Virginia of V. M. ranch

Front matter

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CopyrightN coPVKiGirr DEPosm

Chapter I

VIRGINIA OF V. M. RANCH.

Down a winding mountain trail, a girl of six¬ teen was riding on Comrade, her wiry red-brown pony.

It was a glorious morning. The sky above was a gleaming cloudless blue, the desert, below, stretch¬ ing to the far horizon, shimmered white in the sun¬ light, while some bird in a canon near was caroling a tipsy song of joy, but these things Virginia Davis did not see or hear, for her eyes were gazing at the rugged trail and her thoughts were puzzling over the contents of a letter which her brother Malcolm had brought to her that morning when he had re¬ turned from the town of Douglas which was twenty miles away.

Her father’s best friend had died the year before, and had left a motherless girl all alone in the world. When Mr. Selover realized that he had not long to 5 live he had written Mr. Davis asking him to be¬ come the guardian of his daughter, Margaret, who was then in a select boarding-school in the East.

In some unaccountable manner, the letter had been delayed for many months, and during that time, Mr. Davis had also died, leaving Virginia and Malcolm as sole owners of the vast cattle ranch which was known as “The V. M.”

This morning Virginia had ridden to the top of the trail where she often went when she wanted to be alone with her thoughts, for the long delayed letter had indeed brought a new problem to these two young people.

This unknown Margaret Selover, it seemed, was their father’s ward. Ought they not to assume the responsibility which he would so gladly have taken had he lived? And yet, what if the girl should prove to be very unlike themselves? She might not care to make her home on their wonderful desert, and, if she did not, would it be right for them to take her from an environment in which she was happy and content? But how could they tell, since they did not know her?

Comrade had carefully wended his way down the mountain trail and had carried his young mistress, who was deeply absorbed in thought, across the dry creek, under a clump of cottonwood trees and up the steep farther bank before the girl looked about her with eyes that saw.

Her brother was galloping toward her. “Ho,

Virginia!” he hailed as he waved his wide som¬ brero. “Did your Inspiration Peak help you to solve our problem? What are we to do with our ward?”

The girl flashed a smile at the lad, whose frank, bronzed face resembled her own, for, though he was two years her senior, twins could not have been more alike or dearer to each other.

“If only we knew what type of a girl this Mar¬ garet is,” his sister replied as he wheeled his horse about and rode by her side, “we could so much more easily decide upon a plan. I did indeed receive an inspiration, but one hard to carry out I fear. I have been wishing that in some way we might be¬ come acquainted with our ward without having her know who we are.”

“You are right, sister.” Malcolm said seriously. “I do not wish to invite this unknown girl to share our home unless I am convinced that your life will be made happier by the companionship. Our father would not wish it otherwise. Now tell me your plan.”

Virginia looked at her brother with unexpected laughter in her violet-blue eyes. “It is one by which we could become acquainted with our ward without revealing to her our true identity. Harken and you shall hear.”

Malcolm's hearty laughter rang out when the half serious, half merry plan had been told.

“If only we can persuade Uncle Tex to play the role of elderly guardian,” he exclaimed. “I am sure that your little drama, when staged, will bring about the desired results, but, knowing our faithful old overseer as well as I do, I fear that we may have a tragedy, or a comedy, which perhaps would be equal¬ ly disastrous.”

Virginia’s amused expression had changed to one of serious concern. “Brother,” she said, “if we do carry out my plan, will it be quite honest to Mar¬ garet?”

“Not right in the beginning I must confess,” Mal¬ colm replied, “but, of course, we will at once tell her the truth, if, after meeting her, we decided to invite her to become one of our household, but, on the contrary, if we find that she would not wish to share our home, she would, of course, return to the school where she has been for so many years. We will at least have tried to do our duty as we see it.”

“Then shall I write the letter?” the violet eyes turned questioningly.

“Yes, that will be the prologue to the little drama. Rusty Pete is going to Silver Creek Junc¬ tion this afternoon and he will start the message on its eastward journey.”

