Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  After Mary Louise had safely deposited Josie on the train for Washington and her friends at their houses, she turned the car slowly toward her own home. Somehow she did not want to return just yet. Of a sudden her heart was strangely heavy.

  She had had a perfect birthday, she told herself, so what more could she possibly want?

  That she did want something more, however, was quite obvious, or why should two fat tears start from her eyes and go bouncing down the smoothness of her cheeks.

  Mary Louise was not surprised to find that she was crying. It would never do for Grandpa Jim to think her unhappy when he had been so dear to-day, so she turned the corner and started quickly for a country road.

  Anywhere, just any place where she could be alone and think.

  “Grandpa Jim never, never has forgotten my birthday,” thought Mary Louise, as her car spun along the macadam. “Oh, why couldn’t Danny have remembered just this once,” and two more tears were added to the collection.

  This fact rather startled Mary Louise. Could that be the reason she was crying? Because Danny had forgotten her? In her amazement Mary Louise slowly stopped the car at the entrance to a grassy lane.

  Instantly she realized it was the very lane where Danny had come to her the night before and where she had been so glad to see him. Rather dazedly she climbed out of the auto and wandered slowly down the lane. Just to reach the spot where she and Danny had been together, and just to be alone and think — that was what she wanted.

  Her bright pink gingham was as fresh and sweet as the wild roses it brushed in passing, and her cheeks were flushed a rose hue too. The flower-wreathed Leghorn hat she wore made deeper shadows in her eyes. But Mary Louise knew nothing of all that.

  To the lad who ten minutes before had flung himself upon the ground, her slow approach down the lane was like the coming of an angel.

  He jumped up quickly and went to her. Mary Louise was startled by the unexpected movement and as she glanced up quickly she saw Danny approaching.

  “Mary Louise,” said Danny simply, “I’m glad you came here before the day was over. Yes,” he explained, as Mary Louise’s eyes questioned him, “I haven’t forgotten it’s your birthday, and I want to wish you all the happiness in the world; you deserve every bit of joy there is.”

  “Oh, no,” said Mary Louise, with a happy little flush, “but I’m glad you thought of me, Danny.”

  “Of course, I did,” said Danny, and then added rather shyly as he held out a little package, “Mary Louise, I know that to-day is your birthday, and I want so much to give you what I cherish most. May If” And Mary Louise said he might. Mary Louise opened the package and found the most wonderful birthday present any girl could have, — the Distinguished Service Medal of her hero.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE MOTOR TRIP

  Mary Louise flung back the wide hall door and danced into the room, tossing her hat on a nearby chair. She had had such a happy birthday, and she so loved Happiness! The tingling of the telephone in the study caused her to turn into the room and pick up the desk telephone.

  “Hello,” she said, her joyousness still singing through her tones. Then in breathless amazement, “Why, Josie O’Gorman, didn’t you take the train!”

  “No,” answered Josie, “just as I was boarding the train a dispatch came saying that O ‘Hara had been spotted on the westbound Santa Fe Limited. Crocker had wired the authorities to get him at Albuquerque.”

  “Oh,” stammered Mary Louise, feeling quite lost and dizzy at the thought of this misfortune to the man who had raised Danny and eared for him. “Isn’t there any hope — I mean danger, of his escaping!”

  “Not a bit,” came Josie’s voice. “We’re playing in the very best of luck. Probably right now they are arresting him.”

  Mary Louise choked back a great sob that rose persistently in her throat. “It’ll be just fine to have you come back, Josie,” she said, remembering her loving hospitality even in her distress. “I’ll send the car for you,” she added, as she hung up the receiver.

  Then Mary Louise tumbled into a little crumpled heap on the floor by the couch and buried her curly black head in its great pillows. “Oh, it isn’t fair; it isn’t fair,” she wailed. “Danny would have paid back the money. Danny’s uncle never meant to steal! If his oil well was only out of Mexican hands, everything would have been all right anyway.” And Mary Louise’s small fists beat the pillows to give vent to her emotions.

