Norton Carol
The Phantom Town Mystery

CHAPTER XVI
SEARCHING FOR CLUES

The four young people in the loft listened as Mr. Newcomb closed the gate to the hen-yard, then, when they heard him leaving, Jerry said, “I reckon we’re alone now, so let’s get ahead with the box opening ceremony.”

“Oh, Big Brother,” Mary, quite recovered from her recent fright, exclaimed. “Let’s make a real ceremony of it, shall we? Let’s kneel on the floor; you boys at the sides and we girls at the ends. There now, let’s all lift at once and together.”

“Wait!” Dora cried, detaining them. “Just to add to the suspense, let’s each tell what we expect to find in the box.”

Mary looked across at her friend vaguely. “Why, I’m sure I don’t know. What do you hope that we’ll find, Jerry?”

“I reckon what we want to find is something that will help us locate Little Bodil,” the cowboy replied.

“And yet,” Dick put in wisely, “since Little Bodil was thrown from the stage coach forty years ago, how can anything that was already in her trunk prove to us whether she was devoured by wild animals or carried away by bandits?”

“Oh-oo!” Mary shuddered. “I don’t know which would be worse.”

Dora was agreeing with Dick. “You’re right of course,” she said thoughtfully, “but, nevertheless I’ve a hunch that we’ll find something that will, in some roundabout way, prove to us whether Little Bodil is dead or alive.”

“Now, if that’s settled, let the ceremony proceed,” Jerry announced. In the dim lantern light Mary’s fair face and Dora’s olive-tinted glowed with excited animation as they took hold of the trunk ends.

The top, however, did not come off as readily as they had anticipated. The many winter storms and the burning summer heat to which the box had been exposed had warped the cover, binding it tight. Jerry, glancing about the room, found a broken tool which he could use as a wedge. With it he loosened the cover. Then it was easily removed.

The first emotion was one of disappointment. The small trunk contained little, nothing at all, the young people decided, that could be considered as a clue. There was a plaid woolen dress for a child of about eight or ten and the coarsest of home-made underwear, knit stockings and a small pair of carpet slippers with patched soles.

A hand-carved wooden doll, in a plaid dress, which evidently had been made by the child, had been lovingly wrapped in a small red shawl. Lastly, tied up in a quilted blue bonnet with the strings, was a carved wooden bowl and spoon.

In the flickering lantern light, the expression on the four faces changed from eager excitement to genuine disappointment.

“Not a clue among them,” Dora announced dramatically.

“Not a line of writing of any kind, is there?” Mary was confident that she knew the answer to her question before she asked it.

Dick was closely scrutinizing the empty leather box. “Usually in mystery stories,” he looked up from his inspection to say, “there’s a lining in the trunk and the lost will, or, what have you, is safely reposing under it, but unfortunately Little Bodil’s trunk has no lining nor hide-it-away places of any kind.”

Mary was holding the small doll near to the lantern and the others saw tears in her pitying blue eyes. Suddenly she held the doll comfortingly close as she said, a sob in her voice, “Poor little old wooden dollie, all these long years you’ve been waiting, wondering, perhaps, why Little Bodil didn’t take you out and mother you.”

“Like Eugene Fields’ ‘Little Toy Dog,’” Dora said, looking lovingly at her friend. Then, “Mary, you can write the sweetest verses. Someday when we’re back at school, write about Little Bodil’s wooden doll. It may make you famous.” Then she modified, “At least it will help you fill space in ‘The Sunnybank Say-So.’”

“Promise to send me a copy if she does,” Jerry said.

Dick, who had not been listening, had at last given up hope of finding a scrap of writing. He had felt in the small pocket of the plaid dress and had closely examined the quilted hood.

“Well,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “since there isn’t a clue to be found, shall we put the things back into the trunk and go in?”

“I reckon we might as well,” Jerry acquiesced. “We’ll have to be up early tomorrow so that we can drive the girls over to Gleeson along about noon.”

