CHAPTER IV.
WARE'S WIGWAM
PHIL TREMONT, driving out from Phoenix in a high, red-wheeled cart,paused at the cross-roads, uncertain whether to turn there or keep on tothe next section-line. According to part of the directions given him,this was the turning-place. Still, he had not yet come in sight ofCamelback Mountain, which was to serve as a guide-post. Not a house wasnear at which he might inquire, and not a living thing in sight except ajack-rabbit, which started up from the roadside, and bounded away at hisapproach.
Then he caught sight of the little whirl of dust surrounding Mary in herterrified flight, and touched his horse with the whip. In a moment hewas alongside of the breathless, bareheaded child.
"Little girl," he called, "can you tell me if this is the road to Lee'sranch?" Then, as she turned a dirty, tear-stained face, he exclaimed, inamazement, "Of all people under the sun! The little vicar! Well, you_are_ a sprinter! What are you racing with?"
Mary sank down on the road, so exhausted by her long run that shebreathed in quick, gasping sobs. Her relief at seeing a white faceinstead of a red one was so great that she had no room for surprise inher little brain that the face should be Phil Tremont's, who wassupposed to be far away in California. She recognized him instantly,although he no longer wore his uniform, and the broad-brimmed hat hewore suggested the cowboy of the plains rather than the cadet of themilitary school.
"What are you racing with?" he repeated, laughingly. "That jack-rabbitthat passed me down yonder?"
"A--a--a _Indian_!" she managed to gasp. "He chased me--all theway--from the schoolhouse!"
"An Indian!" repeated Phil, standing up in the cart to look back downthe road. "Oh, it must have been that old fellow I passed half a mileback. He was an ugly-looking specimen, but he couldn't have chased you;his pony was so stiff and old it couldn't go out of a walk."
"He _was_ a-chasing me!" insisted Mary, the tears beginning to roll downher face again. She looked so little and forlorn, sitting there in aheap beside the road, that Phil sprang from the cart, and picked her upin his strong arms.
"There," said he, lifting her into the cart. "'Weep no more, my lady,weep no more to-day!' Fortune has at last changed in your favour. Youare snatched from the bloody scalper of the plains, and shall be drivenhome in style by your brave rescuer, if you'll only tell me which way togo."
The tear-stained little face was one broad smile as Mary leaned back inthe seat. She pointed up the road to a clump of umbrella-trees. "That'swhere we turn," she said. "When you come to the trees you'll see there'sa little house behind them. It's the White Bachelor's. We call him thatbecause his horse and dog and cows and cats and chickens are all white.That's how I first remembered where to turn on my way home, by the placewhere there's so awful many white chickens. I was hoping to get to hisplace before I died of running, when you came along. You saved my life,didn't you? I never had my life saved before. Wasn't it strange the wayyou happened by at exactly the right moment? It's just as if we were ina book. I thought you were away off in California at school. How _did_it happen anyway?" she asked, peering up at him under his broad-brimmedhat.
A dull red flushed his face an instant, then he answered, lightly, "Oh,I thought I'd take a vacation. I got tired of school, and I've startedout to see the world. I remembered what your brother said about thequail-shooting out here, and the ducks, so I thought I'd try it a fewweeks, and then go on somewhere else. I've always wanted a taste ofranch life and camping."
"I'm tired of school, too," said Mary, "specially after all the terribleunpleasant things that have happened to-day. But my family won't let mestop, not if I begged all night and all day. How did you get yours to?"
"Didn't ask 'em," said Phil, grimly. "Just chucked it, and came away."
"But didn't your father say anything at all? Didn't he care?"
The red came up again in the boy's face. "He doesn't know anything aboutit--yet; he's in Europe, you know."
They had reached the White Bachelor's now, and turning, took the roadthat ran like a narrow ribbon between the irrigated country and thedesert. On one side were the wastes of sand between the red buttes andold Camelback Mountain, on the other were the green ranches with theirrows of figs and willows and palms, bordering all the waterways.
"Now we're just half a mile from Lee's ranch," said Mary. "We'll bethere in no time."
"Do you suppose they'll have room for me?" inquired Phil. "That's whatI've come out for, to engage board."
"Oh, I'm sure they will, anyhow, after to-morrow, for we're going tomove then, and that'll leave three empty tents. We've rented a placehalf a mile farther up the road, and Jack and Joyce are having more funfixing it up. That's one reason I want to stop school. I'm missing allthe good times."