Again Malcolm’s amused laughter rang out. “It will be better not to let Uncle Tex know that we have designs upon him,” he said, “for, if he has an inkling, even, that we are going to request him to do a bit of 'play actin’ as he would call it, he will start at once for the mountain cabin, the location of which we have never been able to discover/’ Their low rambling ranch house having been reached, Virginia leaped to the ground, tossing the reins to her brother, who, still chuckling to himself, rode on down to the corral where an old, whitehaired man could be seen repairing a fence.

Chapter II. Margaret

Barbara Blair Wente in the Vine Haven Seminary looked up from the cosy window seat where she was comfortably curled, studying French verbs, when she heard the door open. It was Mar¬ garet Selover, her room-mate, who entered.

“Megsy,” Babs exclaimed with real concern as she sprang to her feet and approached her friend with hands outstretched, “what has happened, dear ? Are the algebra reports in and didn’t you pass, or, is it something else?”

The new-comer looked at Barbara with eyes tearbrimmed. She tried to speak but her lips quivered; then, flinging herself down upon the couch, she sobbed as though her heart would break.

Babs, deeply concerned, knelt by the side of her room-mate, and tenderly smoothing the gold-brown curls, she pleaded. “Tell me, Megsy darling, can’t I help?”

Impulsively Margaret sat up, and, putting her arms about her friend she sobbed. “Oh Babs, I can’t do it! I won’t do it! I did think that my dad loved me too much to punish me so.”

“Can't, won't do what?" Barbara sat on the couch and drew her room-mate comfortingly close. “Megsy, please begin at the beginning."

Margaret put her hand in a pocket of her rosecolored sweater-coat and drew out a crumpled let¬ ter.

“It's from some-one way out on that terrible Ari¬ zona desert," she said, “and it informs me that my father appointed a Mr. Davis as my guardian and that the elderly gentleman, having given the matter due thought, believes that it is time for me to come to his home and take the place»that my father wished me to occupy, that of a rancher’s adopted daughter."

Barbara gazed at her friend, almost unable to comprehend. “Megsy, does this mean that you and I are to be parted? That you are to leave Vine Haven Seminary forever?"

For a brief moment Margaret sat as though stunned, but her room-mate’s words roused her to action. Springing up in a sudden tempest of anger, she tore across the room, threw open the desk and began to write rapidly.

“There!" she exclaimed a few moments later. “I have written my answer."

“Read it," Barbara begged, and in a hard cold voice, very unlike her own, that was merry and musical, Margaret read:

“My Dear Mr. Davis:—

“You undoubtedly have written with the kindest of motives, but the picture you present is not in the least attractive to me. A ranch house on a desolate desert twenty miles from town is not a home which I wish to enter.

“It is better for me to be honest and tell you at once that I do not care to be your adopted daughter. I have a sufficient income on which to live and I shall remain at Vine Haven Seminary until I have graduated. Soon after that I will be eighteen and you will no longer be responsible for my actions.”

Barbara listened and watched, puzzled indeed at this new Margaret. “Dear,” she said when her friend paused, evidently expecting comment, “it is very unlike you to hurt anyone. Couldn’t you add a little something that would soften the sting?”

With a shrug Margaret turned back to the desk and after a thoughtful moment, she again wrote a few lines. Then in a voice more like her own, she read:—“Since you were a close friend of my father, I regret that I must make a decision that may seem defiant, but surely you would not wish to have in your home a rebellious daughter and that is what I would be.

“Sincerely yours,

“Margaret Selover.”

Without waiting for further comment, the letter was sealed and stamped.

“I hope you are doing right, dear, Barbara said; then, almost tearfully: “If you do go so far away.

Vine Haven will be more desolate to me than the desert.”

“I’m not going!” Margaret remarked conclusive¬ ly, then, springing up, she added. “Three bells! Time for French class and I haven’t even looked at those verbs.”

Together they left their room and descended the wide flight of stairs. “I’ll skip ahead and put this letter in the mail pouch,” Margaret declared; then, somewhat repentantly: “Really, Babs, I am sorry to hurt the feelings of the old man. Father often told me how much he admired Mr. Davis who was many years his senior. They owned some mining property together near Bisbee. In fact, I believe that my in¬ come is derived from that same copper mine even now. Well, someday soon I’ll send him another and a kindlier letter, but there isn’t time today, and he will, of course, be watching for an answer.”

