Dorothy Dale in the West

by Margaret Penrose

  They flew past a farmhouse where a dog tugged at his chain and almost barked his head off at the two automobiles. A wall of forest loomed up before them again. It was fortunate that the darkness beyond the lamplight made Nat reduce speed.

  Up heaved a disturbing figure beside the road. Nat applied the brakes in a hurry once more. The beast stepped right into the radiance of the lamplight and then—the automobile struck it!

  Everybody screamed—including the object battle-rammed! “Another deer!” shrieked Tavia. But the bellow that replied made her realize at once that she was wrong. No deer ever bawled like that!

  “It’s a cow,” said Ned. “Crickey, boy! you’ll slaughter all the animals in the state.”

  “That cow isn’t hurt,” growled Nat, “or she wouldn’t bawl so.”

  The other automobile stopped in the rear and Aunt Winnie was anxious to know what had happened. Ned was already out of the Fire Bird, trying to discover the whereabouts of the cow and the extent of her injuries.

  “Something doing back there at the farmhouse,” warned the chauffeur of Mrs. White’s car. “You boys will be deep in trouble in a minute.”

  They could see lights in the windows, and now heard a banging of doors. A harsh voice began to shout commands, and a waggling lantern approached across the fields.

  Ned had found the cow. She was leaning up against the roadside fence, and one horn was hanging by a thread of tissue, in a drunken looking manner over her eye. Otherwise she seemed to be unhurt—only surprised. The varnish of the car had suffered more than the cow.

  When the farmer arrived he was very angry.

  “I’ll fix you city fellers fer this. I’m a constable. Ye air all arrested!”

  His dress was haphazard. Over his coarse nightshirt he had drawn his trousers, and he was barefooted. But he had not forgotten his star of office, and he carried a locust club as well as the lantern. He fixed himself in the road directly in front of the Fire Bird and demanded fifty dollars.

  “I could buy cows like that skinny old thing for fifty dollars a dozen,” grumbled Ned.

  “You’ll pay me fifty for this here caow, or th’ whole on ye will march ter jail at Hacktown.”

  “Your cow is perfectly good,” suggested Tavia, “all except one horn. And that horn serves no good purpose on a domestic animal. Most farmers dehorn their cattle anyway. I think this man owes us about fifty cents.”

  Nat began to chuckle at that, and the farmer was not at all pleased.

  “Ye gotter fork over fifty dollars, or go to Hacktown an’ see the Jestice of the Peace.”

  “But we’re in a hurry,” said Ned.

  “That’s what they all say,” chuckled the farmer.

  “You had no business to allow your cattle to run loose in the road,” cried Ned.

  “Think not, eh, young man?” retorted the man. “You’d better read aour county ord’nance on cattle. Don’t hafter fence aour farms no more.”

  “I bet,” growled Ned to the girls, “that the old scoundrel just set this crow-bait of a cow like a trap for any automobilist who might come by. Goodness! I hate to pay that fifty dollars.”

  CHAPTER V

  THE OLD LADY WITH THE BASKET

  Time was flying and Mrs. White was becoming anxious. “Do pay the man, Ned, and let us go on. Of course, the cow is not worth so much——”

  “Why, mother, it’s a miserable little thing,” began Nat; but the farmer burst in with a lot of threats as to what he would do if the money was not immediately forthcoming, and Nat subsided.

  “It is an imposition, Mrs. White,” warned her chauffeur. “I’ll go with him, if he likes, and tell the judge about it.”

  “I’ll pull you all,” threatened the farmer, boisterously, “if you don’t fork over the money for my caow—yes, I will, by Jo!”

  “If he talks fresh to mother,” growled Nat to Ned, “we ought to take away his tin star and club and throw him into the ditch.”

  “No use making a bad matter worse,” said Ned.

  “It is unfair,” Dorothy said, warmly. “Fifty dollars is a lot of money. Can’t we postpone our trip and go to court with this man?”

  “Goodness, Dot!” exclaimed her aunt, who heard this. “Our berths are engaged upon that train. We positively cannot wait here. Of course the cow isn’t worth so much as this man asks——”

  At that moment a dilapidated figure shuffled into the radiance of the automobile lights. It was an ancient darkey, with kinky gray wool, and he took off his ragged hat as he asked:

  “Ebenin’, genmen an’ ladies. Is yo’ seed anythin’ ob my cow? She done strayed erway ag’in, an’ I’s powerful anxious ter recover her—ya-as, suh!”

