CHAPTER XLII—AN INDIAN VILLAGE.
When Virginia calmly announced that she was going to ride to the Papago village, Margaret exclaimed in surprise: “But, Virg, dear, it’s mid-day now and you have said that it is a long, hard ride. Would there be time for us to go and return all in one afternoon?”
The western girl shook her head. “I thought we might remain there over night,” was her unexpected reply, “and come back tomorrow morning.”
Bab’s eyes were big and round.
“Virginia!” she ejaculated. “You don’t mean that you would actually stay all night in an Indian village? Why, I wouldn’t be able to sleep the least little bit, I am sure of that. All the time I would be listening, expecting to hear moccasined feet steathily creeping toward my bedeside, and—”
Virginia’s laughter interrupted the speaker.
“Babsy dear, remember that this is the year 1922,” she reminded, “and the Indians whom we are to visit are just as friendly as one could wish neighbors to be. Forty years ago, it is true, we would not have cared to remain all night with the red men of the desert, but, after all, they were unfriendly merely because they believed the white man to be treacherous, and were they not right? The pale face came and drove them from their happy hunting grounds with his superior cunning and the force of arms. My sympathy has always been largely with the Indians, but come, let’s have an early lunch that we may soon be on our northward way.”
“Ohee, I’m so excited,” the petite Babs exclaimed, skipping gaily along between her two friends as they returned to the ranch house. “I never knew a moving picture story that was more thrilling than the one that we are living this very minute.”
Virginia smiled down into the pretty, shining, upturned face of the younger girl and she thought she had never seen any more charming. Barbara’s fresh young joy in everything was a delight to the other girls, for even Margaret had become so used to cow-boys, Indians and adventure that the first thrill of it all had somewhat subsided, although as she often declared, she would never cease to love the desert.
When Uncle Tex heard of the planned visit to the Papago village he shook his head, saying he “reckoned” as Malcolm wouldn’t like them to ride so far alone, but the matter was settled to the old man’s complete satisfaction when Lucky announced that he would be riding north to the Dartley Ranch in about an hour and that he would accompany the girls until they reached the wall of rock surrounding the Papago village.
The great old grandfather clock was striking the hour of one when Lucky brought up from the corral three saddled ponies. Dixie had been chosen for Barbara that morning when she had been taken to the little fenced-in pasture and introduced to the small bunch of riding horses.
When Babs emerged from her room dressed for the first time in her cowgirl khaki outfit, she was bubbling with glee. “Oh, how I do wish Miss Piquilin and the girls at school could see me now,” she exclaimed. “Wouldn’t Betsy Clossen be envious, though.”
Ten minutes later they were all in the saddle. “Goodbye, Uncle Tex!” they shouted in merry chorus and then they turned to follow Lucky who had already started up the mesa trail.
Margaret noticed that Virginia’s eyes were troubled even though her lips were smiling at them.
“I wonder what adventure is awaiting us,” Megsy said aloud. It was well, perhaps, that they did not know.
For two hours the girls, accompanied by Lucky, rode over the trail that led to the north. They had circled about the Dartley Ranch, and though Virginia had urged him to do so, the cow-boy would not permit them to go the remainder of the way alone and unprotected.
“But it’s taking you miles out of your way, Lucky,” Virginia protested. “You know I have never been afraid to ride alone, anywhere on all our wild desert.”
“Ah know, Miss Virginia,” Lucky replied, “but them times was sort of different like, and what’s more, I promised Malcolm as how ah’d look out for you all. A little extra riding won’t hurt me no-how.”
Lucky was obstinate, and Virginia knew that it was useless for her to protest, but when, at last, they were within sight of the wall of rock, she drew rein as she said, “Lucky, surely you will permit us to ride this last mile alone, for you can see that there is nothing between here and the mountains to do us harm.”
To Virginia’s delight the cow-boy acquiesced and whirling his pony about he galloped away, waving his sombrero while the girls called after him, “Goodbye, Lucky, thank you for escorting us.”
“Where is the Indian village, Virg?” Babs inquired as they neared the mountains. “I can’t see a tepee anywhere about.”
“Nor will you,” the western girl told her. “My Indian friends are modern and live in adobe dwellings.”
