Virginia's Ranch Neighbors

by Grace May North

Virg nodded, then for the first time glanced at the second letter that she held. “Oh, good, this is from our Winona and since it was written on the train, she may be in her walled-in village home this very minute.”

“May we all hear what she has written?” Babs asked.

“Of course,” Virginia made herself comfortable on the window seat and then began to read. Malcolm, having excused himself, had retired to his own room for a much needed nap.

Dear White Lily:

At last I am homeward bound glad, deep in the heart of me, that I have learned a way to be of real service to my father’s people, who, having lost faith in their old Medicine Man, had no one to whom they could take their little ones when they were hurt or ill.

I shall be there in two days, and, dear friend, I am not alone. With me is a comrade of my childhood, but I must tell you how it all happened.

One day when I went on duty, I found in the ward much excitement for a lad who was being called brave had been brought in and no one knew who he was. He was too exhausted to be conscious it seemed, for he had no real illness and so could not tell about himself.

The story was that in one of the city tenements a plague broke out which terrorized the neighborhood. Many became ill and those who were not strong died. It was so terrible a plague that few volunteered to help. Kind old Doctor Quinton gave his services and risked his life but alone he could do little. It was when he was completely worn out that this youth, who said that he was a medical student, volunteered to take the place of the good doctor while he took a much needed rest. Nor would the lad leave his post when the older physician returned. They were too much occupied with real service to ask who he might be or from where he had come, but, at last, he too had succumbed, not to the plague but to weariness and they had brought him to the hospital.

I listened to the story and said that I would like to see the lad who had been willing to sacrifice his life for humanity.

White Lily, when I saw him, so thin and tired, lying on a cot in the ward, I knew him at once. It was Fleet Foot, one of the Papago boys who accompanied the kindly missionary who had taken three of our lads as you recall, to a school for Indian boys. I had not seen him since that long ago day, but he had changed little.