# The Girl Of Ghost Mountain/Chapter 5

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CHAPTER V
PAST AND FUTURE
It was a week before Sheridan was able to go up to the Hidden Homestead, as Mary Burrows had named the holding in the heart of Ghost Mountain. He had news from Metzal that Hollister had left town for his ranch and the charms of the girl Juanita, which relieved him of apprehensions on the score of any speedy return visit of that blackguard to the mountain. He also believed that his own threat, uttered in all earnestness, would have deterrent effect for a considerable period.
He planned out a gate on paper and devised an arrangement for a heavy bar which could be raised from the outside by a trick of levers so that the two women could leave their front—and only—door locked when they were away. He was proud of the way in which he concealed the manner of opening the gate, having a knack for such small engineering, and he set Stoney, who was handy with tools, to work on preliminary construction.
Meanwhile he had his own work mapped out. He was gradually making a tour of Chico Mesa, getting acquainted with the ranchers, feeling them out as to his water project. None of them were wealthy, though all made a good living, but Sheridan hoped that he might be able to finance the ​development of Lake of the Woods by local enterprise and capital. There were other matters he talked of, the improving of grade stock, the importation of good bulls for that purpose and an ultimate end of making Chico Mesa a headquarters for the shipment of thoroughbred, one-purpose beef cattle; fed on alfalfa grown from the mesa-soil, seven crops to the year. There would be a Chico Mesa Cattle Shippers' Association, strong enough to obtain cars when they needed them, a stockyards-agent, a financial manager, a hundred details that were still in the background. And, with them all, went the clearance of Metzal from the crowd that now controlled it, grafting officials and small politicians. All these he worked out in his own mind, not all of them he mentioned. He knew he had to go slowly to start a co-operative plan among men who represented several racial types, slow and fast thinking, suspicious each of the other's motive and possible advantage.
If Sheridan could come to them with gifts in his hands, with Lake of the Woods developed, the water ready to turn into the laterals from a main ditch, they might listen to him. He realized that in such a community a one-man directorship was best for the public good until such time as common law and common wealth might be fairly well established. The deeper he went into the plan the more questions he was asked that could not be immediately answered, matters of expert engineering that Sheridan builded upon faith but which, with his own limited experience, would not stand the ​probing given by some of the longer-headed cattlemen.
Such an expert would have to be consulted, good engineers obtained. Sheridan was not a genius, though he had a certain knack of organization back of his imagination. Capital from the East was the last thing he wanted. He had a theory concerning community exploitation of community possibilities that he felt should go a long way towards setting an example of true democracy. So he worked on, from one rancher to another, getting encouragement here, blindness there. From the majority the best he obtained was "Sounds good," but he made progress, setting himself a regular programme of lining up all the cattlemen, for or against. Hollister he left alone. Such a man would be opposed to any progress that made his neighbor equal with himself, would do all he could to thwart any scheme of Sheridan's.
They started from the Circle S one morning at sunrise, Stoney driving a wagon that held lumber, spikes, a pair of hinges, a lock to supplement the bar, and his own tools. Sheridan, Jackson and two cowboys rode their horses. Arrived at the tunnel they went to work with a will by the light of lanterns.
A heavy frame was mortised and fitted snugly to the bottom and sides of the tunnel. It left only a narrow opening at the top, irregular, nowhere more than a foot wide. It seemed certain that this tunnel was the work of man, so well had it been squared. By noon most of the job was done, sufficiently for Stoney and the men to return to the ​Circle S, leaving Sheridan and his foreman to complete the gate and the ingenious arrangement for lifting the bar. It was a formidable affair when at last they tested it and stood off and surveyed it.
"Some job," said Jackson, gathering up the tools left behind by Stoney, and wrapping them in his slicker. He nodded in confirmation of Sheridan's statement.
"I'll feel a lot less anxious about the girls from now on. We'll wash up a bit, Red, and then we'll tell them of the latest addition to their premises." This they did at the waterfall and went through the tunnel, up the gorge, hardly less grim by daylight, on to the meadow and the lake. Sheridan carried a package of candy and magazines, sent for to Metzal. It represented the bet of ten dollars between him and Jackson. Red had volunteered to call the wager off, allowing that Mary Burrows's whistling offset the fiddling of Thora, and they had compromised on the mutual gift.