Dora was examining the hand-carved wooden bowl and long wooden spoon. “I wonder if Little Bodil’s father made this leaf pattern on the handle,” she said, then began, jokingly, “If I were a trance medium, I would say, as I hold this article, I feel the presence of someone who, when alive in the flesh, dearly loved the child, Little Bodil. This someone, this spirit presence that we cannot see with our outward eyes, wishes very much to help us find a clue.” Dora’s voice had become mysteriously low.

Lifting her eyes slowly from the wooden bowl, she gazed intently at a dark corner where junk was piled.

Mary’s gaze followed. “Goodness, Dora!” she implored nervously, “don’t stare that way into space. Anyone would think that you saw someone and – ”

“I’m not sure but that I do see something.” Dora’s tone had changed to one of startled seriousness. “Jerry,” she continued, pointing toward the dark corner, “don’t you see a palely luminous object over there?”

“I reckon I do,” the cowboy agreed. “But one thing I’m sure is, it can’t be a ghost since there isn’t any such thing.”

“How do we know that – ” Dora began when Mary, clutching her friend’s arm, whispered excitedly, “I see it now! Oh, Jerry, if it isn’t a ghost, what is it?”

“We’ll soon know.” There was no fear in the cowboy’s voice as he leaped to his feet and walked toward the corner. The girls watched breathlessly expecting to see the apparition fade into darkness, but, if anything, it seemed clearer, as Jerry approached it.

His hearty laugh dispelled their fears before he explained, “The moon is rising. That’s moonlight coming in through a long crack in the wall.” Then, with a shrug which told his disbelief in all things supernatural, he dismissed the subject with, “I reckon that’s as near being a ghost as anything ever is.”

Mary was tenderly placing the coarse little undergarments back into the small trunk. Dora less sentimental than her friend, nevertheless felt a pitying sadness in her heart as she refolded the little plaid dress and laid it on top. Before closing the box, Mary, still on her knees, looked up at Jerry, her eyes luminous. “Big Brother,” she said, “do you think Little Bodil would mind if I kept her doll? It’s a funny, homely little thing with only a wooden heart, but I can’t get over feeling that it’s lonesome and needs comforting.”

Jerry’s gray eyes were very gentle as he looked down at the girl. His voice was a bit husky as he replied, “I reckon Little Bodil would be grateful to you if she knew. She probably set a store by that doll baby.”

He held out a strong brown hand to help her to rise and there was a tenderness in the clasp.

Dora had not packed the wooden bowl and spoon. “I would so like to keep these,” she said, adding hastily, “Of course, if Little Bodil is found, I’ll give them back to her. Don’t you think it would be all right?”

“Sure thing!” Dick replied. Stooping, he picked up the worn little carpet slippers, saying, “You overlooked these, girls, while you were packing.”

“Oh, so we did.” Dora reached up a hand to take them, then she hesitated, inquiring, “Why don’t you and Jerry each take one for a keepsake, or don’t boys care for such things?” Dick took one of the slippers and dropped it, unconcernedly, into a deep leather pocket. The other slipper he handed to Jerry who stowed it away. The boys replaced the cover of the box, not without difficulty, and then they all four stood for a silent moment looking down at it with varying emotions. Mary spoke in a small awed voice. “What shall we do with the little box?”

“I reckoned we’d leave it here,” Jerry began, then asked, “What were you thinking about it?”

“I was wondering,” Mary said, looking from one to another with large star-like eyes, “if it wouldn’t be a good plan to take the box up to the rock house and leave it there.”

“Why, Mary Moore,” Dora was frankly amazed, “you wouldn’t dare climb up there and be looked at by that Evil Eye Turquoise, would you?”

Before Mary could reply, Jerry said, “The plan is a good one, all right, but we’d better leave it here, I reckon, till we know if there’s any way to get up to the rock house. The cliff that broke off in front of it used to be Mr. Pedersen’s stairway.”