But before the other letter was written, something very unexpected happened.

CHAPTER III. Margaret's reply

Virginia was right in believing that she would receive a reply from their unknown ward as soon as one could possibly reach them. She had counted the days that her own letter would require for its journey east, and then had allowed one in between, and so, at last, the day had dawned when she might reasonably expect to hear from the unknown Mar¬ garet.

Luckily Rusty Pete was in town and would bring the mail if there was any. Virginia, as she went about her household tasks that morning, skipped often to the wide front veranda and looked up the mesa. A huge cactus growing at the top of the trail stood like a silent sentinel and around this a horse and rider soon appeared.

As the girl hoped, it was one of their two faith¬ ful cow-boys. “Good morning, Rusty Pete,” she called, as he rode alongside of the wide, shady porch. “Have you letters for me?”

“I reckon I have, Miss Virginia. Tears to me a couple is stowed away somewhar’s.” As he spoke, the cow-boy thrust a lean, brown hand into his deep leather pocket, then, with a sudden smile that won¬ derfully illumined his rugged wind and sun bronzed face, he removed his wide sombrero and drew forth two letters that were very unlike each other in ap¬ pearance.

“Didn’t pack the pouch ’long this time,” he ex¬ plained, “so put ’em thar for safe keepin’.”

The girl laughed. “Thank you, Rusty Pete,” she said, and then the long, lank cow-boy rode on to¬ ward the corral.

After glancing at the name in the upper left hand corner of the lilac scented and tinted envelope, Vir¬ ginia uttered a little excited ejaculation, and, catch¬ ing her wide hat from the top step, she raced down the trail to the fenced-in enclosure where Malcolm was busy filling the trough near the windmill for the yearlings were soon to be driven in from the range.

“What ho ?” he called when he saw the figure fly¬ ing toward him. The girl waved the two unopened letters and Malcolm, equally interested, vaulted the bars and stood at her side.

“Has our ward written?” he inquired merrily. “Is she eager to be the adopted daughter of an elderly rancher ?”

There was a shade of anxiety in the violet eyes that were lifted to him. “Brother,” she said, “I wonder if we did wrong to deceive Margaret. Of course it was merely to be a temporary arrange¬ ment. If she comes, Uncle Tex is to play the role of elderly guardian, that is, if he can be persuaded to do so, then you, as cow-boy, and I, as house¬ keeper, will have a splendid opportunity to become acquainted with our ward and find out what manner of girl she really is.”

While Virginia had been talking, she had opened the tinted envelope. One glance at the very short note and her merry laughter pealed forth.

“Brother, Margaret actually refuses to come. Well, we surely may thank what-ever kindly fate has delivered us from having this young tornado in our home. ,, Virginia handed the letter to Malcolm as she spoke.

The other long white envelope she glanced at casually, and, believing it to be the usual monthly report from their lawyer’s office, she did not open it, but waving farewell to her brother, who had again vaulted the bars, Virginia returned to the house and to her morning tasks.

It was half an hour later before she recalled the long legal looking envelope.

“I might as well skim it over,” she thought, “and then I can tell Malcolm about it and he will not need to take the time to read it.”

Dropping down into a comfortable cushioned wicker chair out on the veranda,‘Virginia leisurely opened it. Her thoughts were wandering when she began to read, but suddenly she sat erect and stared at the typed page. Then she re-read it slowly from the beginning to be sure that she had really under¬ stood its purport.

Shags, the big collie dog, lying nearby, half doz¬ ing in the sun was startled to see his mistress leap to her feet and tear madly down the trail toward the corral. Believing that he might miss something of unusual interest if he did not follow, he raced after, barking and bounding.

Malcolm looked up in surprise. “Ho Sis,” he called, “had you overlooked a postscript in our ward’s letter ? Is she coming after all ?”

Then noting how pale was his sister’s face, he hastened to her side. “It’s a letter from Mr. Ben¬ ton, our father’s lawyer. I don’t understand busi¬ ness matters as you do, and perhaps I do not Tightly comprehend the meaning of this. I sincerely hope I do not.”