"All gels are strong for candy," opined Red. "I don't imagine Thora Neilsen will go very heavy on them magazines, but she may. I've bin driven to readin' myself, times when I didn't have nothin' else to do."
They found the two girls digging in their garden. They both came around the house at Sheridan's "Halloo!" Thora enormous and impressive in jean overalls, the girl charming in riding breeches, both frankly unaware of the lack of skirts, frankly glad to see their visitors. Mary Burrows was slender and as finely set up as a deer, Sheridan fancied, ​daintily suggesting efficiency in her practical toggery; Thora more the Amazon than ever, though a very modern version. Both had acquired a heavier coat of tan. Thora was brown, the "slimsy lady" "gilded by the sim."
"We were planting the seeds we brought with us," said Mary Burrows. "Vegetables and flowers, the old homey flowers, though the valley is fairly gorgeous with bloom. And there are lupines, too, giants to the ones that grew at home, a marvellous purple bloom on stalks that are—as tall as you are. But, now that you've come, we'll stop and become feminine. As a matter of fact, I am glad to. Thora makes me ashamed when I compare my work with hers and I am tired trying to save my face."
"Don't change your things," said Sheridan. "Come down and see your front door. It is all finished."
The glow of delight on her face fully repaid him.
"That was more than just thoughtful of you," she said gravely. "It was nice, the nicest thing I have had done for me in many a day, barring Thora, who is always doing those things. You are a true westerner, Mr. Sheridan."
She would have included Jackson but Thora had taken him off to see her gardening. Jackson had foolishly assumed a knowledge of the craft and Thora had instantly elevated him to the degree of expert, a height from which he was destined to fall heavily before long.
"I am hardly a westerner," answered Sheridan, "except in spirit."
​"The pioneer spirit," said the girl. "It doesn't take two or three generations to make a westerner, I think. The spirit is within one and you become western the moment you start."
"That is absolutely true. I have thought that, I believe, though I have never expressed it. Shall we get your horses?"
They rode in foursome down to the gate, through the valley that was vivid with bloom, larkspur and lupines, cactus blossoms in yellow and orange, pink and scarlet and crimson. Bees boomed everywhere, from carpets of lavender daisies to clusters of four-petaled lilies, white and yellow. There were patches of golden California poppies, the place was ablaze with color and redolent with scent of juniper, cedar, pine and manzanita, yucca blossoms, greasewood, sage, in one exquisite blend.
"Isn't the air wonderful?" asked the girl, riding the trail a little ahead of Sheridan while he admired the brave way she carried herself, the lithe seat, the square, boyish way in which she sat her saddle, all curves and yet all efficient, strength mated to symmetry. Brave, that was the word for both of them. And she had proclaimed herself a westerner. He warmed to the thought.
"One would think so much perfume would make the air heavy," she went on, "but it is exhilarating, a real elixir. You don't know how good it makes me feel," she smiled back at him as they started the descent of the gorge.
The gate was appreciated to the full. Thora was strong in her approval.
​"That bane a gude idea," she said. "Nex' time people come, mebbe they have to knock first."
"We could never hear them," said the girl. "How are we going to know when you are going to pay us a call? We are very busy, Thora and I, we expect our furniture almost any day. We are going to go in for bees and goats—but—we may get lonesome sometimes. What shall we do? Hang up a horn by the gate for you to blow?"
"I'm afraid you wouldn't hear it," replied Sheridan. "I have a better scheme than that. It needs paper to elucidate it. I'll explain when we get back to the house. That is, if we're invited back?" he laughed.
"That depends. Mr. Jackson, do you like waffles?"
"Do I like waffles? Miss—does a bee like honey?"
"Then you will both have to come back, for we are to have waffles for supper."
"How do you get your mail?" asked Sheridan, on their way back.
She widened her eyes.