"Hello! This seems to be quite a good-sized camp!" exclaimed Phil, asthey came in sight of an adobe house, around which clustered a group oftwenty or more tents, like a brood of white chickens around a motherlyold brown hen. "There comes Mrs. Lee now," cried Mary, as a tall,black-haired woman came out of the house, and started across to one ofthe tents with a tray in her hands. Her pink dress fluttered behind heras she moved forward, with a firm, light tread, suggestive of buoyantspirits and unbounded cheerfulness.
"She's doing something for somebody all the time," remarked Mary. "Ifyou were sick she'd nurse you as if she was your mother, but as long asyou're not sick, maybe she won't let you come. Oh, I never thought aboutthat. This is a camp for invalids, you know, and she is so interested inhelping sick people get well, that maybe she won't take any interest inyou. Have you got a letter from anybody? Oh, I do hope you have!"
"A letter," repeated Phil. "What kind?"
"A letter to say that you're all right, you know, from somebody thatknows you. I heard her tell Doctor Adams last week that she wouldn'ttake anybody else unless she had a letter of--of something or other, Ican't remember, because one man went off without paying his board. _We_had a letter from her brother."
"No, I haven't any letter of recommendation or introduction, if that'swhat you mean," said Phil, "but maybe I can fix it up all right withher. Can't you say a good word for me?"
"Of course," answered Mary, taking his question in all seriousness. "AndI'll run and get mamma, too. She'll make it all right."
Springing out, Phil lifted her over the wheel, and then stood flickingthe dry Bermuda grass with his whip, as he waited for Mary to announcehis coming. He could hear her shrill little voice in the tent, whithershe had followed Mrs. Lee to tell her of his arrival.
"It's the Mr. Phil Tremont we met on the train," he heard her say."Don't you know, the one I told you about running away with his littlesister and the monkey and the music-box one time. He isn't sick, but hewants to stay here awhile, and I told him you'd be good to him, anyhow."
Then she hurried away to her mother's tent, and Mrs. Lee came outlaughing. There was something so genial and friendly in the humouroustwinkle of her eyes, something so frank and breezy in her hospitableWestern welcome, that Phil met her with the same outspoken frankness.
"I heard what Mary said," he began, "and I do hope you'll take me in,for I've run away again, Mrs. Lee." Then his handsome face sobered, andhe said, in his straightforward, boyish way that Mrs. Lee found veryattractive, "I got into a scrape at the military school. It wasn'tanything wicked, but four of us were fired. The other fellows' fathersgot them taken back, but mine is in Europe, and it's so unsatisfactorymaking explanations at that long range, and I thought they hadn't beenaltogether fair in the matter, so I--well, I just skipped out. Mary saidI'd have to have references. I can't give you any now, but I can pay inadvance for a month's board, if you'll take me that way."
He pulled out such a large roll of bills as he spoke, that Mrs. Leelooked at him keenly. All sorts of people had drifted to her ranch, butnever before a schoolboy of seventeen with so much money in his pocket.He caught the glance, and something in the motherly concern that seemedto cross her face made him say, hastily, "Father left an emergency
fundfor my sister and me when he went away, besides our monthly allowance,and I drew on mine before I came out here."
While they were discussing prices, Mrs. Ware came out with a cordialgreeting. Mary's excited tale of her rescue had almost led her tobelieve that Phil had snatched her little daughter from an Indian'stomahawk. She was heartily glad to see him, for the few hours'acquaintance on the train had given her a strong interest in themotherless boy and girl, and she had thought of them many times sincethen. Phil felt that in coming back to the Wares he was coming back toold friends. After it was settled that he might send his trunk out nextday, when a tent would be vacant, he sat for a long time talking to Mrs.Ware and Mary, in the rustic arbour covered with bamboo and palm leaves.
Chris was calling the cows to the milking when he finally rose to go,and only rapid driving would take him back to Phoenix before nightfall.As the red wheels disappeared down the road, Mary exclaimed, "This hascertainly been the most exciting day of my life! It has been so full ofunexpected things. Isn't it grand to think that Mr. Phil is coming tothe ranch? Fortune certainly changed in my favour when he happened alongjust in time to save my life. Oh, dear, there come Joyce and Jack!They've just missed him!"
* * * * *
Saturday afternoon found the new home all ready for its occupants. Eventhe trunks had been brought up from the ranch and stowed away in thetents. Although it was only two o'clock, the table was already set fortea in one corner of the clean, fresh kitchen, behind a tall screen.