But Virginia had rightly understood. Mr. Den¬ ton, their lawyer in Douglas had written:

“Dear young friends:—

“This morning a letter was received by me that you may be able to interpret better than I can. I did not know that your father had been appointed guardian of a girl named Margaret Selover, but the letter which I have this day received from an eastern law firm informs me that the income which has been sent, since her father’s death, to this young girl, has been abruptly discontinued as the mines from which it is derived are no longer paying.

“Since Miss Selover is referred to as your father’s ward, I presume that she is residing with you, and so I thought best to communicate with you at once.

“Trusting that the deprivation will be but temporary,

“I remain,

“Your faithful friend and adviser,

“Harry L. Benton.”

“Which means?” Virginia’s tone was one of in¬ quiry.

“Which means that we will have to lasso that young tornado and bring her here, whether or not she wishes to come,” was the dismal reply, “for surely, you and I, Virg, cannot afford to pay Miss Selover’s tuition at a fashionable seminary.”

“No, we cannot,” his sister agreed,” then— “Shall I write to poor Margaret and tell her the sad news?”

“I think the ones to be pitied are Virginia and Malcolm,” the lad spoke vehemently, “but, there is no alternative. Write the letter and I’ll take it to Silver Creek Junction. I’m going that far right after lunch to help drive in the yearlings.”

A week later another letter bearing the Vine Haven postmark arrived on the desert. With a heavy heart Virginia opened it, and after a hurried perusal, she decided that “lassoing the young tornado” as her brother had called their ward, was not to be a pleasant pastime.

“My dear Mr. Davis,” she read:

“Your letter came this morning informing me that my income has ceased. I believe that to be an absolute untruth, a ruse to try to force my obedience to your will. Of course you have accomplished your end for I am too proud to remain at this seminary unless I can pay my tuition, but I warn you, my stay with you will be no longer than absolute necessity requires and it will in no way add to your happiness to have a rebellious girl in your home.

“I hope that you will reconsider and send my al¬ lowance which is already one week over due.

“Margaret Selover.-”

“I feel about as I did when I broke in Wild Fire, Virg,” he said, his grey eyes twinkling at the recol¬ lection. “I had never before met a spirit so un¬ tamed.”

Virginia laughed. “This defiant young lady would not feel complimented to have her temper compared to a bucking broncho,” she said, “but I suppose that come she must, until she is old enough to be self-supporting, but my heart aches for her. I am almost inclined to tell her the whole truth. Shall I?” The violet eyes were moist and im¬ ploring, but the lad shook his head.

“Let’s carry out our original plan first. We may even yet find a loop hole of escape.”

Slowly and thoughtfully, Virginia walked back over the well worn trail to the ranch house. She was planning the letter which later was written and mailed.

Chapter IV. Plotting And Planning

That evening before the wide fireplace on which a mesquite root was cheerfully burning, three people sat plotting and planning.

Virginia had at last decided to take Uncle Tex into their confidence. He it was who had first taught five-year-old Malcolm to ride and shoot and Vir¬ ginia he loved as dearly as he could have loved an own daughter if he had had one.

“IPs powerful unpleasant business, ’pears like to me,” the old man said as he shook his shaggy grey head, “but I reckon if you uns cal-late its yer dooty, we all will have to put it through, but yer oY Uncle Tex is common poor at the play actin’.”

He looked so truly distressed that Virginia drew her chair closer and placed her slim, strong hand on his arm. “Don’t be troubled about it yet, Uncle Tex, we’ll make it as easy for you as we can.” Then, looking to her brother, she added with thoughtful seriousness. “I wonder if we ought to permit our ward to journey across the continent alone. I am confident that she has always been protected by her father’s loving care, just as I have been, although I feel sure that I could make the journey alone and in safety, and yet, since Margaret is our ward, we are responsible, as I am sure that our father would wish us to be, for her well being.”

“You are right, Virg,” the lad replied. “I wish we knew some one who might be coming west at the same time, who would consent to keep an eye on our young tornado.”

There was a twinkle in the eyes of the lad, and his sister, noticing it, exclaimed: “Malcolm Davis, I actually believe that you like our ward all the bet¬ ter because she is high spirited.”