  “Another cow!” groaned Nat. “The owner of that pet deer will be around next.”

  “What kind of a cow was it?” asked Tavia, giggling.

  “Jes’ a cow, Ma’am,” said the old darkey. “Jes’ a ord’nary ornery cow, Ma’am. Ebenin’, Mars’ Judson,” he added, seeing the farmer for the first time. “Has you seed my cow?”

  “Naw, I ain’t,” snapped the farmer.

  Here Dorothy Dale suddenly broke into the inquiry meeting. “Did your cow have a big white patch on her left shoulder, and is she otherwise a red cow?” asked the girl.

  “Ya-as’m. That suah is my cow.”

  “Turn your light on that one against the fence, Ned,” commanded Dorothy. “Now look, sir,” she added, to the old negro. “Is that your cow?”

  “Suah is!” declared the darkey, gladly. “Das my Sookey-cow. Law-see! She done broke her horn. I wisht she bruk two on ’em; den she couldn’t hook herself t’rough de parstur fence no mo’.”

  “Well! what do you know about that?” demanded Tavia.

  “This constable ought to have his badge taken away,” grumbled Nat.

  Aunt Winnie was a most timid lady, but she was angry now. “You shall be reported for this, sir, just as soon as I get back from the West,” she promised the farmer. “Give the colored man five dollars, Ned. He deserves something for showing us what this other man is.”

  The old darkey was tickled enough to accept a five dollar note for the loss of the cow’s horn. The creature was not really hurt, and everybody was satisfied save the constable-farmer who had over-reached himself. He dared say nothing more about arresting the automobile party, and the two cars soon got under way again and shot off along the road to Portersburg station.

  There was no further adventure on the way. They arrived at the station with five good minutes to spare. The town was asleep, but the agent was in his office with the tickets for Mrs. White’s party and the coupons for the Pullman berths.

  They were to have a section to themselves, and an extra berth besides. Dorothy was to occupy this extra berth, which proved to be an upper.

  Everybody else aboard the car was asleep and the porter made up their berths at once. “I do so hate to half undress in the corridor of a car,” grumbled Tavia. “It’s as bad as camping out.”

  “But we pay good money for the privilege,” said Dorothy. “I wonder why we are always so easy—we Americans?”

  “Our fatal good nature. That’s it!” cried Tavia.

  Dorothy had a hazy idea that somebody in the berth beneath her was restless. Then she fell asleep, roused only now and then by the stopping and starting of the train. At seven she was wide awake, however, and as the train was still going at full speed, she crept down from her high perch and started for the ladies’ room at the end of the car.

  But suddenly a hand was stretched out for her and the person in the lower berth whispered:

  “I say, Miss! I say!”

  Dorothy turned to see a little old lady, in a close, black bonnet with the strings untied, but otherwise fully dressed. It was plain she had gone to bed in all her clothing the night before.

  “Can a body git up, Miss?” whispered the worried old creature. “My goodness me! I been useter gittin’ up when the fust rooster crows; this has been the longest night I e
ver remember.”

  “Why, you poor dear!” returned Dorothy, warmly. “Of course you can get up. Come with me and I’ll help you tidy yourself for the day. You must feel all mussed up.”

  “I do,” admitted the old lady, feelingly.

  She came after Dorothy, but the latter saw that she bore with her a covered basket, the cover being tied close with bits of string.

  “You need not be afraid of leaving your lunch basket in the berth. Nobody will take it,” Dorothy said.

  “I—I guess I’ll keep it by me,” said the old lady, with a timid smile.

  Dorothy was able to make the old lady comfortable, and she found out several things about her while the porter arranged their berths. She was a Mrs. Petterby, and had lived all her life long (she was over sixty) in the little mill town of Rand’s Falls, in Massachusetts.

  This was the very first time the old lady had ever been ten miles from the house where she was born. She had lived alone in her own house for the last few years, her husband and all her children but one being dead.