They rode slowly along the base of the sheer wall of rocks. “It’s the strangest thing,” Virg declared, “When I was here last with my brother, I made a mental note of a peculiar grouping of cactus plants that grew within a stone’s throw of the almost hidden entrance, but now I do not see it anywhere.”
Margaret had ridden ahead and she suddenly whirled about and galloped back toward the others. She seemed excited about something.
“There’s an Indian in ambush just ahead of us,” she said as she glanced fearfully back over her shoulder. “He is crouched down behind a clump of cactus plants and I’m just sure that he’s been watching us!”
Barbara’s eyes were wide with terror. “Oh, Virg,” she exclaimed, “maybe the Papagoes have become suddenly hostile. Maybe they have gone on the warpath.”
Virginia’s laugh was natural and fearless. “It’s probably little Red Feather or one of his comrades,” she said as she urged Comrade forward, but the Indian, who rose as they approached, was not one whom she had ever seen before. However, she knew from the red mark on his forehead that he was a Papago, and so she said the few words that she had learned in their tongue, “Friends—come, see Winona.”
Silently and solemnly, the young Indian pointed toward the wall of rock beyond and back of him, and as they rode in that direction, Virginia soon saw the opening for which she had been searching.
They entered a narrow canyon, riding single file. “Girls!” Babs said, almost in a whisper, “I don’t feel real. I just can’t.” Then she added as she lifted her head to listen, “Hark! Virginia, what is that howling noise ahead of us? It sounds like a pack of wolves. Hadn’t we better go back? Won’t they tear us to pieces?”
Virginia, until that moment had quite forgotten the pack of wolf-like Indian dogs that guarded the inner entrance of the narrow canyon. Perhaps it would be unwise for them to ride further unless they were accompanied by someone who could assure the dogs that they were friends. But at that very moment the problem was solved for, silhouetted against the light at the far end of the canyon, there appeared a slender Indian girl riding on a graceful, wiry pony.
“Good!” exclaimed Virg, “There’s Winona, so now we may ride forward without fear.”
Babs was so excited at the mere thought of meeting an Indian girl in an Indian village that the real object of their visit was somewhat lost to her thought. What would Winona look like she was wondering as they rode along single file. How queer that such a fine girl as Virginia Davis should have an Indian maiden as an intimate friend, and yet, it was true for she herself had heard Virg say how greatly she admired Winona.
A few moments later, when they had reached the inner entrance to the fertile bowl-like valley, Babs understood the charm of the Indian girl who so simply and sincerely had welcomed them to her home. Later, as Barbara and Margaret were riding side by side following the other two the impulsive Babs exclaimed, “Oh, Megsy, isn’t she truly beautiful? How her dark eyes glow and do see those thick shiny black braids that hang far below her waist. I just know that I am going to love her, too.”
“She is beautiful,” Margaret agreed, “but I think it is because there is something truly noble about her face. Virginia has told me that Winona longed to go away to school but she relinquished her desire that she might remain here and teach the little Papago children and help her own people.”
“I wonder what school she would attend. I suppose the girls in Vine Haven would deem themselves too good to associate with her.”
Margaret laughed gaily. “Too good to associate with a princess?” she inquired. “For that is what Winona really is; an Indian princess; the daughter of Chief Grey Hawk.”
“Is she really?” Bab’s eyes were wide and glowing. Then she added, as she glanced about at the small scattered adobe houses over the doors of which red peppers were festooned to dry in the sun, “Margaret, where do you suppose we are going to sleep? In one of those little huts? They look sort of skeery to me, but maybe that’s because they are so different from houses with which I am familiar. I love this place, though. It’s so wild and picturesque; exactly what one would wish an Indian village to be. Shouldn’t you think so, Megsy?”
Margaret smiled at her impulsive chattery friend and nodded, “I’m ever so interested in it too,” she replied. “See yonder, in the shade of that big thorny cactus, two Indian women are squatted on the ground weaving baskets. I wish I might buy one. I always adored the Indian things Betsy Clossen had in our room at school”
Then, irrelevantly: “Oh Megsy, do you suppose that you will ever be my room-mate again back in dear old Vine Haven?”
“It’s hard to tell, Babs. It all depends on what will happen. If I am able to go, then our darling Virg will go too.”
“Ohee, how wonderful that would be!” the irrepressible Babs exclaimed.
“Let’s gallop,” Margaret suggested. “Virginia is beckoning to us.”