“Well,” the lad confessed, “I do like spirit, I’ll agree. I’d like to see the girl.”

“Ah reckon we-all will see plenty of her before we’re finished with her.” Uncle Tex drawled in so doleful a tone that Malcolm laughed heartily.

“Or until she finishes us,” he exclaimed merrily as he rose and wound the clock.

“We must retire early tonight, Sis,” he added, “for I want to be in the saddle before day-break as I am due at Slater’s to help round up the young steers that are to be shipped to Chicago next week.”

The girl sprang up and looked down at the old man who sat staring dismally into the fire.

“Uncle Tex,” she exclaimed gaily as she stooped and caught one of his work hardened hands, “you look as though you had just received an invitation to your own funeral. Don’t you enjoy the prospect of being’ guardian, pro tem, to a young lady tornado?”

“Don’ know nothin’ ’bout protems, Miss Virginia, dearie, but I do kinda dread bein’ gardeen to a gal that don’ want to be gardeened nohow, but if you’n Malcolm need my help, sech as it is, yer welcome to it.”

The old man had risen and impulsively the girl threw her arms about him and pressing her fresh young cheek against the wrinkled and leathery one, she said consolingly: “Now, Uncle Tex, dear, don’t lie awake worrying about your new responsibility for if Margaret proves tractable, which means nice and pleasant, we will tell her the whole truth, but if she continues disagreeable and rebellious, we will soon pack her off somewhere else.”

Then she bade good-night to the old man who had been her father’s first overseer and he departed for his room which adjoined the kitchen, for the girl would not permit him to sleep in the less comfort¬ able bunk house with the younger cow-boys. Then she too retired, but she lay awake until late wonder¬ ing what the future held for them.

CHAPTER V. Malcolm's great news

The next day was a busy one at the V. M. Ranch, for a crate of fruit arrived for Virginia and she pre¬ served and canned until at last the grandfather clock in the living-room chimed the hour of five. Then she stood back and proudly surveyed row after row of jars, some golden and others glowingly ruddy.

Then, taking off her all-over apron, and donning her wide felt hat, she thought that to get a breath of the cool evening air, she would ride toward the Slater Ranch and meet her brother who would soon be returning.

Uncle Tex saddled Comrade for her, and then stood watching as his beloved “gal” cantered away toward the mesa. She turned to wave to him when she reached the sentinel cactus which stood with two branches outstretched like defending arms that were covered with long prickly thorns.

She drew rein when she reached the highest point and sat on her red-brown pony watching the glory of the setting sun. At last when the golden light had left all but the highest mountain peaks, and deep shadows were purpling the canons, she beheld silhouetted against the after glow, a horseman ap¬ proaching at a gallop.

Believing it to be her brother, she rode down the trail to meet him. Malcolm, she realized, was hilariously excited about something, for every now and then he snatched off his sombrero and waved it to the waiting girl.

“News! Great news!” he shouted as he drew near.

“What is it?” Virginia asked as she wheeled her pony about and side by side they rode toward home through the deepening dusk.

‘Til give you three guesses.” This had been their way of telling news items to each other from their earliest childhood.

“Oh brother, don't make me guess it this time. I just know that it is something of unusual interest,” the girl implored.

“It is.” This in Malcolm's most tantalizing man¬ ner. “Well, I'll give you a hint. It's something about the coming of our young tornado.”

“Oh.” Virginia's expression brightened. “Have you heard of someone who will escort her from the East?'’

“Righto, Sis, you're doing splendidly, but who ?”

They were descending the narrow trail from the mesa, and, since Virginia was in the lead, she could not see the elated expression on the face of her brother.

“Um-m, let me see/’ she replied thoughtfully. “May I have five minutes to think ?”

“I’ll give you until the Dry Creek is crossed,” was the merry reply.

They rode on in silence while Virginia’s thoughts were busy trying to solve the mystery. Of course Malcolm must have heard of this possible escort during his day at the Slater Ranch while rounding up the steers that were to be sent to Chicago.