  “My baby, he’s out West. I’m a-going to see him,” declared Mrs. Petterby. “He sent me money for ticket and all, long ago; he told me to put it in the bottom of the old teapot, where I’d be sure to know where it was, and then I could start for Colorado any time the fit tuk me.

  “Did seem day b’fore yisterday, as though I’d got to see my baby again. He was dif’rent from the other children—sort o’ wild and hard to manage. He had a flare-up with his dad and went West.

  “But there ain’t a mite o’ harm in my baby—no, Ma’am! An’ so I tell ’em. His father said so himself b’fore he died. He warn’t like the rest o’ the children, so his father didn’t understand him.

  “He’s doin’ well, he writes. Gets his forty-five dollars ev’ry month, and sends me part. Of course, I don’t need it; I got it all in the Rand’s Falls Bank. But I kep’ out this ticket money, like he said; and—here I be!” and she cackled a soft little laugh, and smiled a transfiguring smile as she thought of the surprise she was going to give “her baby.”

  She was going to Dugonne, the very town where Dorothy and her friends were to leave the train. So the girls sort of adopted the little old lady. But they could not find out what was in her basket.

  Tavia was enormously curious. “I saw her dropping something through a crack into the basket,” she whispered to Dorothy. “She was feeding it.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed her chum.

  “You see. It’s no lunch basket. It’s something alive.”

  “A dog?” suggested Dorothy.

  “Maybe a cat.”

  “Or a parrot?” again said Dorothy.

  “Or a rabbit.”

  “It couldn’t be a canary, I s’pose?” asked Dorothy.

  “Or a pet goldfish?” giggled Tavia.

  “How ridiculous!” returned the other girl.

  Everybody went to breakfast when it was announced, save Mrs. White. She had a “railroad headache,” and lay back in her seat with closed eyes and an ice-pack upon her forehead. But Dorothy thought she ought to have something to “stay her stomach.”

  “You know,” she said to Tavia, “this car will be taken off and we will not be able to get even a glass of milk for her before noon.”

  Mrs. Petterby overheard this, and she blushed and whispered: “I got one o’ them bottles that keeps things hot or cold, as you want ’em. You get some milk off the ice, and then it will be all ready to have the egg broke into and shaken up when your auntie wants it, by and by.”

  “That’s nice of you!” cried Dorothy, and proceeded to call the waiter and order the cold milk.

  “But where’ll you get an egg—a real fresh egg, I mean?” sniffed Tavia. “Not on a dining-car.”

  “That’s so!” groaned Dorothy. “And Aunt Winnie is so particular about her eggs. She can always tell if an egg is the least bit stale.”

  The old lady leaned forward again, and once more the pretty pink flush suffused her withered cheek. She was a keen-eyed, birdlike person, and her manner was timid like a bird’s.

  “If—if you don’t mind waiting about an hour, I shouldn’t be surprised if I—I could supply the fresh egg,” she said.

  “You?” gasped Tavia, amazed.

  “You know where we can buy one, you mean?” queried Dorothy.

  “Oh, you won’t have to buy one,” declared Mrs. Petterby. “I’d be glad enough to give it to you.”

  “But who has fresh eggs on this train?” demanded Tavia.

  “I guess nobody has them to sell, dearie,” said the little old lady, smiling. “But in about an hour I can get one.”

  “Do—do you think she’s just right, Doro?” whispered Tavia, on the sly.

  Dorothy did not know. It sounded very peculiar to her. But the little old lady seemed quite in her right mind, and she went back to the Pullman, still clinging to her basket.

  That mystery furnished the girls and Ned and Nat with subject matter for an endless discussion. They guessed at its contents as everything from a white rat to a jewel-box, or a root of horseradish that Nat declared he believed she was taking with her from her garden, to transplant on her son’s ranch. “His horses will like it, you know,” said Nat, seriously.

  “Yes,” agreed his brother, “on their oysters. Horseradish is very good as a relish with raw oysters.”

  “And of course they rake oysters right out of the streams and ponds in Colorado,” sniffed Tavia, with a superior air. “Was anything ever crazier?”

  Dorothy went to sit beside Mrs. Petterby again. The old lady was smiling contentedly. “I guess I’ll stay as much as a week with my baby,” she declared to Dorothy. “I hope I won’t be homesick before the week’s up.”