"That is very simple. We don't have any." She shook her head laughingly as he looked at her, refusing to answer any suggestion of sympathy in his glance. "We have burned all our bridges in the East, Thora and I. We are orphans, sir, yet not unfortunate; pioneers, or heiresses, of our own fortunes, beholden to none, dependent upon none, save for our friendships." She bowed to him, her eyes sparkling, her small teeth showing in her smile, chin uplifted.
​"Do you mean to tell me you have no relatives, no friends to whom you are going to write, or who will write you to find out how you are getting along, who may visit you?"
"It may be an acknowledgment of weakness, but we have cast off the shackles of our sex. We are not defenceless. We have claimed the right to emigrate, to follow westward the star of Empire."
Sheridan's voice and face were grave but he could not pierce the armor with which she had invested herself, the tantalizing dance of her eyes, her debonair, gay manner. She did not want him to be sorry for her, he saw that clearly. But what maze of fell circumstances had combined to bring them out here, so utterly alone, their only link with the East seeming to be the furniture that was coming, a link that would break the chain by its moving?
"You are very brave," he said and changed the subject swiftly. His quick eye had seen a move in the brush, his revolver had flashed out, the reports sounding before he seemed to have cleared the weapon from its holster. He slipped off his horse and picked up two grouse, neatly beheaded.
"To follow the waffles," he said. "Red, show Miss Thora how to get out of plucking."
Jackson caught the tossed birds and initiated the interested Thora into how to peel a warm bird of its feathers. Mary Burrows made no remark about the shooting. Sheridan flushed a little, fancying she might think him trying to show off. Presently she spoke.
"I don't think I am over squeamish," she said, ​"and I know it is not being a pioneer, but I hate to see things killed. I eat the flesh readily enough, for I have a bonny appetite, and it shows what a humbug I am. I wish I could be content to live on fruits and honey and milk, and wheat stuffs, of course; things that are given without loss of life. But I can't. Yet the grouse were happy a moment ago."
"And they never knew what had happened to them. Perhaps it is the sight of blood?"
She shook her head.
"No. We come of a fighting stock. I am sure it is not that. It is because I am just a woman, I suppose."
Sheridan found that solution satisfactory. The girl went on.
"My grandfather built this log-house, took up this holding. After you had gone the other night, I realized I had been talking as if you knew just how we had come here. And no one does, though it seems quite the natural thing to us. Would you like to know about it?"
They had reached the house and Jackson had avowed his determination of learning the art of waffling so that he might impart it to Quong. Mary Burrows slipped into the house, leaving Sheridan on the verandah to smoke and think.
Life had been too vigorous the past three years for him to miss the society of women. He had enjoyed the rough but, now that he had met the girl, he realized how he had lacked the smooth. He had never met a girl like her, daring yet dainty, ​unconventional and still, in ways he dimly recognized, far more alive to the true sentiments that lie at the bottom of all conventions than the greatest precisian for feminine modesty and effacement. She was not city bred, he was sure of that. She was—different—and he waited eagerly to hear her story.
When she came out again she was in a gown of blue print that had white lawn cuffs and a lawn collar, turned down, showing the soft hollow of her neck. He had thought her dainty in khaki, now, the background of Colonial mahogany, old china, old brasses, inevitably reared itself. She was not so much a "lady," he suddenly determined, as a "gentlewoman."
The simple dress suited her, it suited the surroundings, yet to Sheridan it suddenly seemed pathetic. Pretty gowns, fluffy gowns. He had a swift revision of girls he had known in the old days, decked like flowers. He wondered how many she had had of the ribbony, lacy things in which all girls must delight. Not many, this slimsy lady, he imagined. This plucky, slimsy lady, who had come out upon high adventure.
"Aren't you terribly lonely, sometimes?" he asked. For Thora, brimmed with kindly capacity as she was, could be no real companion to this girl. Barely a woman yet. What was in the heart of her? Tenderness for wild things, spirit to handle the rough men who had broken her privacy, pluck to establish herself so gaily in this wild. A girl who was proud to boast of her fighting stock, proud ​to be a pioneer. There were other things, he imagined. Depths unrevealed, unsuspected by herself, fires too. Her eyes, her lips, could harbor passion. She was no weakling, for love or war.
He brought himself up with a jerk.
