by Carol Norton
CHAPTER XVII A WOODEN DOLL
The girls, with the lantern Jerry had given them, tip-toed through thedarkened hall to their bedroom. Mary placed the lantern on the table,and, after having kissed the little wooden doll good night, she put it tobed on a cushioned chair. She smiled wistfully up at Dora. "What is thereabout even a poor forlorn homely wooden doll that stirs in one's heart asort of mother love?"
"I guess you've answered your own question," Dora replied in hermatter-of-fact tone. "I never felt that way about dolls. In fact, I neverowned one after the cradle-age." Then, fearing that Mary would think thatshe was critical of her sentiment, she hurried on to say, "I alwayswanted tom-boy, noisy toys that I could romp around with." Then, gazinglovingly at Mary, she added, "Someday you'll make a wonderful mother. Ihope you'll want to name one of your little girls after me. How wouldDorabelle do?"
"Fine!" Mary smiled her approval of the name. "There must be four girlsso that the oldest may have my mother's name and the other three becalled Dorabelle, Patsy and Polly. What's more, I hope each one will growup to be just like her name-mother, if there is any such thing."
A few moments later, when they were nestled in the soft bed, Dora askedin a low voice, "What kind of a man would you like to marry?"
Mary's thoughts had again wandered back to Little Bodil and so shereplied indifferently, "Oh, I don't know. I've never thought that far. I_do_ want a home and children, someday, of course, but first, for a_long_ time, I hope, I'm going to keep house for Daddy."
Dora was more than ever convinced that Mary thought of the cowboy merelyas the Big Brother, which so frequently she called him. However, beforeentirely giving up, she asked, "If you have little boys, what will youname _them_?"
Mary laughed, not at all suspecting her friend's real reason for all thequestioning. "That's an easy one to answer," she said artlessly. "Theoldest, of course, will be named after Dad. The other two--if--why, Dickand Jerry will do as well as any, and yet," she paused and seemed tothink a bit, then merrily she said, "Dora, let's postpone all thischristening for ten years at least. The fond father of the brood may wantto have a finger in the pie."
Dora thought, "Mary's voice sounds amused. Maybe she's wise to myscheming. I'd better soft pedal it, if I'm ever going to get at thetruth."
Aloud she said with elaborate indifference--yawning to add to the effect,"Oh, well, it really doesn't matter. After all I had quite forgotten ouragreement to both remain old maids, me to teach school and you to keephouse for me." Again she yawned, saying sleepily, "Good night andpleasant dreams."
It was daybreak when the girls woke up. Already there were sounds ofactivity within and without. Barnyard fowls were clamoring, each in itsown way, for the breakfast which Dick was carrying to them.
Jerry--in the cow corral--was milking under difficulties as a long-leggedcalf was noisily demanding a share.
From the kitchen came faintly the clatter of dishes, a sizzling sound anda most appetizing fragrance of coffee, bacon and frying potatoes.
"Let's get up and surprise the boys," Mary whispered.
This they did and were in time to help pleased Mrs. Newcomb carry in thehot viands.
Jerry and Dick welcomed them with delighted grins and Mr. Newcomb gavethem each a fatherly pat as he passed.
"How will you girls spend the morning?" Jerry inquired. "Dick and I havebranding to do and I reckon you wouldn't care to 'spectate' as an oldcowboy we once had used to say."
Mary shuddered. "I _certainly do not_," she declared. "I hope brandingdoesn't hurt the poor calf half as much as it would hurt _me_ to watchit."
"The thing that gets me," Dick, still a tenderfoot, commented, "is thesmell of burning hair and flesh. I can't get used to it." Then, glancinghalf apologetically toward Mrs. Newcomb, he said, "Not a very nicebreakfast subject, is it?"
Placidly that good woman replied, "On a ranch one gets used tounappetizing subjects--sort of like nurses do in hospitals, I suppose.During meals is about all the time cowmen have to talk over what they'vebeen doing and make plans."
"You haven't told us yet what you'd like to do this morning," Jerry said,as he glanced fondly at the curly, sun-gold head close to his shoulder.
