Chapter IV: Part 4

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I hope you’ll forgive me,” she said, speaking barely above a whisper.

“You didn’t keep us waiting at all,” Mr. Lurie said. “We had lots to discuss. But now, my dear, we’re ready, if you are.”

Minna took up her position at the piano. Her husband tapped his bow and the opening measures were begun. Minna was given her cue to start. She sang a few bars, then stopped as if displeased with the tone.

Mr. Lurie held up his bow. “We’ll start again. We play five measures, Minna, then you come in.”

The opening bars were repeated. Minna came in at the appropriate beat. She sang three bars, then another. She opened her mouth for the next high note. There was a hoarseness, a thickness, then nothing. Finally a heartbroken whisper broke the strained silence.

“John, I can’t sing—I’ve lost my voice—”

In the confusion that followed, Judy only remembered the terror in her mother’s eyes and her father’s gentleness as he calmed her.

“Karl,” Mr. Lurie said quietly, “Dr. Keene lives down the block. No use telephoning, his wire is usually busy at this hour. Go quickly and tell him to come.”

The musicians left, murmuring their sympathy. Mr. Lurie carried the inert and almost helpless Minna to her bed. She was suffering now from a chill and Judy, without having to be told, fetched the hot water bottle and extra blankets.

She returned to the parlor and stared at the empty chairs, the shining music stands, the blaze of lights. She began pacing the tiny room. All these weeks she hadn’t given a thought to her mother, thought only of Karl. She murmured an inarticulate prayer—“Oh, God, don’t take away her voice. She’ll die if she can’t sing.” Her mother’s words spoken weeks ago beat upon Judy’s memory. “Struggle to get this far—” Judy knew now that it took a great deal to make an artist, hours, days, years of work.

“God,” she murmured again, putting her fist to her mouth to keep it from trembling, “help her!”

She heard the back door open and then close. That must be the doctor. The waiting was intolerable. She put away the stands and the lamps and chairs were back in their accustomed places. Anything to keep busy! Karl tiptoed into the room, “The doctor is with your mother.”

Judy nodded. He made her sit down and clumsily patted her shoulder.

At last Dr. Keene came into the room followed by Mr. Lurie.

The doctor smiled a greeting to Judy and told John to sit down. “I want to talk to you,” he said in his breezy voice.

“If you don’t mind, I’d rather stand. Shall I send the youngsters from the room?”

“No, they can stay. Perhaps Judy can be of some help and, anyhow, it will be necessary for her to understand her mother’s condition.”

“Yes, yes!” John said impatiently. “Go on!”

“You heard me tell Minna,” the doctor proceeded calmly, “there is no visible damage to her throat or her vocal cords.”

“I thought you just said that to prevent her worrying, for psychological reasons,” John interrupted.

“Partially,” Dr. Keene nodded in agreement. “But I am convinced also this will clear up in a matter of days. If it shouldn’t,” he paused a moment, “then other measures will have to be taken. But we’re going on my diagnosis for the present until I see the necessity of changing it.”

John gave an audible sigh of relief.

“I’ve watched Minna all summer. She’s driven herself too hard, particularly as she continues the same pace all winter. She’s overworked and there are other contributing causes. Luckily, she has a fine constitution, otherwise I wouldn’t be so optimistic.”

At last John seemed calm enough to sit down. “You’re right, of course. I should have seen this thing coming. She’s taken this concert too seriously—and her teaching and her own lessons—to say nothing of helping students who should be on their own.” He spoke disjointedly. “She never spares herself.” He shook his head. “Then there’s the house, the meals, and she worries about Judy. I should have put my foot down,” he said reproaching himself.

“No, John. There’s nothing you or anyone can do about a person who has this excessive drive. Without it a great talent often peters out.”

Dr. Keene paused to light his pipe. “John, your wife needs rest, bed rest, and she is absolutely forbidden to use her voice, even to whisper. Whatever she requires or wishes to communicate must be written down. With good, light, and nourishing food, plenty of fluids, and the complete rest of her vocal cords, she will be all right.” He smiled reassuringly at Mr. Lurie. “She’ll sing at the concert. I gave her my promise and I mean to keep it.”

“Doctor, you can really promise—”

Dr. Keene nodded. “Unless something unforeseen—but I don’t anticipate any complications. I’ve come across this condition several times, particularly with pianists and singers. It is aggravated by too much exposure to the sun, later followed by a chill, exactly as was the case with Minna.”