  “But it will take you almost a week to get there, and a week to return—and you intend to stay in Colorado only a week?”

  “I declare, child! I don’t believe I could stand it longer. I don’t think I could stand furrin’ parts—not at all. Rand’s Falls, Massachusetts, is good enough for me.”

  There was a movement in the basket. Dorothy was sure of it. And a sort of crooning noise. Dorothy looked her amazement and curiosity—she could not help it.

  “There! there!” said the old lady, softly, and tapping the basket. Then she looked aside at the girl and whispered:

  “Don’t you tell that conductor. They told me that I couldn’t take her with me unless I crated her and put her in the baggage car. But I’ll show ’em!”

  “What is it?” breathed Dorothy. “Oh! I won’t tell.”

  “There! your auntie can have her fresh egg in a minute or two now. I know Ophelia.”

  “Ophelia?” gasped Dorothy.

  “Yes. That’s her name. I gave it to her when she was a little bit of a chicken.”

  “A hen!” exclaimed the amazed Dorothy.

  “Yes. She’s a regular pet—and not much more than a year old. She was the only one left of a brood that my old Blackie brought off last May was a year ago,” said Mrs. Petterby.

  “I couldn’t afford to have old Blackie nussin’ just one chicken,” she pursued, calmly. “So I brought Ophelia up by hand. She was just as cunning as she could be.

  “She sat on my shoulder when I ate breakfast, and she’d eat her share of johnny-cake and sausages, too—yes, Ma’am! Then she’d take a nap sometimes, in my lap, when I sot down in my rocker by the kitchen window.

  “And when she got to be a good sized pullet and I was lookin’ for her to begin to lay pretty quick, I declare if she didn’t hop up into my lap and lay her first egg.”

  “My!” exclaimed Dorothy, in appreciative wonder.

  “I left my flock in the care of my next door neighbor; but I knowed Ophelia would be lonesome for me.

  “So,” concluded the little old lady, “I’m a-takin’ her through unbeknownst to the conductor. Don’t you tell! And now—there!”

  She thrust her hand under one flap of the covered basket. There was a little rustling sound, a see
mingly objecting croak, and out came the old lady’s hand with a white, clean and warm egg.

  “I expect she’s gettin’ sort of broody,” said Mrs. Petterby, dropping the egg into Dorothy’s hand. “She’s beginnin’ to think of settin’ an’ tryin’ to raise a famb’ly. That’s all she knows about it—poor thing!

  “Well, there’s your aunt’s egg, child.”

  CHAPTER VI

  “THE BREATH OF THE NIGHT”

  The girls and Mrs. White’s sons were vastly amused by the egg incident. Aunt Winnie thankfully drank her egg and milk, but her boys joked about the production of “Ophelia” being so quickly “swallowed up.”

  “And why didn’t the old lady bring along Hamlet?” demanded Nat. “The Prince of Denmark would have found life in a Pullman endurable, I fancy. He was a philosophical old shark.”

  “Speaking of eggs,” Ned said, ignoring his brother’s irreverent observation about the Melancholy Dane, “speaking of eggs——”

  “Well! speak, I prithee!” said Tavia.

  “Why, there was a chap performing tricks of legerdermain one night, and he took eggs from a high hat, as usual. In his ‘patter’ he interpolated a remark to a wide-eyed small boy who sat down front.

  “‘Say, sonny, your mother can’t get eggs without hens, can she?’ he said to the kid.

  “‘Yes, she can,’ replied the boy.

  “‘How does she do it?’ chuckles the conjurer.

  “‘She keeps ducks,’ says the kid.”

  “Good! good!” quoth Nat, applauding. “If you hadn’t told it, Ned, I would.”

  “Ah-ha!” cried Tavia. “You boys have been reading the same joke-book, and have gotten your wires crossed.”

  “Goodness, Tavia! Don’t. Such slang as you use!”

  The train was bearing them rapidly and smoothly toward the West. The girls and Ned and Nat enjoyed this sort of traveling immensely. At the rear of the train was a fine observation platform, and the four young folk got more benefit of the chairs there than any of the travelers.

  The prospect in part was lovely. They liked, too, to sit there as the train roared through the smaller towns where there was no stop. And it was nice when they swept over the rolling prairies and crossed the mid-western rivers on the long bridges.