The Camp Fire Girls at Onoway House Part 5

The front lawn was chosen as the site of the tepee, as that was the only spot big enough. d.i.c.k, Tom and Mr. Landsdowne set the poles in a circle to make the supporting framework, and the girls made the covering of heavy sail cloth, which fitted snugly over the poles and had an opening in the center of the top, and another one lower down for the entrance.

When done it would easily accommodate fifteen or sixteen persons. An iron kettle was sunk into the ground in the center of the tepee. This would hold sticks of wood soaked in kerosene, which is the secret of a quickly lighted council fire, and also the alcohol and salt mixture which is an indispensable part of all ghost story telling parties. The gra.s.s around the kettle was pulled up, leaving a ring of bare earth, which would prevent accident from the fire spreading.

The whole thing was completed two days before the Fourth. A big sign, WINNEBAGO MEDICINE LODGE, was hung over the entrance. Underneath it a sign in smaller letters proclaimed that at the Fourth Sundown of the Thunder Moon the big medicine man Face-Toward-the-Mountain would "make medicine" in the lodge for the benefit of the Winnebago tribe and their paleface friends. The "paleface friends" referred to were Mrs. Gardiner, Betty and Tom and Ophelia, Mr. and Mrs. Landsdowne and Calvin Smalley, who were invited to see the show.

"It's a shame Aunt Phbe and the Doctor have to miss it," said Hinpoha.

It was rumored that a real Indian princess would be present at the medicine making, i.e., Sahwah in her Indian dress that Mr. Evans had sent her from Canada, and excitement ran high among the invited guests as hint after hint trickled out as to the elaborateness of the ceremonial, which was to eclipse anything yet attempted in that line by the Winnebagos, which was saying a great deal. Migwan had been seen doing a great deal of surrept.i.tious writing of late and at bed time the Winnebagos had taken to congregating in the big, back bedroom and locking the doors, and soon there would issue forth sounds of much talking and laughter, so that a really experienced listener would almost suspect there was a play in process of rehearsal. "Let's reh-you know,"

said Migwan to Gladys, when the last touches had been put on the tepee, suddenly cutting her words short and making a hand sign to finish her sentence.

"Do you mind if I don't just now," answered Gladys, "I have such a bad headache I think I will lie down for a while. It must have been the sun glaring on the white canvas."

"I have one too," said Hinpoha, "it must have been the sun. I'll come later when Gladys does," she said to Migwan, with an aggravatingly mysterious hand sign.

At supper time Ophelia refused to eat and moped in a manner quite foreign to her. Her eyes were red and it looked as though she had been crying. After supper she still sat by herself in a corner of the porch and made no effort to trap the girls into telling their plans for the Fourth as she had been doing all day. "Come and play Blind-Man's-Buff on the lawn," called Migwan. Ophelia raised her head and looked at her listlessly, but made no effort to join in the merry game.

"Don't you feel well?" asked Nyoda, noting her languid manner. "Child, what makes your eyes so red?" she said, turning Ophelia's face toward the light.

"I don't know," said Ophelia, wriggling out of her grasp, and putting her head down on her knee.

"Come, let me put you to bed," said Nyoda. "I'm afraid you're going to be sick." In the morning Ophelia's face was all broken out and Nyoda groaned when she realized the truth. Ophelia had the measles. All preparations for the Fourth of July Ceremonial had to be called off, and the three girls in town telephoned not to come out. The sight of the tepee and all the plans it suggested called out a wail of despair every time the girls went out in the yard. On the morning of the Glorious Fourth Gladys woke to find herself spotted like a leopard.

"That must be the reason why I had such a fearful headache the other day," she said, as she took her place with the other sick one, half amused and wholly disgusted at herself for having fallen a victim.

"I had a headache too," said Hinpoha, in alarm, "I hope I'm not coming down with them. I've had them once."

"That doesn't help much," said Nyoda, "for I had them three times."

Hinpoha's fears were realized, and by night there was a third case developed. And so, instead of a grand council on the Fourth of July there was real medicine making at Onoway House. None of the sufferers were very ill, although they must remain prisoners, and they had such a jolly time in the "contagious disease ward" that Migwan and Sahwah, who were finding things rather dull on the outside, wished fervently that they had taken the measles too.