  Suddenly the telephone pealed out again, quite briskly this time.

  “Yes,” said Mary Louise, feeling with her free hand for a handkerchief as she balanced the receiver with the other. The voice that answered her was Josie’s, and as Mary Louise beard her she let the tears dry upon her cheeks, for Josie was both angry and excited — an unusual thing for the clever, active girl.

  “Mary Louise,” she cried, “it’s the very deuce! Just as the train slowed up for Albuquerque, that man O’Hara leaped from the car window and has completely disappeared! It’s an outrage!” she raved on. “But we’ll get him yet. Crocker and I are both taking this west bound train that comes in a few minutes, so I won’t be back after all. Don’t worry, Mary Louise, we’ll get him yet,” Josie consoled. “We’ve got our dander up now and we’re on the job ourselves, and we’re going to finish it.”

  Then Josie hung up the receiver and dashed to the ticket window.

  Mary Louise, left alone, felt a great throb of gratitude. At least O’Hara was safe for the time being. Now she must run instantly and tell the news to Danny. However, the “instantly” extended into a moment or two, while she made sure that her brown eyes were not tear-stained, and that her little nose was powdered and quite presentable. Then she ran out into the garden to hunt for her adopted soldier.

  She had not far to seek for he was visible through the open window of the garage, busily polishing the car which was in dire need of his ministrations.

  “Come here, Danny,” she directed, perching herself upon the bench just outside the building.

  Nothing loth, Danny threw down the chamois and rolling down his sleeves, came toward her.

  “Danny,” continued the girl, “I’ve something rather hard to tell you.”

  The lad suddenly went white.

  “Tell me. Have they caught Uncle Jim?” he demanded, gripping her arm as though to drag the information from her quickly.

  “No, no,” Mary Louise reassured him. “But they know he was on the train, and as it slowed down at Albuquerque he jumped off and disappeared. Josie and Crocker have both gone after him. I’m so sorry,” she added, her hand touching his, which still gripped her arm with unconscious force.

  Danny’s fingers relaxed and he returned the warm handclasp of understanding and sympathy. “I know you are sorry, and it helps a lot.” Then he jumped to his feet and squared his shoulders. “But now I must do something. I must help him.”

  “Sit down again,” commanded Mary Louise.

  “Don’t you see, Danny, we can’t do anything till we first think out our plans.”

  “You’re right, of course,” reluctantly admitted Danny, as he sank down on the rustic bench. Even in his confusion, that comforting little “we” penetrated his tired thought.

  “Now, first,” continued Mary Louise, “where is your uncle likely to go on foot?”

  “Well,” replied Danny, thinking out his ideas as he said them, “I imagine he’d strike out for the border. You see, he’s lived down there a lot. He made his money in the oil wells there, and if the Huns in Mexico hadn’t tried to stop England’s oil supply, he’d have had the money to make good his deficit and all this would never have happened.”

  “How could he live and cross the desert alone?” inquired Mary Louise.

  “That’s what’s driving me distracted,” cried Danny, pacing up and down the garden path. “If he once got near his old stamping ground, he could find friends to shelter him. He’s done favors for every man within a hundred miles of his place. If I could
only be around the country there, I know he’d find it out and would get word to me! But how to get there when I’ve told your grandfather I’d help him through the summer.”

  Utterly distressed and undecided, Danny leaned against the door and gazed off at the far horizon. All in a breath an inspiration came to Mary Louise. Her eyes glowed like stars and her little hands stretched out to Danny in joyous appeal as she ran towards him.

  “Listen,” she cried, “for months we’ve so wanted to take a trip, but of course the war has cut us off from Europe, and I couldn’t drive the car so very far. Now, Danny, we have you to take us and you’re going to drive us touring through the West.”

  A quick flush of hope and delight spread over Danny Dexter’s expressive face. Mary Louise noticed it and rejoiced.

  “Yes, yes,” she cried, her plans growing and expanding with each moment. “Grandfather will be more than glad to get away, and we’ll take Irene McFarlane with us. Think what it would mean to her!”