"My grandfather," she commenced, "was a dreamer, I think. He was not like his father, who was a miller, a manufacturer of woolen goods in Massachusetts. Grandfather roamed the woods, I know, and he wrote poems. There was something in him that just held him back from being a minister. He wrote a book or two, on natural history. He corresponded with Audubon when he was only twenty-two. That was the year before Audubon died, eighteen fifty-one. You know Audubon was writing a great book with Bachman, on the quarupeds of North America. It was finished after his death. But that was what fired my grand-daddy to go out West."
To Sheridan, Audubon was just a name, the name of a man who had written words and made pictures about birds. But he reflected the girl's interest.
"So grandfather came out here in 'fifty-eight. It was all New Mexico then. They had adventures with Indians and with Mexicans, cattle thieves, raiders, miners. It must have been wonderful. He told me all about it. He loved the life."
Her eyes sparkled, her voice was animated. Pictures came up before Sheridan of those early days.
"It was an Indian who told grandfather of this place," she went on. "Some of the party settled ​here and started to raise cattle. Then there came the slavery question. Arizona went pro-slavery. Grand-daddy couldn't stand that. He got in trouble, many of his friends deserted him. He studied the wild things, trapped some of them and sold their skins at Pioche. He went into mining. I have still got an agreement where he grubstaked an 'old-timer.' But nothing came of that.
"The Civil War commenced. I think only echoes of it came here for a while. Grandfather could not believe the whole country at one another's throats. Texas annexed it for the Confederacy. He was shut up here, in hiding, proscribed. And in May, in 'sixty-two, a company of Union soldiers came from California and wiped the Texans out.
"Grandfather went back East—to fight for the North. His father was already in it. Grand-daddy joined his regiment. He started as a private and he came out a captain. His father died in his arms, both together, at the last, at Chattanooga. After the war he went back to Massachusetts and married. But the war had not changed him. He would have gone West again but for my grandmother. She could not bear to leave New England. So they lived in a house he built for her, on Jefferson Mountain, near the New York line, in a little place called Hannibal.
"Poor Hannibal. It is a deserted village now. There is a church without a congregation, a post-office without mail, old houses, old people. Even part of its name has been taken from it. They call it Hannal.
​"My daddy was born there. And so was I. Daddy was like his father. He wrote about the insects of New England and dreamed until the Spanish War came. Then his fighting blood woke up and he went and came back wounded. Poor daddy. We had very little money, you see.
"Then Thora came, when I was thirteen. She crossed from the Old Country to join her brother. He had a wood-chopping contract near Hannal. He had a terrible accident. His axe slipped and slashed his foot. He was in the woods and he had lost a lot of blood before Thora found him, after dark, carried him home, and he was almost as heavy as she is. There was no doctor for two days. Blood poisoning set in and help came too late. Father had done what he could but he died. And Thora came to live with us.
"When my mother died she was everything to me—except daddy. He lost all interest in things. He buried his heart with mother. A year ago—we lost him. And there was nothing. Thora wanted to go to work and keep me idle. I wanted to go to work and there was nothing I could do. Daddy had taught me and my education was loving—and not practical. I could only have gone to work in one of the mills. Thora would not hear of that.
"Then the great idea came. Grandfather's holding on Ghost Mountain. He had told me all about it. How to get here from Pioche. We looked it up. Thora thought it possible and I loved the plan. There was a tourist who had wanted to buy some of old old furniture. We had her address in New ​York. And we sold most of it for enough to bring US here and leave a little over. So we packed what was left, shipped it—and came."
Sheridan let out a deep breath. The girl seemed unconscious of her own Odyssey. Fighting stock indeed.
"You like it?" he asked.
"I love it. It is grander than our New England hills that we called mountings." Sheridan repressed a smile as he caught the twist of her tongue. "It is vast, too big to touch, I sometimes think, and then it is suddenly all intimate, broody."
"You are not lonely?"
She looked at him squarely.
"Sometimes. And you? You are from the East."
"I haven't been. I have been working too hard. I might be lonely, now." They both sat quietly for a moment or two.
"Fruit trees will grow here, won't they?" she asked presently. "I should like to have some. We had an old orchard at Hannal—Hannibal."
