CHAPTER III
THE GETTING-ACQUAINTED TRIP
“If—if you’ll excuse me, Virginia, I’d—I’d really rather stay at home with Hannah and your father.”
It was Vivian who spoke. She was clad in a new riding-suit, which had been worn only during a few trembling and never-to-be-forgotten moments of the day before, when Donald had led the oldest and safest horse on the ranch to and fro beneath the cottonwoods. Old Siwash would never have thrown Vivian. Far was it from him to treat a guest of his mistress in that manner. But in spite of stirrups, saddle-horn, and the reassuring presence of Donald, Vivian had, in some mysterious way, slipped from the saddle, and fallen in an ignominious little heap by the wayside.
It had been more ignominious to have Priscilla and Mary, who had themselves been riding but an hour, come cantering—actually cantering—up with 24 Virginia to see if she were hurt. She almost wished she had been hurt. If her leg had been broken, or old Siwash had kicked, or even her face been cut just a little, she might have been regarded not exactly as a heroine, perhaps, but as a martyr at least. However, nothing was broken except her spirit; old Siwash had stood stock-still; and her face had shown no sign of anything save fright and dirt. The whole situation was quite too much to be borne, and did not need the disdainful glance which the critical blue eyes of Carver Standish had cast upon her.
The Vigilantes had been lovely as they led their horses and walked to the house with her; Aunt Nan, who had had her first lesson with Malcolm Keith that morning, was comforting; Mr. Hunter encouraging; and Donald the finest boy she had ever known in her life. It had really seemed as though, with them all to stand by her, she could mount again the next morning and go on the much-dreamed of getting-acquainted trip to Lone Mountain. But now the time to go had come, and her courage had fled. She had beckoned Virginia from the corral where 25 the men were saddling the horses, and drawn her away to a secluded spot. Virginia did not need Vivian’s confession. Her frightened face was quite enough.
“I—I just can’t do it, Virginia!” she finished.
Virginia considered for a long moment. Then her clear gray eyes met Vivian’s frightened blue ones.
“Vivian,” she said, “perhaps you’ll be angry with me for speaking so plainly to you, but I’ve just got to do it. If you don’t want the Vigilantes to be dead ashamed of you, here’s your chance this minute! I believe way down in my heart that things come to us so that we can show what’s really in us—how—how far down we’ve been putting our roots into good soil, you know. Now this has come to you! There isn’t a thing to be afraid of except just Fear, which I admit is a monster; but if you let that control you, you’ll spoil your whole life. Jim used to teach me that. Siwash wouldn’t hurt a baby! I rode him when I was four years old. We’re just going to trail up the mountain as slowly as can be, and Don will ride with you every minute. When 26 there are really things to be afraid of, people excuse a coward; but when there isn’t a thing in this world, they don’t! So if you don’t come, Vivian, and show us what you are made of, you’re a coward inside, that’s all!”
It was hard, blunt doctrine, built on seventeen years of wholesome life in a land where cowardice has found no room; but at that moment it was just what Vivian Winters needed. From her frightened heart the fear of Siwash fled only to give place to a more dreadful fear, the contempt and scorn of the Vigilantes. Better be thrown by Siwash than despised by Virginia and Priscilla, Mary and the far-away Dorothy. She had no time to tell Virginia that she would go after all, and to ask her to try to forget her cowardice, for the boys called just then that all was ready. But Virginia understood, for as they hurried toward the corral she held Vivian’s hand closely in her own, and gave it a final, encouraging squeeze, as Vivian edged a cautious way toward Siwash and the faithful Donald.