  “But,” argued Danny, “we might have to spend some time in the desert, if Uncle Jim should need us. It would be disagreeable for you, wouldn’t it?”

  “No, no, I just love the desert,” contradicted Mary Louise; “I love the glow of the sand and the mystery of the distance. Why, Danny, I hope we stay in the desert! Is it a bargain?”

  Mary Louise turned a sparkling face up to him and Danny Dexter could resist no longer. “If your grandfather agrees, it’s a go,” he admitted, and then and there they joyously shook hands on it.

  Colonel Hathaway, turning a corner in the garden path, was greeted by a call from his lovely granddaughter as she came flying toward him.

  “Grandpa,” said Mary Louise, tucking her arm cozily in his, and starting slowly to pace the walks with him. “Do you know, Grandpa Jim, I very, very much want to take a trip. We haven’t gone away together for so long!”

  “I myself am ready for a journey, dear child, but have not felt it right to use our busy railroads for unnecessary travel,” replied the Colonel.

  “But, dearest grandfather,” coaxed Mary Louise, “we don’t have to travel by rail or by boat either. With Danny to drive us we can go wherever we want. Had you thought of that?

  Please let’s take a wonderful trip in our motor car!”

  Colonel Hathaway paused in front of a huge bed of purple pansies and gazed down fixedly at them. Perhaps he was gaining inspiration from their thoughtful little faces. More than anything in life he loved to please his charming granddaughter, and as for himself, the monotony of this quiet life had begun to pall on him. He rather liked the idea of a bracing motor trip.

  “Where would you suggest our going?” he asked Mary Louise.

  “Oh, Grandpa Jim, out West by all means,” she answered.

  Her grandfather hesitated only a few minutes longer and then said, “I think a western trip would be enjoyable, and if we’re going to start, I think the sooner done the better.”

  “So do I, dearest,” cried Mary Louise, “and don’t you think it would do Irene just worlds of good if we would take her with us?”

  “We might walk over and discuss the matter with the Conants,” said the Colonel. “The whole plan pleases me mightily. It will do us all good, I firmly believe.”

  By this time Colonel Hathaway was “firmly believing” the plan to be entirely his own, and in his case, to decide was to act. So it happened that within two days a very happy and expectant little party was gathered about Mary Louise’s ear. The car itself looked eager and ready for the trip, and proud to carry the trunks and tires securely strapped upon it. The Conants had been most grateful and delighted to have Irene go, and she was now comfortably settled on the back seat surrounded by pillows, with her crutches tucked out of sight beside her.

  It was very early in the morning; the faint glow of the sunrise was spreading over the sky, as the car quietly slipped out of the yard and started on its adventures. Mary Louise, seated in front beside Danny Dexter, turned to smile at the Colonel and Irene and to wave a last goodbye to Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally. Then turning their faces straight to the west she and Danny started trustingly and determinedly on their errand of mercy.

  CHAPTER XIX

  THE ESCAPE

  It was not difficult for James O’Hara to realize that his presence on the Limited was discovered. The rolling of the porter’s eyes in his direction and the interested glances of the train men, as they took especial occasion to glance at him was enough to tell that fact to this man, keyed up as he was from sheer excitement. He sat very tense and stared out of the window, every faculty alert, his body straight and rigid.

  When he did act it was with tiger-like agility and without an instant’s forethought.

  As the train neared the Albuquerque station, a woman across the aisle raised her window to lean out and see more clearly. She had no time to make a further move. O’Hara had leaped across the aisle, and brushing her aside, had flung himself through the window of the now slowly moving train.

  It was done so quietly and so quickly that it was a few seconds before the occupants of the car realized what had happened. A hue and cry was then immediately raised. The whole car, which up till now had been the usual poised and indifferent gathering, turned loose into a veritable bedlam.

