There were a good many letters—two from her husband, one from her sister, Mrs. Webster, and another from her beloved Betty Graham in Washington.
Mr. Simpson had driven to the post-office box on the Gardener ranch and returned with the mail only half an hour before. Since then he had been engaged in digging at the pathway up the side of their mesa, so as to make the ascent less difficult for the campers.
“Marie!” Polly called. But when Marie did not answer, she did not call a second time. What was it about their kind, ugly guide that seemed to inspire her maid with a kind of viciousness? Marie had just marched to the side of the mesa and was at this moment shaking Indian blankets just above Mr. Simpson’s head, while he devotedly dug and chiseled at their trail.
Marie did look ridiculously picturesque in her French maid’s costume of black and white, waving the brilliant, many-colored Indian blankets in the breeze, like some small insect with wings all too big, which seemed for the moment about to carry her over the cliff.
Mr. Simpson must have been amused also, for he climbed up his own steps to speak to her, and Mrs. Burton did not hear what he said, but saw Marie flounce and toss her head after his remark.
No one of the other girls was in sight at present.
Vera, Peggy and Bettina had taken one of the burros and gone off to stroll along the creek and gather wood which they stacked on the burro’s back for the camp fire. Sally, who was the acknowledgedly lazy one of the Camp Fire girls, was probably off pretending to read somewhere, and Gerry might possibly be with her.
But the Camp Fire guardian was glad to feel that no one was far away and that things were comparatively peaceful. Indeed, except for Bettina’s accident some little time before, which had amounted to almost nothing, they had spent several delightful weeks at camp. Now and then they, of course, took trips about the country and had seen several of the smaller nearby villages; also they had visited one of the petrified forests, but there had been no difficulties which were not amusing. And the girls seemed to be growing more friendly under the influence of the Camp Fire club life.
Polly was thinking of these facts with a degree of quiet satisfaction. Her husband’s, her friends’ and her sister’s letters had all faintly suggested possible complications. None of them appeared sure of her as a safe and sane Camp Fire guardian, no matter how good her intentions. Her husband naturally was uneasy about her health, realizing she had much responsibility to which she was unaccustomed, while Betty and Mollie were uneasy over their only daughters. Mollie really could be forgiven, for Billy had been ill for several weeks and she herself was worn with nursing. She wrote that he seemed to have greatly missed Vera’s companionship. And Mrs. Burton wondered what her eccentric little nephew could find in the companionship of the quiet Russian girl.
But at this moment she saw Gerry at some little distance off coming across the sands and then more slowly climbing up the steps of the mesa.