Joyce, with her blue calico sleeves tucked up above her white elbows,whistled softly as she tied on a clean apron before beginning herbaking. She had not been as happy in months. The hard week's work hadturned the bare adobe house into a comfortable little home, and shecould hardly wait for her mother to see it. Mrs. Lee was to bring herand Norman over in the surrey. Any moment they might come driving up theroad.
Jack had offered to stay if his services were needed further, but shehad sent him away to take his well-earned holiday. As he tramped offwith his gun over his shoulder, her voice followed him pleasantly: "Goodluck to you, Jack. You deserve it, for you've stuck by me like a manthis week."
Since dinner Mary and Holland had swept the yard, brought wood for thecamp-fire, filled the boiler and the pitchers in the tents, and thengone off, as Joyce supposed, to rest under the cottonwood-trees.Presently she heard Mary tiptoeing into the sitting-room, and peeped into find her standing in the middle of the floor, with her hands claspedbehind her.
"Isn't it sweet and homey!" Mary exclaimed. "I'm so glad to see the oldfurniture again I could just hug it! I came in to get the book aboutHiawatha, sister. Holland keeps teasing me 'cause I said I wished I wasnamed Minnehaha, and says I am Mary-ha-ha. And I want to find a namefor him, a real ugly one!"
"Call him Pau-Puk-Keewis,--mischief-maker," suggested Joyce. "There'sthe book on the second shelf of the bookcase." She stepped into the roomto slip the soft silk curtain farther down the brass rod.
"I'm prouder of this bookcase than almost anything else we have," shesaid. "Nobody would guess that it was made of the packing-boxes that thegoods came in, and that this lovely Persian silk curtain was once thelining of one of Cousin Kate's party dresses."
"I'm glad that everything looks so nice," said Mary, "for Mr. Phil saidhe was coming up to see us this evening. I'm going to put on a cleandress and my best hair-ribbons before then."
"Very well," assented Joyce, going back to the kitchen. "I'll change mydress, too," she thought, as she went on with her work. "And I'll lightboth lamps. The Indian rugs and blankets make the room look so brightand cosy by lamplight."
It had been so long since she had seen any one but the family and theinvalids at the ranch, that the thought of talking to the jolly youngcadet added another pleasure to her happy day.
"Oh, Joyce," called Holland, from behind the tents, "may we have thepaint that is left in the cans? There's only a little in each one."
"I don't care," she called back. That had been an hour ago, and now, asshe broke the eggs for a cake into a big platter, and began beating themwith a fork, she wondered what they were doing that kept them so quiet.As the fork clacked noisily back and forth in the dish and the whitefoam rose high and stiff, her whistling grew louder. It seemed to fillall the sunny afternoon silence with its trills, for Joyce's whistle wasas clear and strong as any boy's or any bird's. But suddenly, as itreached its highest notes, it stopped short. Joyce looked up as a shadowfell across the floor, to see Jack coming in the back door with PhilTremont.
She had not heard the sound of their coming, for the noise of heregg-beating and her whistling. Joyce blushed to the roots of her hair,at being taken thus unawares, whistling like a boy over her cake-baking.For an instant she wanted to shake Jack for bringing this stranger tothe kitchen door.
"We just stopped by for a drink," Jack explained. "Tremont was comingout of the ranch with his gun when I passed with mine, so we've beenhunting together. Come in, Phil, I'll get a cup."
There was such a mischievous twinkle in Phil's eyes as he greeted her,that Joyce blushed again. This was a very different meeting from the oneshe had anticipated. Instead of him finding her, appearing to her bestadvantage in a pretty white dress, sitting in the lamplight with a bookin her hands, perhaps, he had caught her in her old blue calico, hersleeves rolled up, and a streak of flour across her bare arm. She rubbedit hastily across her apron, and gathered up the egg-shells inembarrassed silence.
"Did you tell those kids that they might paint up the premises the waythey are doing?" demanded Jack.
"What way?" asked Joyce, in surprise.
"Haven't you seen what they've done to the front of the house? Theyhaven't waited for your name contest, but have fixed up things to suitthemselves. You just ought to come out and look!"