She had a faculty of conjuring up pictures, this slimsy, plucky lady. Sheridan glimpsed her sitting under flowering apple trees, Thora coming up through the long grass with a foaming bucket of milk, her father dreaming in a long chair.
"Almost everything grows here," he said. "Altitude makes the division lines. Oranges, lemons, limes, figs, dates, olives, even almonds in places. Peaches, pears, apples and apricots about Yuma. Grapes, strawberries—and alfalfa."
"Why the stress on alfalfa?" she asked, laughingly.
​"Because it is my crop. The crop for Chico Mesa. Get water on the land and it will raise six-seven crops of ideal cattle food. There are nourishing grasses after the rains but they do not last."
With a word or two from her he was off on his hobby, conscious of a listener at once sympathetic and comprehending.
"Chico Mesa," he said, "is an ideal site for a real Commonwealth. Clear out your Hollisters, gather the real ranchers, breed beef-cattle for the million. Stimulate production of first-class stuff. In the old days the farmer was self sufficient. On the Missouri River farms he raised everything to eat and wear. He scheduled his own cost of living.
"Nowadays we overspecialize. A man will spend his whole life turning out some part of a machine that he would not recognize if he saw it, much less know how to run or repair. A strike of the nail industry would paralyze building. In the old days every village blacksmith made nails for the man who built his own house. Bring that down to farming, to beef and dairy industries. One man raises the stock, another grows the grain and feed. One milks, another gathers the milk and runs the creamery. Range cattle are fed up in the stockyards. The result is not the best and there are too many middlemen to split the profits.
"Produce better beef, at fairer prices. It helps you and the world at the same time. Get together and use all means at hand to become independent of the middlemen. The railroads must come to you for freight and the rates will be right if the railroad ​has not a mortgage on your profit bag. Railroad and other capital.
"Every man should work. I used to think I worked, as a lawyer, in New York. But I found out that I needed to work with my body as well as my brain. All men are not that way, but I am. And here is my work. All the mesa needs is water. There is Lake of the Woods down there, a natural reservoir ready for tapping, fed by springs, its natural overflow going off underground now, along a conduit that can be plugged. You can lie on the ground and hear it running to waste. Power, light, heat, telephones, irrigation. It is a part of Chico Mesa, it belongs. Our Commonwealth is complete. So long as we don't have to go to capitalists who have never worked, who look down upon the men who show them the projects, work them out, and claim the lion's share because they have money.
"I want to tap Lake of the Woods. Siphon it, use the water for power, light and heat and then for irrigation. It is my plan, I hope to develop it. I want to form a company among the cattlemen of Chico Mesa and pay for the thing out of the profits. I shall take pay for my original idea, if I put it over. Originality should not be ignored. But I'll turn it over to the Commonwealth for ultimate ownership at practically cost price. Chico Mesa will be independent, productive of the best."
"That is Socialism at its best, isn't it?" she asked him as he looked at her, wondering if he had bored her, glad to see her interest alight.
"Socialism as I see it. It fits Chico Mesa. Not ​all places are so fortunate. Capital is quick to seize water power but they haven't this. The Government handles the big projects in the same manner but here is where we can help ourselves."
"That is fine," she said. "That is what I should like to do"—for a second their glances met and something was conceived, something both set aside as she concluded, "—if I was a man."
"Waffles!" Jackson, girded about by an apron, made the grand announcement.
"Come a-runnin'. They're pipin' hot."
The meal was a merry one, self-served. Sunset was still lingering when they ended it. Jackson disappeared outside to help with the dishes. They could hear the splash of water and the laughter of Thora and Red. The two exchanged looks of smiling confidence.
"He's telling her about his war experiences," said Sheridan. "He was a sergeant. Was in the Argonne. Most of my men enlisted and came back the better for it. I was tied up with a damaged lung," he added, his voice keen with regret.
"Your battle is on Chico Mesa," she suggested. "You were going to tell me about how we and Circle S are going to communicate."
She got him paper and pencil while he explained.
"This may be for social calls or for any emergency. A doctor, for example. So you can teach it to Thora. It is just a primitive heliograph, in code."
"Why code?"