As soon as the three invalids were p.r.o.nounced entirely well there was a celebration held in honor of the occasion in the tepee. At sundown Nyoda went around beating on a tin pan covered with a cloth in lieu of a tom-tom, which was always the signal for the tribe to come together.

Tom, as runner, was dispatched to fetch the Landsdownes and Calvin Smalley. When the tribe came trooping in answer to the call, followed by the guests, they were marched in solemn file around the lawn and into the tepee. Inside there was a fire kindled in the center, with a circle of ponchos and blankets spread around it on the ground. "Bless my soul, but this is cozy," said Farmer Landsdowne, dropping down on a poncho and stretching himself comfortably.

"Now, what shall we do?" asked Nyoda, who was mistress of ceremonies, "play games or tell stories?"

"Tell stories," begged Migwan, "we haven't 'wound the yarn' for an age."

"All right," agreed Nyoda, "shall we do it the way several of the Indian tribes do?"

"How do they do it?" asked Migwan.

"Well," said Nyoda, "there is a tradition among certain tribes that if anyone refuses to tell a story when he is asked he will grow a tail like a donkey. Sometimes, however, they do not wait for Nature to perform this miracle, but fasten a tail themselves onto the one who will not entertain the crowd when he is bidden, and he must wear it until he tells a story. Their way of asking one of their number to tell one is to remark 'There is a tail to you,' as a delicate way of expressing the fate that will be his if he refuses."

"Oh, what fun!" cried Sahwah.

"And now Gladys," said Nyoda, "'there is a tail to you.'"

Gladys placed more wood on the fire, which was burning low, and returned to her seat on the blanket. "Did I ever tell you," she began, "about my Aunt Beatrice? She and my Uncle Lynn were visiting here from the West with my little cousin Beatrice, who was only six months old. They were staying in a big hotel downtown. One night they went to a party, leaving Beatrice in their room at the hotel in the care of her nurse. At the party there was a fortune teller who amused the guests by reading their palms. When it came my aunt's turn the woman said to her, 'You have had one child, who is dead.' Everybody laughed because they knew Aunt Beatrice had never lost a baby, and little Beatrice was safe and sound in the hotel that very minute. But it worried my aunt almost to death, and she couldn't enjoy herself the rest of the evening.

"Finally she said to my uncle, 'I can't stand it any longer, I must go home,' so they left the party just as the guests were sitting down to a midnight supper, and everybody made fun of her for being such a fussy young mother. When they got downtown they found the hotel in flames and the streets blocked for a long distance around. Aunt Beatrice finally broke through the fire lines and ran right past the firemen who tried to keep her out, into the burning building, and fought her way up-stairs through the smoke to her room, where she could hear a baby crying. She was blind from the smoke and could hardly see where she was going, but she picked up a rug from the floor, wrapped it around the baby and carried her out in safety. When she got outside they found it was not little Beatrice at all that she had saved, it was a strange baby. She had mistaken the room up-stairs in the smoke and carried out someone else's child. The building collapsed right after she came out and no one could go in any more. Beatrice and her nurse were lost in the fire." A murmur of horrified sympathy went around the circle in the tepee. "And,"

continued Gladys, "my Aunt Beatrice has never been herself since. She can't bear even to see a baby."

"Is that the reason you wouldn't let me bring Marian Simpson's baby over the day she left it with me to take care of?" asked Hinpoha. "I remember you said your aunt was visiting you."

"Yes, that was why," said Gladys. "And now, Mr. Landsdowne," she added, "'there is a tail to you!'"

Farmer Landsdowne stared thoughtfully into the fire for a moment, and then a reminiscent smile began to wrinkle the corners of his eyes.

"Would you like to hear a story about the old house?" he asked.

"You mean Onoway House?" asked Migwan.

Mr. Landsdowne nodded. "Only it seems strange to be calling it 'Onoway House.' It has always been known as 'Waterhouse's Place,' because old Deacon Waterhouse built it. Well, like most old houses, there are different stories told about it, but whether they are true or not, no one knows. People are so apt to believe anything they want to believe.