Mary agreed and so they ascended the wall ladder. As they stood in the harness-room below, Mary said in a low voice, “Although we have not found a clue, that trunk has done one thing; it has made me feel in my heart that Little Bodil was a real child. Before, it seemed to me more like a fanciful story. Now, more than ever, I hope that somewhere we will find a clue that will someday prove to us that no harm came to the little girl.”

Jerry had picked up the second lantern and, taking Mary’s arm, he led her through the low door and along the dark path. Neither spoke. Dora and Dick followed, walking single file. Dora, remembering the dead snakes, glanced about, but Mr. Newcomb had thoughtfully buried them, not wishing the girls to be needlessly startled.

At the kitchen door, the boys said good night and returned to their bunk house out near the corral.

CHAPTER XVII
A WOODEN DOLL

The girls, with the lantern Jerry had given them, tip-toed through the darkened hall to their bedroom. Mary placed the lantern on the table, and, after having kissed the little wooden doll good night, she put it to bed on a cushioned chair. She smiled wistfully up at Dora. “What is there about even a poor forlorn homely wooden doll that stirs in one’s heart a sort of mother love?”

“I guess you’ve answered your own question,” Dora replied in her matter-of-fact tone. “I never felt that way about dolls. In fact, I never owned one after the cradle-age.” Then, fearing that Mary would think that she was critical of her sentiment, she hurried on to say, “I always wanted tom-boy, noisy toys that I could romp around with.” Then, gazing lovingly at Mary, she added, “Someday you’ll make a wonderful mother. I hope you’ll want to name one of your little girls after me. How would Dorabelle do?”

“Fine!” Mary smiled her approval of the name. “There must be four girls so that the oldest may have my mother’s name and the other three be called Dorabelle, Patsy and Polly. What’s more, I hope each one will grow up 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 asked in 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 she replied 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 merely as the Big Brother, which so frequently she called him. However, before entirely giving up, she asked, “If you have little boys, what will you name them?”

Mary laughed, not at all suspecting her friend’s real reason for all the questioning. “That’s an easy one to answer,” she said artlessly. “The oldest, of course, will be named after Dad. The other two – if – why, Dick and Jerry will do as well as any, and yet,” she paused and seemed to think a bit, then merrily she said, “Dora, let’s postpone all this christening for ten years at least. The fond father of the brood may want to have a finger in the pie.”

Dora thought, “Mary’s voice sounds amused. Maybe she’s wise to my scheming. I’d better soft pedal it, if I’m ever going to get at the truth.”

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 our agreement to both remain old maids, me to teach school and you to keep house for me.” Again she yawned, saying sleepily, “Good night and pleasant dreams.”

It was daybreak when the girls woke up. Already there were sounds of activity within and without. Barnyard fowls were clamoring, each in its own way, for the breakfast which Dick was carrying to them.

Jerry – in the cow corral – was milking under difficulties as a long-legged calf was noisily demanding a share.

From the kitchen came faintly the clatter of dishes, a sizzling sound and a 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 the hot viands.

Jerry and Dick welcomed them with delighted grins and Mr. Newcomb gave them each a fatherly pat as he passed.

“How will you girls spend the morning?” Jerry inquired. “Dick and I have branding to do and I reckon you wouldn’t care to ‘spectate’ as an old cowboy we once had used to say.”

Mary shuddered. “I certainly do not,” she declared. “I hope branding doesn’t hurt the poor calf half as much as it would hurt me to watch it.”

“The thing that gets me,” Dick, still a tenderfoot, commented, “is the smell of burning hair and flesh. I can’t get used to it.” Then, glancing half apologetically toward Mrs. Newcomb, he said, “Not a very nice breakfast subject, is it?”