Phil followed as they hurried around to the front of the house, thenstood smiling at the look of blank amazement which slowly spread overJoyce's face. Down one of the rough cottonwood posts, which supportedthe palm and bamboo thatch of their Robinson Crusoe porch, was paintedin big, straggling, bloody letters: "W-A-R-E-S W-I-G-W-A-M." Joycegroaned. She had made such an attempt to convert the rude shade into anattractive spot, spreading a Navajo blanket over her mother'scamp-chair, and putting cushions on the rustic bench to make a restfulplace, where one could read or watch the shadows grow long across thedesert. She had even brought out a little wicker tea-table thisafternoon, with a vase of flowers on it, and leaned her mother's oldguitar against it to give a final civilizing touch to the picture. Butthe effect was sadly marred by the freshly painted name, glaring at herfrom the post.
"Oh, the little savages!" she exclaimed. "How could they do it? Ware'sWigwam, indeed!"
Then her gaze followed Jack's finger pointing to the tents pitched underthe cottonwood-trees. The one which she was to share with Mary and hermother stood white and clean, the screen-door open, showing the whitebeds within, the rug on the floor, the flowers on the table; but thelarge, circular one, which the boys were to occupy, was a sight to makeany one pause, open-mouthed.
Perched beside it on a scaffolding of boxes and barrels stood Holland,with a paint-can in one hand and a brush in the other, putting thefinishing touches to some startling decorations. Mary, on the otherside, was brandishing another brush, and both were so intent on theirwork that neither looked up. Joyce gave a gasp. Never had she seen suchamazing hieroglyphics as those which chased each other in zigzag greenlines around the fly of the tent. They bore a general resemblance tothose seen on Indian baskets and blankets and pottery, but nothing sogrotesque had ever flaunted across her sight before.
"Now, get the book," called Holland to Mary, "and see if we've leftanything out." Only Mary's back was visible to the amused spectators.She took up the copy of "Hiawatha" from the barrel where it lay, carefulto keep the hem of her apron between it and her paint-bedaubed thumbs.
"I think we've painted every single figure he wrote about," said Mary."Now, I'll read, and
you walk around and see if we've left anything out:
"Very spacious was the wigwam With the gods of the Dacotahs Drawn and painted on the curtains."
"No, skip that," ordered Holland. "It's farther down." Mary'spaint-smeared fingers travelled slowly down the page, then she beganagain:
"Sun and moon and stars he painted, Man and beast and fish and reptile.
"Figures of the Bear and Reindeer, Of the Turtle, Crane, and Beaver.
"Owl and Eagle, Crane and Hen-hawk, And the Cormorant, bird of magic.
"Figures mystical and awful, Figures strange and brightly coloured."
"They're all here," announced Holland, "specially the figures mysticaland awful. I'll have to label mine, or somebody will take my turtle fora grizzly."
"Oh, the little savages!" exclaimed Joyce again. "How could they makesuch a spectacle of the place! We'll be the laughing-stock of the wholecountry."
"I don't suppose that'll ever come off the tent, but we can paint thename off the post," said Jack.
"Oh, that's a fine name," said Phil, laughing, "leave it on. It's somuch more original than most people have."
Before Joyce could answer, the rattle of wheels announced the coming ofthe surrey, and Mrs. Lee drove into the yard with Mrs. Ware and Norman,and her own little daughter, Hazel. Then Joyce's anger, which had burnedto give Holland and Mary a good shaking, vanished completely at sightof her mother's amusement. Mrs. Ware had not laughed so heartily inmonths as she did at the ridiculous figures grinning from the tent. Itseemed so good to see her like her old cheerful self again that, whenshe laughingly declared that the name straggling down the post exactlysuited the place, and was far more appropriate than Bide-a-wee or Alamo,Joyce's frown entirely disappeared. Mrs. Lee caught up the old guitar,and began a rattling parody of "John Brown had a little Indian,"changing the words to a ridiculous rhyme about "_The_ Wares had a littleWigwam."
Mrs. Ware sat down to try the new rustic seat, and then jumped up like agirl again to look at the view of the mountains from the camp-chair, andthen led the way, laughing and talking, to investigate the new home. Shewas as pleased as a child, and her pleasure made a festive occasion ofthe home-coming, which Joyce had feared at first would be a sorry one.
Phil shouldered his gun ready to start off again, feeling that he oughtnot to intrude, but Jack had worked too hard to miss the reward ofhearing his mother's pleased exclamations and seeing her face light upover every little surprise they had prepared for her comfort. "Come andsee, too," he urged so cordially that Phil fell into line, poking intoall the corners, inspecting all the little shelves and cupboards, andadmiring all the little makeshifts as heartily as Mrs. Lee or Mrs. Ware.