“Oh, I have it!” she whirled about in her saddle to exclaim exultingly.” Some one, of course, is to accompany the car-load of steers to the big city and that some-one will meet Margaret there and escort her back to Douglas.”

“Congratulations sister! Now, since you are so clever at guessing tonight, suppose you tell me who is to go with the cattle.”

“Malcolm Davis, I do believe that you are,” the girl instantly declared. “There’s a ring in your voice which convinces me that you are at last to have the opportunity for which you have so longed. Are you now old enough to be trusted on so im¬ portant a mission?”

“Mr. Slater thinks so. He asked me to go,” the lad replied jubiliantly, as he swung from his saddle, “but wait until after supper and then I will tell you my plan.”

Chapter VI. Farewell To Boarding School

A week passed and Margaret Selover had re¬ ceived a letter, supposedly from the elderly Mr. Davis, bidding her start on her westward journey Friday, the 25th.

Barbara Blair Wente, fluffy, golden and petite, sat curled up on the window seat of the room they had shared together for the past year looking the picture of misery.

“I hate him! Hate him! ,, Margaret was saying as she thumped a small pillow preparatory to pack¬ ing it in her trunk. Then she added, rising and looking her defiance, “but he won’t keep me long, Babs. You may be sure of that. I’ll make life so unpleasant for my hoary guardian that he will soon be glad to release me. Oh dear, how I do wish that I were older so that I might begin earning my own living, but just wait until I’m eighteen. Then I will do something. Other girls do and I believe I am normally clever.”

“Who do you suppose is to meet you in Chicago?” Barbara inquired.

“Don’t know and don’t care,” was the somewhat muffled reply from the trunk, the cover of which was closed a moment later with a snap. Then Mar¬ garet sat upon it as she remarked:—“My guardian kindly informed me that I need have nothing what¬ ever to say to my escort if I did not wish to be friendly, but that, at least, I must allow him to look out for my welfare.”

Babs sat up and looked interested. “Margaret, what if it should be a real cow-boy like the ones we have seen in the moving pictures. Those hand¬ some young giants who are always helping damsels in distress. Wouldn’t that be romantic? I’m just wild to see a live cow-boy myself. They are fas¬ cinating on the screen.”

“Well, they don’t appeal to me,” Margaret re¬ plied, “I prefer boys who are dressed in civilized clothes and who know how to talk. All of the cow-boys in fiction use the queerest kind of a lan¬ guage.”

Four bells pealed through the corridors and Bar¬ bara rose reluctantly.

“Even if my heart is nearly broken over your de¬ parture, Megsy, I suppose I’ll have to go down to this old recitation,” she said.

Margaret also rose and going to the window, she looked out at the bleak orchard. “I’m not going. What’s the use of working out problems in geometry today when tomorrow I will be gone?”

Just at that moment there were skipping footsteps outside in the corridor followed by an imperative knocking at the door.

Barbara opened it to admit a pretty, eager-eyed child, who held up a yellow envelope. “It’s for you, Miss Margaret,” she said. “Mrs. Martin said to bring it right up.”

The girl, as she opened the telegram, sincerely hoped that in it she would find a message bidding her to remain at the school, but she did not.

“Leave, if possible, on the 8.30 train tonight which reaches Chicago at six tomorrow morning. Wear a red ribbon bow that you may easily be recog¬ nized.”

It was signed: “Peter Wallace.”

Margaret’s eyes flashed and she tore the telegram to bits. “Peter Wallace, indeed! I’m not going to take orders from a wild west cow-boy. Pie may meet the six o’clock train tomorrow morning, but I won’t be on it.”

However, when Barbara had reluctantly departed for her class, Margaret found that the prospect of arriving in Chicago alone and unprotected was not a pleasant one to contemplate. With her father she had spent one day in the big city and she remem¬ bered how she had clung to his hand when they had crossed the streets and how terrorized she had been by the rush and roar of the traffic.

An hour later, when Babs returned, she was sur¬ prised to find that the trunk had been taken to the station. That evening Mrs. Martin and Barbara ac¬ companied the young traveler to the train, as the principal of the school wished to be sure that her young charge was started safely on this, her first journey alone, and in the care of the kindly conduc¬ tor.