Placidly that good woman replied, “On a ranch one gets used to unappetizing subjects – sort of like nurses do in hospitals, I suppose. During meals is about all the time cowmen have to talk over what they’ve been 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 dust and – ”

“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 truly wished 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 to send a parcel over to Etta Dooley. What’s more, I’d like Mary and Dora to meet Etta. She’s about your age, dear.” She had turned toward Mary. “A fine girl, we think, but a mighty lonesome one, yet never a word of complaint. She has four to cook for – five counting herself – and beside that, there’s the patching and the cleaning. Then in between times she’s studying to try to pass the Douglas high school examinations, hoping someday to be a teacher. You’ll both like Etta. Don’t you think they will, Jerry?”

“Why, I reckon she’s likeable,” the cowboy said indifferently. He was thinking how much more enthusiasm he could have put into that reply if his mother had asked, “Etta will like Mary, won’t she, Jerry?” Rising, he smiled down at the girl of whom he was thinking. “I’ll go and saddle Dusky for you,” he told her. “She’s as easy riding as a rocking horse and as pretty a creature as we ever had on Bar N.”

When the boys were gone, the girls insisted on washing the breakfast dishes. Then they made their beds. As they expected, they found the saddled ponies waiting for them near the side door.

Mrs. Newcomb gave Mary a flat, soft parcel. “Slip it over your saddle horn, dear,” she suggested, “and tell Etta that the flannel in the parcel is 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 near flank lovingly. “I used to ride this one all over the range, and even into town, when we were both younger,” she told them.

The girls cantered leisurely down the cottonwood shaded lane and then turned, not toward the right which led to the highway, but toward the left on a rough canyon road that ascended gradually up a low tree-covered mountain.

Brambly bushes grew along the trail showing that the ground was not entirely dry. A curve in the road revealed the reason. A wide, stony creek-bed was ahead of them, and, in the middle of it, was a crystal-clear, rushing stream.

The horses waded through the water spatteringly. Old Reliable seemed not to notice the little whirlpools at his feet, but Dusky put back his ears and did a bit of side stepping. Mary, unafraid, spoke gently and patted his glossy neck. With a graceful leap, the bank was reached. There was a steep scramble for both horses; loose rock rattled down to the brook bed.

When they were on the rutty, climbing road again, Dora laughingly remarked, “Dusky already knows the voice of his mistress.” If there was a hidden meaning in Dora’s remark, Mary did not notice it, for what she said was, “Dora, who would ever expect a cowboy to be poetic, but Jerry surely was when he named this horse, don’t you think so?”

“Yeah!” Dora replied inelegantly. To herself she thought, “That may be a hopeful sign, thinking Jerry is a poet in cowboy guise.”

“It’s lovely up this canyon road, isn’t it?” All unconsciously Mary was gazing about her, contentedly drinking in the beauty of the cool, shadowy, rocky places on either side. Aspen, ash and cottonwood trees grew 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 very old log hut with adobe-filled cracks. A lean-to on one side had recently been put up. In a small, fenced-in yard were a dozen hens, and down nearer the brook was a garden patch. Two small, red-headed boys in overalls were there busily weeding. Near them, on a grassy plot, a spotted cow was tethered. Back of the house, hanging on a line, was a rather nondescript wash, but, nevertheless, it was clean.

The front door stood open but no one was in sight. Mary and Dora, leaving the road, turned their horses toward the small house.

“I feel sort of queer,” Mary said, “sort of story-bookish – coming to call on a strange girl in this romantic canyon and – ”

“Sh-ss!” Dora warned. “Someone’s coming to the door.”

CHAPTER XVIII
A STRANGE HOSTESS

Etta Dooley, evidently unused to receiving calls, stood in the open door, her rather sad mouth and her fine hazel eyes unsmiling. Her plain brown cloth dress hid the graceful lines of her young form. She was wondering and waiting.

Mary and Dora dismounted, and, as the red-headed, ten-year-old twins had come pell-mell from the garden, Mary, smiling down at them in her captivating way, asked them not to let the horses wander far from the house. Then, with the same irresistible smile, she approached the still silent, solemn girl.