They went through the tents first, then the kitchen, and last into theliving-room, of which Joyce was justly proud. There was only the oldfurniture they had had in Plainsville, with the books and pictures, butit was restful and homelike and really artistic, Phil acknowledged tohimself, looking around in surprise.
"Here's the Little Colonel's corner," said Mary, leading him to a groupof large photographs framed in passe-partout. "You know mamma used tolive in Kentucky, and once Joyce went back there to a house-party.Here's the place, Locust. That's where the Little Colonel lives. Herright name is Lloyd Sherman. And there she is on her pony, Tar Baby, andthere's her grandfather at the gate."
Phil stooped for a closer view of the photograph, and then straightenedup, with a look of dawning recognition in his face.
"Why, I've seen her," he said, slowly. "I've been past that place. Once,several years ago, I was going from Cincinnati to Louisville withfather, and something happened that we stopped on a switch in front ofa place that looked just like that. And the brakeman said it was calledLocust. I was out on the rear platform. I believe we were waiting for anexpress train to pass us, or something of the sort. At any rate, I sawthat same old gentleman,--he had only one arm and was all dressed inwhite. Everybody was saying what a picture he made. The locusts were inbloom, you know. And while he stood there, the prettiest little girlcame riding up on a black pony, with a magnificent St. Bernard dogfollowing. She was all in white, too, with a spray of locust blossomsstuck in the cockade of the little black velvet Napoleon cap she wore,exactly as it is in that picture; and she held up a letter and calledout: 'White pigeon wing fo' you, grandfathah deah.' I never forgot howsweet it sounded."
"Oh, that was Lloyd! That was Lloyd!" called Mary and Joyce in the samebreath, and Joyce added: "She always used to call out that when she hada letter for the old Colonel, and it must have been Hero that you saw,the Red Cross war-dog that was given to her in Switzerland. How strangeit seems that you should come across her picture away out here in thedesert!"
Mary's eyes grew rounder and rounder as she listened. She delighted inromantic situations, and this seemed to her one of the most romantic shehad ever known in real life, quite as interesting as anything she hadever read about.
"Doesn't it seem queer to think that he's seen Lloyd and Locust?" sheexclaimed. "It makes him seem almost like home folks, doesn't it,mamma?"
Mrs. Ware smiled. "It certainly does, dear, and we must try to make himfeel at home with us in our wild wigwam." She had seen the wistfulexpression of his eyes a few moments before when, catching Joyce andJack by the arms, she had cried, proudly: "Nobody in the world has suchchildren as mine, Mrs. Lee! Don't you think I have cause to be proud ofmy five little Indians, who fixed up this house so beautifully all bythemselves?"
"Come back and take supper with us, won't you?" she asked, as he andJack started on their interrupted hunt. "We'll make a sort ofhouse-warming of our first meal together in the new wigwam, and I'll beglad to count you among my little Indians."
"Thank you, Mrs. Ware," he said, in his gentlemanly way and with thefrank smile which she found so winning; "you don't know how much thatmeans to a fellow who has been away from a real home as long as I have.I'll be the gladdest 'little Indian' in the bunch to be counted in thatway."
"Then I'll get back to my cake-making," said Joyce, "if we're to havecompany for supper. I won't promise that it'll be a success, though, forwhile it bakes I'm going to write to Lloyd. I've thought for days that Iought to write, for I've owed her a letter ever since Christmas. Shedoesn't even know that we've left Plainsville. And I'm going to tell herabout your having seen her, and recognized her picture away out here onthe desert. I wish she'd come out and make us a visit."
"Here," said Phil, playfully, taking a sprig of orange blossoms from hisbuttonhole, and putting it in the vase on the wicker table. "When youget your letter written, put that in, as a sample of what grows outhere. I picked it as we passed Clayson's ranch. If it reaches her on acold, snowy day, it will make her want to come out to this land ofsunshine. You needn't tell her I sent it."
"I'll dare you to tell," said Jack, as they started off.
Joyce's only answer was a laugh, as she went back to her egg-beating.Almost by the time the boys were out of sight, she had whisked the cakedough into a pan, and the pan into the oven, and, while Mrs. Ware andMrs. Lee talked in the other room, she spread her paper out on thekitchen table, and began her letter to the Little Colonel.