thinks she will
continue her journey
by the next train, as she has paid for her ticket
and can't afford to
waste the money."
"It would be absurd for the child to go to Leadville
on that account.
A mining camp is no place for such a frail thing,"
returned Mr.
Merrick. "What would you suggest, Patsy?"
"Really, Uncle John, I don't know what to suggest."
"She can never earn her living by sewing," declared
Beth. "What she
ought to have is a trained nurse and careful
attention."
"I'll have a doctor up to look her over," said Uncle
John, in his
decisive way. He was a mild little man generally,
but when he made up
his mind to do a thing it was useless to argue with
him. Even Major
Doyle knew that; but the old soldier was so fond of
arguing for
the sake of argument, and so accustomed to oppose
his wealthy
brother-in-law--whom he loved dearly just the
same--that he was
willing to accept defeat rather than permit Mr.
Merrick to act without
protest.