“Good morning, Etta,” Mary said brightly, pretending not to notice the other girl’s rather disconcerting gaze. “We are friends of Mrs. Newcomb, and she wanted us to become acquainted with you. I am Mary Moore. I live in Gleeson across the valley and Dora Bellman is my best friend from the East.”

Etta’s serious face lighted for a brief moment with a rather melancholy smile as she acknowledged the introduction.

Dora thought, “Poor girl, if that’s the best she can do, how cruel life must have been to her, yet she isn’t any older than we are, I am sure. I wish we could make her forget for a moment. I’d like to see her really smile.”

Etta had stepped to one side and was saying in her grave, musical voice, “Won’t you come in?” Then a dark red flush suffused her tanned face as she added, not without embarrassment, “Though there aren’t two safe chairs for you to sit on. The children made them, such as they are, out of boxes.”

Mary, ever able to blithely cope with any situation, exclaimed sincerely, “Oh, Etta, it’s so gloriously lovely outdoors today, let’s sit here. I’ll take the stump and you two may have the fallen tree.”

Then, as Etta glanced back into the room, half hesitating, Mary asked, “Were you busy about something?”

“Nothing special,” Etta replied. “I wanted to see if we had wakened Baby Bess. She sleeps late and I like to have her.” Again the hazel eyes were sad. The reason was given. “She hasn’t been well since Mother died.” There was a sudden fierce tenderness in her voice as she added, “I can’t lose Baby Bess. She’s so like our mother.”

Then, as though amazed at her own unusual show of feeling before strangers, Etta sank down on the log and shut herself away from them behind a wall of reserve.

But Mary, baffled though she momentarily was, knew that Aunt Mollie was counting on the good their friendship would do Etta, and so, glancing about, she exclaimed, “I love that rushing brook! It seems so happy, sparkling in the sun and singing all the time.”

Dora helped out with, “This surely is a beauty spot here under the trees. It’s the prettiest place I’ve seen since I’ve been in Arizona.”

“I like it,” Etta said, then with unexpected tenseness she added, “I’d love it, oh, how I’d love it, if it were our own and not charity.”

Dora thought, “Now we’re getting at the down-deepness of things. Poor, but so proud! I wonder who in the world these Dooleys are. The name doesn’t suggest nobility.” But aloud she asked no questions. One just didn’t ask Etta about her personal affairs.

Dora groped for something that she could say that would start the conversational ball rolling, but, for once, she had a most unusual dearth of ideas.

Luckily there came a welcome break in the silence which was becoming embarrassing to the kindly intentioned visitors.

A sweet trilling baby-voice called, “Etta, I’se ’wake.”

Instantly their strange hostess was on her feet, her eyes love-lighted, her voice eager. “I’ll bring her out. It’s warm here in the sunshine.”

While Etta was gone, Mary and Dora exchanged despairing glances which seemed to say, “We’ve come to a hurdle that we can’t jump over.” Aloud they said nothing, for, almost at once Etta reappeared. In her arms was a two-year-old; a pretty child with sleep-flushed cheeks, corn-flower blue eyes and tousled hair as yellow as cornsilk. Etta’s expression told her love and pride in her little darling.

Baby Bess gazed unsmilingly at Dora as though she knew that here was someone who did not care for dolls, then she turned to look at Mary. Instantly she leaned toward her and held out both chubby arms, her sudden smile sweet and trusting.

Dora, watching Etta, saw a fleeting change of expression. What was it? Could Etta be jealous? But no, it wasn’t that, for she gave Mary her first real smile of friendship.

“Baby Bess likes you,” she said. “That means you must be very nice. Would you like to hold her?”

“Humph!” Dora thought as she watched Mary reseating herself on the stump and gathering the small child into her arms, “I reckon then I’m not nice.”

After that, with the child contentedly nestling in Mary’s arms, the ice melted in the conversational stream. Of her own accord Etta spoke of school. She asked how far along the girls were and astonished them by telling what she was doing, subjects far in advance of them.