Well, I started out to tell you the story about the gas well. But before I tell you about the gas well I suppose I ought to tell you about the Deacon's son. Mind you, the things I am telling you are only what I have heard from the folks around here; I never knew Deacon Waterhouse. He was dead and the house empty before the farm was split up, and it wasn't until the part that I now own was offered for sale that I ever came into this neighborhood. Well, to return to the Deacon's son. They say that there never was a finer looking young fellow than Charley Waterhouse. He was a regular prince among the country boys. But he didn't care a rap about farming. All he wanted to do was read; that and take the horse and buggy and drive to town. The old Deacon was terribly disappointed, of course, for Charley was his only son, and he couldn't see that the boy wasn't cut out to be a farmer. He railed about his love of books and wouldn't give him money for schooling. Charley stood it until he was eighteen and then he ran away, after forging the Deacon's name to a check. The folks around here never saw him again. Mrs. Waterhouse died of a broken heart, they say. They also say," he added with a twinkle in his eye, "that she died before she had her attic cleaned, and that her ghost comes back at night and sets the old furniture straight up there."

Migwan and Hinpoha exchanged glances.

"Now about the gas well," resumed Mr. Landsdowne. "The Deacon was digging for water on the farm. The old well had dried up during a long, hot spell and he was bound to go deep enough this time. Down they went-two, three hundred feet, and still no good water. The ground had turned into slate and shale. The well digger lit a match down in the hole when suddenly there was a terrific explosion which caved in the sides of the well and all the dirt which was piled around the outside slid in again, completely filling it up. A vein of gas had been struck.

That very day the Deacon received word that his son was in San Francisco, dying, and wanted to see him. He forgot his anger over Charley's disgrace and started west that very night. He never came back.

He stayed in San Francisco a whole year and then died out there. While he was there he mentioned the gas well to several people, or they say he did, and that's how the story got round. But if such a thing did happen, there was never any trace of it afterward. Personally I do not believe it ever happened. But superst.i.tious folks around here say they can still hear the buried well digger striking with his pick against the earth that covers him."

"Two ghosts at Onoway House!" said Nyoda, "we are uncommonly well supplied," and the girls shivered and drew near together in mock fear.

Thus, with various stories the evening wore away, until Farmer Landsdowne, looking at his big, old-fashioned silver watch with a start, remarked that he should have been in bed an hour ago, whereupon the company broke up. Calvin Smalley went home reluctantly. That evening spent by the fire in the tepee had been a sort of wonderland to him, unused as he was to family festivities of any kind.

Nyoda lingered after the rest had gone to see that the fire in the tepee was properly extinguished. As she watched the glowing embers turn black one by one she became aware of a figure standing in the doorway. The moonlight fell directly on it and she could see that it was robed in flowing white, and instead of a face there was a hideous death's head.

Horribly startled at first she recovered her composure when she remembered that she was living in a household which were given to playing jokes on each other. Flinging up her hands in mock terror, she recited dramatically,

"Art thou some angel, some devil, or some ghost?" The figure in the doorway never moved. Nyoda picked up the thick stick with which she had stirred the fire and rushed upon the ghost as if she intended to beat it to a pulp. It flung out its arm, covered with the flowing drapery, and Nyoda dropped her weapon and staggered back against the side of the tepee, sneezing with terrible violence, her eyes smarting and watering horribly. When the force of the paroxysm had spent itself and she could open her eyes again the ghost had vanished. Blind and choking, she made her way back to the house, intent on finding out who the ghost was, who had thrown red pepper into her eyes. That it was none of the dwellers at Onoway House was clear. The girls were already partly undressed, Ophelia was in bed, and Tom was taking a foot-bath in the kitchen under the watchful supervision of his mother to see that he got himself clean. A chorus of indignation rose on every side at the outrage, when Nyoda had told her tale.

"Could it have been Calvin Smalley?" somebody asked. But this no one would believe. The boy was too gentle and manly, and too evidently delighted with his new neighbors to have done such a dastardly deed.

Then who had dressed up as a ghost and thrown red pepper at Nyoda in the tepee?

CHAPTER V.-SAHWAH MAKES A DISCOVERY.