  As the train stopped at the station the passengers piled out one after another to gaze across the sand by the tracks and watch the fleeing man. But their amazement was great when, strain their eyes as they would, they could see no trace of any man. The only sign of activity was the flying dust of a distant automobile, so they turned their attention to the officers who had been waiting for the refugee and were now hastily mounting ponies to ride in pursuit of the fleeing man, undoubtedly hidden somewhere in the sagebrush.

  As the horsemen vanished in the cloud of dust, the tourists, once again their normal and conventional selves, turned their full attention to the most conventional but utterly abnormal Indians of the Harvey Eating House.

  For a moment O’Hara was stunned by his fall to the ground, but shaking himself and finding no bones broken he rose and started for the narrow sand road, still too dazed to know just what he did. Subconsciously, be beard the hum of a motor and turned aside to let it pass, but a voice hailed him, speaking in the perfect accent of a cultured gentleman: “Can I give you a lift?”

  Scarcely noticing the magnificent car which slowed up beside him, O’Hara swung open the door of the tonneau and leaped in. Even as he did so the car gained speed, until at fully forty miles an hour they were speeding farther and farther into the desert.

  The man at the wheel did not speak a further word. His whole attention was engrossed in keeping his powerful machine in the rut of the narrow road that stretched itself interminably out into the sand of the desert. The sun was glaring fiercely down upon them and the sand reflected its intense heat. O’Hara leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The rush of air, hot as it was, revived him and he felt relaxed and quite indifferent as to where he went.

  The car plunged at its terrific speed and yet the little roadway, the far horizon, the gray of the sagebrush and the cactus never changed. It seemed to stretch on, gold and drab, into infinity. The sun sank gradually in the West, until it hung a great red ball of fire, just balancing above the dim silhouette of the foothills. Still 0 ‘Hara dozed and the driver of the car continued his unceasing and perfectly controlled speed.

  Presently, however, the driver turned abruptly and addressed O’Hara.

  “I saw your leap through the car window.” He spoke with peculiar distinctness, a clearer English than 0 ‘Hara was accustomed to hear.

  By this time the fugitive was fully awake and himself again, and he noticed with keen interest the splendid physique of the man addressing him. His shoulders had an erect bearing that instantly reminded one of long military training, and his face was highly intelligent, though the mouth and eyes were indefinably cold and cruel.

  O’Hara waited quietly while the man continued:

  �
��You see I knew you were escaping from something; I could at any time deliver you to the authorities. But I also know that you are quite intelligent. I have many business interests in Mexico and I need a keen, intelligent agent to attend to them for me. If you fail me, there are always the authorities, remember. If not, you’ll find this work both pleasant and lucrative.

  “We are staying out here on account of my wife’s health. Her condition is improved, but we still fear a moist climate, and of course I remain with her. Do you accept this work? Will you keep your own counsel, or — ” and the cut of a knife was the tone of the man “ — shall we return to Albuquerque?”

  The first impression of distrust of the man deepened into conviction with O’Hara, but no choice seemed open to him. So with a strange foreboding in his heart and with a sense of toils encircling and strangling him, he accepted the position.

  CHAPTER XX

  THE DESERT BUNGALOW

  The sun had set and the brilliant gold and rose of a marvelous desert evening was flooding the sky. Against this flame of color appeared the outlines of a shack or bungalow surrounded by the few outlying buildings. As the automobile rapidly drew nearer, the door was flung back and a woman stepped out to meet them.

  Even in the quick glance that he had of her before the automobile stopped, O’Hara realized she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Very tall and superbly formed, she carried herself with a hauteur and coldness that instinctively reminded him of the man in the car. Her hair was of a Saxon fairness, and waved back from her forehead in exquisite undulations. As she spoke, her accent too, was more perfect than O’Hara often heard, and her tone was crisp and impatient.

  “I thought you would never arrive.” She addressed herself entirely to the driver of the car and showed absolutely no curiosity in, or even consciousness of the passenger in the tonneau. “Is there any mail or news whatever, Henry?” The man whom she called Henry handed her a large package of mail. Much of it, O’Hara noticed, bore a foreign postmark. The woman took it without a word and turned languidly into the shack.