Then came the surprising information that her father and mother had both been college graduates and had taught her. She had never attended a school. She in turn taught the twins. Then, in a burst of confidence which Dora rightly guessed was very foreign to her reserved nature, Etta said, “My father lost a fortune four years ago. He made very unwise investments. After that Mother’s health failed and we came West. Dad did not know how to earn money. He grew old very suddenly,” then, once again, despair made her face far older than her years. She threw her arms wide. “All this tells the rest of our story.”

Mary’s blue eyes held tears of sympathy which she hid in the child’s yellow curls. Etta would not want sympathy.

Luckily at that moment there came a welcome interruption. A gay hallooing lower down the road announced the approach of Dick and Jerry.

Dora could see Etta rebuilding her wall of reserve. She acknowledged the introduction to Dick with a formal, unsmiling bow. Baby Bess kept the situation from becoming awkward by welcoming Jerry with delighted crows and leaps. The tall cowboy, his sombrero pushed back on his head, took her in his strong hands and lifted her high. The child’s gurgling excited laughter was like the rippling laughter of the mountain brook. After a few moments Jerry gave the baby to Etta. The twins came around a clump of cottonwood trees leading the horses, their freckled faces bright with wide grins, their Irish blue eyes laughing. Not for them the anxiety and sorrow that so crushed their big sister.

Jerry tossed them coins to pay them for the care they had taken of the ponies. Dora, glancing quickly at Etta, saw that the troubled expression was again brooding in her eyes.

Later, when Mary and Dora had said goodbye to their new friend and were riding away up the canyon road, Dora said, “Jerry, doesn’t it seem queer to you that the boys are so different from their sister? I should almost think that she belonged to an entirely different family.”

“A changeling, perhaps,” Dick suggested.

“Me no sabe,” the cowboy replied lightly. He was thinking of a very pleasant dream of his own just then.

Mary said with fervor, “Anyway, whoever she is, I think she is a darling girl and the baby is adorable. I wish that we lived nearer that we might see her oftener, Dora.” Then, before her friend could reply, Mary added brightly, “Oh, Jerry, I know where you are taking us. You want to show Dick your own five hundred acres, don’t you? It’s the loveliest spot in all the country round, I think.”

Jerry’s gray eyes brightened. “That’s what I hoped you would think, Little Sister,” he said in a low voice, which the other two, following, could not hear.

They had gone about half a mile up the winding, slowly climbing road when Jerry stopped. The mountain had flattened out in a wide grass-covered tableland moistened by many underground springs.

Jerry waved his left hand. “This all was blue and yellow with wild flowers after the spring rains,” he told them. Mary turned her horse off the road and went to the edge of the hurrying brook.

“See, Dick,” she called, “this is where Jerry is going to build him a house some day. His granddad willed it to him. It takes in the part of the canyon where the Dooleys are, doesn’t it?”

“Close to it,” Jerry replied. “Their garden is on my line, but Dad and I will never put up fences.”

“Of course not!” Dora exclaimed. “Since you are the only child, it will all be yours.”

“There’s a jolly fine view from here,” Dick said admiringly as he sat on his horse gazing across the valley to the far range beyond Gleeson.

As they rode back down the valley Dora was thinking, “How can Mary help knowing that Jerry hopes that she will be the one to live in the house he plans building?” Then, with a little shrug, her thought ended with, “Oh well, and oh well, the future will reveal all.”

Down the road Mary was saying, “Jerry, I didn’t give that flannel to Etta. I just couldn’t. I was afraid she would think that we had come only for charitable reasons. Of course we did in the beginning, but, afterwards, I was so glad something had given me a chance to meet her.”

A solution was offered by the sudden appearance of the twins by the roadside.

Jerry, slipping the parcel from Mary’s saddle horn, tossed it down, calling, “This is for Baby Bess, tell Sister Etta.”

Mary flashed him a bright, relieved smile as they went on down the canyon road.