As there was no one of their acquaintance whom they could suspect of being the ghost, the trick was laid at the door of some unknown dweller along the road with a fondness for horseplay. The girls spent the morning working quietly in the garden, and in the afternoon they went to the city in Gladys's automobile, all but Sahwah, who wanted to work on a waist she was making. Then, after the automobile was out of sight she discovered that she did not have the right kind of thread and could not work on it after all. With the prospect of a whole afternoon to herself, she decided to take a long walk. The Bartlett farm was not very large and she was soon at its boundary, and over on the Smalley property. In contrast to their little orchard and garden and meadow, the Smalley farm stretched out as far as she could see, with great corn and wheat fields, and acres of timber land. Somewhere on the place Calvin Smalley was working, and Sahwah made up her mind to find him and ask him over to Onoway House that night. But the extent of the Smalley farm was ninety-seven acres, and it was not so easy to find a person on it when one had no definite knowledge of that person's whereabouts. Sahwah walked and walked and walked, up one field and down another, shading her eyes with her hand to catch sight of the figure she was looking for. But Calvin was somewhere near the center of the cornfield, stooping near the ground, and the high stalks waved over his head and concealed him completely. Sahwah pa.s.sed by without discovering him and crossed an open field that was lying fallow. Beyond this was a strip of marsh land which was practically impa.s.sable. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances Sahwah would have turned back, but being badly in want of something better to do she tried to cross it. She had seen two boards lying in the field, and securing these she laid them down on the treacherous mud, and by standing on one and laying the other down in front of her and then advancing to that one she actually got across in safety.

On the other side of the bog she spied a little clump of trees and headed toward them, for the sun was very hot in the open and the thought of a rest in the shade was attractive. When she came nearer she saw that this little copse sheltered a cottage, old and weatherbeaten and evidently deserted. Weeds grew around it, higher than the steps and the floor of the porch, and the crumbling chimney, which ran up on the outside of the house, was covered with a thick growth of j.a.panese ivy.

"It's a regular House in the Woods," said Sahwah to herself, "only there are no dwarfs. I wonder what it's like inside," she went on in her thoughts. "Maybe we could come here sometime and build a fire-there must be a fireplace somewhere because there's a chimney-and have a Ceremonial Meeting or a picnic. How delightfully private it is!" The trees hid the house from view until one almost stumbled upon it, and then the marsh and the broad vacant field stretched between it and the farm, and behind it was the river, its banks hidden by a thick growth of willows and alders, so that the cottage was not visible to a person coming along the river in a boat. There was not a sound to be heard anywhere except the zig-a-zig of the gra.s.shoppers in the field and the swish of the hidden water as it flowed over the stones. "A grand place to have a secret meeting of the Winnebagos," said Sahwah to herself, "where we wouldn't always be interrupted by Ophelia pounding on the door and wanting to come in. I wonder if it's open?"

She stepped up on the porch and tried the door. It was locked. She peered into the window. The room she saw was absolutely empty. She could not see whether there was a fireplace or not. She was seized with a desire to enter that cottage. It was deserted and tumble down and fascinating. Whoever owned it-if anyone did, for she was not sure whether it stood on the Smalley property or not-had evidently abandoned it to the elements. There was no harm at all in trying to get in. She pushed on the window. It apparently was also locked. But she pushed again and this time she heard a crack. The rotten wood was splitting away from the rusty catch. She pushed again and the window slid up. She stepped over the sill into the room.

The window was so thick with dirt that the light seemed dim inside. At one end of the room there was an open fireplace, long unused, with the mortar falling out between the bricks. There was another door in the wall opposite the front door, so evidently there was another room beyond. This door was also locked, but the key was in the lock and it turned readily under her hand and the door swung open. Sahwah stood still in surprise. This room was as full of furniture as the other had been empty. Around all four walls stood cabinets and bookcases, and besides these there was a couch, a desk, a table and several chairs. The table was covered with screws, little wheels and the works of clocks, and before it sat an old man, busily working with them. He had on a long, shabby grey dressing-gown and a high silk hat on his head. He did not look up as she opened the door, but went right on working, apparently oblivious to her presence. She stared at him in amazement for a moment, and then, remembering her manners, realized that she had deliberately walked into a gentleman's room without knocking.

"I beg your pardon," she said, in embarra.s.sment, "I didn't know there was anyone here."

The old man looked up and saw her standing in the doorway. "Come in, come in," he said, affably, in a deep voice. Sahwah took a step into the room. The old man went back to his wheels and rods and took no more notice of her.

"What is that you're making?" asked Sahwah, curiously.