Jane did not try to detain him, and the lad fairly leaped up the road to the Heger cabin. He found the trapper, who had just returned from a ride over the other side of the mountain. “Take this hoss,” he said, when he had heard the story which fairly tumbled from Dan’s mouth. “Ol’ Bag-o’-Bones ain’t a bit tired, and he’s the best hoss I have on the place.”
Then the man held out a strong hand as he said: “Dan, boy, I hope my gal made it! She would if anyone could.”
Dan silently returned the clasp, then he mounted the horse, that was not at all what its name might suggest, but lean and wiry, as were all of the mustangs of the West, with hard muscles and a loping step that carried it down the road, sure-footed and with great rapidity. Jane heard the halloo when he passed, but she did not stir. She felt that she never could move again until she had learned the news that Meg would have for them.
And Meg, far down the mountain, looked up and saw Bag-o’-Bones, her foster-father’s favorite horse, descending with speed, and, believing it to be ridden by Mr. Heger, she wondered why, at that hour, he was in such haste. But at a lower turn of the road, she saw that the figure on the horse was that of the lad from the East, who as yet did not know how to ride as they did in the West.
Then she knew why he was coming, and for the first time in her lonely, isolated life, there was a sudden warmth in her heart. She had a real friend, she knew that instinctively, and his name was Dan Abbott.
CHAPTER XXII.
MEG’S CONFIDENCE
As soon as Dan was near enough to see Meg’s face, he knew that all was well. Leaping from the back of the dusty gray horse, he went forward with both hands outheld. “Miss Heger,” he cried, and his voice was tense with emotion, “how can I, how are we ever going to thank you for what you have done for us today?”
The girl’s radiant smile flashed up at him. “Be my friend,” she said simply, and, as the lad stood there looking deep into those wonderful dark eyes, he seemed to feel that no greater privilege could be accorded him than to be permitted to be the friend of this courageous, rarely beautiful mountain girl.
But she did not give him the opportunity to voice his feeling, for at once she said in a matter-of-fact tone: “Wasn’t I lucky to reach the county court-house at five minutes to five? Pal and I have been congratulating each other all the way home.”
“Poor Pal!” Dan stroked the drooping head of the faithful little animal which had raced down the rough mountain road as he had never raced before. Then, quite irrelevantly, the youth asked: “Would you mind if I call you Margaret? It fits you better than Meg.” Instantly Dan was sorry he had made the request, for he saw the sudden clouding of the girl’s brow. The joyousness of the moment before was gone and when she spoke there was a note of sorrow in her voice. “Mr. Abbott,” she began with sweet seriousness, “I forgot when I said that your friendship would be the reward I would ask, yours and Julie’s and Gerald’s—I forgot who I am, or rather that I do not know who my parents were. My real name is not Meg. Mammy Heger called me that after a little sister of hers who had died when a baby. Mammy loved that other Meg and so it meant a great deal to her to call me by that name.” Then, sighing wistfully: “I wish I knew my real name,” she concluded.