Mary replied, with a quick eager glance at the older woman, "Aunt Mollie,can't you make use of two very capable young women? We can sweep and dustand--"
"No need to!" was the laughing reply. "Yesterday was clean-up day."
"I can do some wicked churning," Dora assured their hostess.
"No sour cream ready, dearie." Then, realizing that the girls trulywished to be of assistance, Mrs. Newcomb turned brightly toward her son."Jerry, I wish you'd saddle a couple of horses before you go. I'd like tosend a parcel over to Etta Dooley. What's more, I'd like Mary and Dora tomeet Etta. She's about your age, dear." She had turned toward Mary. "Afine girl, we think, but a mighty lonesome one, yet _never_ a word ofcomplaint. She has four to cook for--five counting herself--and besidethat, there's the patching and the cleaning. Then in between times she'sstudying to try to pass the Douglas high school examinations, hopingsomeday to be a teacher. You'll both like Etta. Don't you think theywill, Jerry?"
"Why, I reckon she's likeable," the cowboy said indifferently. He wasthinking how much more enthusiasm he could have put into that reply ifhis mother had asked, "Etta will like Mary, won't she, Jerry?" Rising, hesmiled down at the girl of whom he was thinking. "I'll go and saddleDusky for you," he told her. "She's as easy riding as a rocking horse andas pretty a creature as we ever had on _Bar N_."
When the boys were gone, the girls insisted on washing the breakfastdishes. Then they made their beds. As they expected, they found thesaddled ponies waiting for them near the side door.
Mrs. Newcomb gave Mary a flat, soft parcel. "Slip it over your saddlehorn, dear," she suggested, "and tell Etta that the flannel in the parcelis for her to make into nighties for Baby Bess."
Dusky was as beautiful a horse as Jerry had said. Graceful,slender-limbed, with a coat of soft gray-black velvet--the color of dusk.Dora's mount was named "Old Reliable." Mrs. Newcomb smoothed its nearflank lovingly. "I used to ride this one all over the range, and eveninto town, when we were both younger," she told them.
The girls cantered leisurely down the cottonwood shaded lane and thenturned, not toward the right which led to the highway, but toward theleft on a rough canyon road that ascended gradually up a low tree-coveredmountain.
Brambly bushes grew along the trail showing that the ground was notentirely dry. A curve in the road revealed the reason. A wide, stonycreek-bed was ahead of them, and, in the middle of it, was acrystal-clear, rushing stream.
The horses waded through the water spatteringly. Old Reliable seemed notto notice the little whirlpools at his feet, but Dusky put back his earsand did a bit of side stepping. Mary, unafraid, spoke gently and pattedhis glossy neck. With a graceful leap, the bank was reached. There was asteep scramble for both horses; loose rock rattled down to the brook bed.
When they were on the rutty, climbing road again, Dora laughinglyremarked, "Dusky already knows the voice of his mistress." If there was ahidden meaning in Dora's remark, Mary did not notice it, for what shesaid was, "Dora, who would ever expect a cowboy to be poetic, but Jerrysurely was when he named this horse, don't you think so?"
"Yeah!" Dora replied inelegantly. To herself she thought, "That may be ahopeful sign, thinking Jerry is a poet in cowboy guise."
"It's lovely up this canyon road, isn't it?" All unconsciously Mary wasgazing about her, contentedly drinking in the beauty of the cool,shadowy, rocky places on either side. Aspen, ash and cottonwood treesgrew tall, their long roots drawing moisture from the tumbling brook.
Half a mile up the canyon there was a clearing, and in it stood a veryold log hut with adobe-filled cracks. A lean-to on one side had recentlybeen put up. In a small, fenced-in yard were a dozen hens, and downnearer the brook was a garden patch. Two small, red-headed boys inoveralls wer
e there busily weeding. Near them, on a grassy plot, aspotted cow was tethered. Back of the house, hanging on a line, was arather nondescript wash, but, nevertheless, it was clean.
The front door stood open but no one was in sight. Mary and Dora, leavingthe road, turned their horses toward the small house.
"I feel sort of queer," Mary said, "sort of story-bookish--coming to callon a strange girl in this romantic canyon and--"
"Sh-ss!" Dora warned. "Someone's coming to the door."