"It is just as easy as straight talk," he parried. He had an idea that he would like to invest possible ​future talks with Ghost Mountain in a measure of secrecy. "I will show you how to catch the sun in a mirror, how to flash it."
"In Morse dot and dash?"
"Not so complicated. There is no separation into dots and dashes."
He showed her the letters he had set down in a square.
"I have left out X. Now, in case you want to send a message—'Waffles for example, you flash out first the column in which the letters stand and then the number of that letter in that column.
"Three and three again would mean W. A is one and then four; F, five and five; L, four and four; E, two-four; S, three-one. Go to the edge of the cliff where we saw you first and shoot the sun. We'll catch it at Circle S ten miles away, and soon you'll see us streaking it for the waffles. If you ever want us at night, start a fire. It might be well to build one in readiness."
"Protection as well as neighborliness. It lines up with the gate. Thank you. You will make a copy of this. And now, will you show me how to use the mirror?"
​They walked up to the rim, ascending the steep pitch by a trail to the spired crags. He took the mirror, one from her own dressing table, and showed her how to manipulate it. Then, as the light died in crimson and purple, fading to amber and amethyst, they gazed across the mesa in a comradeship that had really started when she had said she would like to do what Sheridan proposed.
"My grandfather often came up here to see the sunset," she said. "He made this trail. But I don't think he ever saw such a vision as you have made me see. Soon the mesa there will shine with its own stars of night, stars hatched at the Lake of the Woods power house. And the day will show the green fields and the sturdy cattle, the water stretching out in silver wands. It is worth while,"
"I don't believe I'll say nothin' to Quong about them waffles," said Red as they loped homewards,
"No?"
"No, he c'u'dn't touch what we just had up there. It 'ud on'y be a disappointment." Whatever else Red may have had in mind he transmuted into song, carolling lustily to the tune of "My Bonny Lies Over the Ocean."
Last night, as I lay on the prairie,
And looked at the stars in the sky;
I wondered if ever a cowboy,
Would roll to that sweet bye-and-by.
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, little dogies, roll on, roll on;
Roll on, roll on,
Roll on, little dogies, roll on.
"What is it, Lund?" asked Sheridan.
"Quongy they got Quong!" An' laid me out." Lund was hatless and his hand went up uncertainly to the back of his head, bringing it away smeared with blood that he looked at curiously.
"Clipped me with the butt of a gun, they did! Damn 'em, they didn't even give me a show!" he cried, half sobbing with indignation and weakness.
"Who? Who did it, Jim? Brace up."
"They was masked, but I know it's Hollister an' his lousy hombres. Our bunch was down to the Diamond W outfit, playin' poker. Me, I'm broke, so I stays home to write a letter. Quong, he's in his kitchen. They got him, an' when I happens along, 'count of the noise, they jumps me an' smashes me back of the head, 'fore I sabied what was doin'."
"Can you stick to leather, Jim?"
"You bet I can. They thought they'd tapped me for keeps. I starts after my hawss to saddle up an' go after the boys. Then I hears Red singin' an' I knowed you was comin' home. They're goin' to tar an' feather Quong an' whip him out inter the desert. Took one of his cookin' pots for the tar. Took one of yore ticks for the feathers, the worthless sons of. . . . "
​"Only one way down to the desert," broke in Jackson. "Thet's Coyote Springs trail."
"You and I'll go over there," said Sheridan. "Jim, you streak it like all hell was after you to the Diamond W and bring our outfit and theirs to Coyote Springs trail. Burn the wind."
"Tell 'em to pack an' extry gun or two," said Red. "When all this happen, Jim?"
"'Bout hour after sunset, I reckon. It was dark."
"All right, Jim, off you go." The rider wheeled and raced away.
"They'll likely wait till the moon," said Red.
"I hope so, for Quong's sake. Lucky we've eased our horses along. He is trying to play even for the other night. Come on."
Together they rode south, fast, not sparing the mare or Red's pinto, covering mile after mile towards the crumbly wall where the mesa fell down to the desert in steep but broken cliffs, staired by the one trail at Coyote Springs. And they rode in silence, their thoughts on the grim picture of what might be happening.