The doctor looked thoughtful. “I would like to suggest you have a nurse except that I know that one is impossible to be had. Our Pitkin County Hospital is understaffed. Who’s going to help you, John? I know you’ve got to teach. Classes must go on—”

“Private lessons can wait or be postponed. It’s the music school that bothers me and—”

“Father,” Judy broke in, “you’re forgetting me. Dr. Keene said I could help.”

“And I’ll take your place at camp,” Karl said eagerly. “It’s only mornings and I can arrange it, if you wish, Judy.”

Dr. Keene got up. “That settles everything nicely. Judy, you and your father will relieve each other. Remember again, absolute silence on your mother’s part in her cure. I’ve given her a sedative and I advise you and your father to go to bed.”

Mr. Lurie accompanied Dr. Keene to the door and Judy followed with Karl. While the two men were exchanging some final words, Judy said, “I can’t thank you enough, Karl, for offering to help at camp. But I’m worried, too. You need every hour of practice.”

“Haven’t you enough on your mind without taking me on too? I’ll manage,” he said cheerfully. “Besides, I want to help. I’m doing very little really and Uncle Yahn won’t mind. He admires your family so much.”

He held Judy’s limp hand. “Don’t you understand how much your family and—you have meant to me this summer?”

Dr. Keene motioned to Karl and said, “Come on, young man, we’ve got to let these people get some rest.”

For four days Minna Lurie’s room was in semidarkness. No one rang the doorbell and no one was permitted to telephone. The music students came quietly, played with unusual softness and left just as unobtrusively. When Judy saw the first one arrive, she was alarmed and hastily inquired, “Shall I send the young Paderewski away?”

Minna wrote with a still unsteady hand, “No. Like hearing piano.”

Preparing three meals a day might have taxed an even older girl than Judy, but her confidence was undaunted. No worker in a scientific laboratory studied instructions with more meticulous care than Judy lavished over the fine print on boxes of jell-o, cream of wheat, or custard puddings.

The doctor smiled and told her a nurse couldn’t have been more efficient. On the following day Minna was permitted to sit in a chair for a few hours, the sun allowed to filter into the room.

Judy stood at the window, enjoying the play of the sunshine on the trees. She turned as she heard the gentle tapping of the pencil. Minna held up her pad. “I want you to go outdoors for a breath of air. Take a long walk.”

“No, Mother. Father won’t be home for hours. I won’t leave until he—”

“I’m staying with Mother and you’re to go out,” Lynne said breezily as she greeted them.

Judy warningly touched her lips. Lynne nodded, “I know the rules. I’ll do all the talking. I’ve so much to tell Minna—Now run along. I only have an hour and a half.”

As she followed Judy into the hall to speed her on her way, Judy asked, “How’s Karl making out at camp?”

“Not badly, but nothing sensational. He has too much on his mind. Three days were quite enough—I can manage for the rest of the time until you get back. Now go! To use your own overworked phrase, ‘tempus fugit!’”

Judy stood on the porch, hesitating. Where? Her feet led her unerringly to the practice room where she knew Karl would be working. She smiled joyfully as she heard his violin. She could recognize that tone no matter how many violins were playing! Hmmm, and that must be the accompanist, Marian. She stepped inside and sat down unnoticed. The playing went on. At a propitious moment of silence, she cleared her throat noisily. Karl turned, saw her, a smile lighting up his face as he waved his bow. The rehearsal went on. Talk—repetition of parts—more talk. Judy sat wondering if she should leave. Then Karl’s voice, “Hold it, Marian—”

He strode over to Judy. “It’s just wonderful to see you! I know your mother’s coming along great. Your father and Lynne told me.” He looked pensively at her, “You look peaked—”

“I’m all right, now that I know Mother’s going to be able to sing—How’s the piece coming along?”

“Slowly. It sounds so wonderful in my head, but when it comes to setting it down—it takes so much time and I feel so pressed for time—”

“I know. Sometimes I think of a story—everything seems so right until I come to writing it down.” She looked at him smiling, “But you have a wonderful basic theme. It has power to move one—nothing can spoil that. Folk tunes could be introduced, you know, the way Dvorak did in his ‘New World Symphony.’”

He shook his head approvingly. “I can clarify things just by talking them out with you. I miss you, Judy—so much!”

“Me too,” the budding author sighed, throwing grammar to the winds.

An impatient chord at the piano—

“I can’t keep Marian waiting. Tomorrow she comes at one o’clock and leaves at three—”

Another chord and the slightly sharp voice, “Work before pleasure—” and Marian smiled with a condescending graciousness, “Hi, Judy!”

Judy smiled back absently. Karl was saying urgently, “Meet me here tomorrow at three.”

Judy nodded, “I’ll arrange it somehow.”

When she reached home, Lynne was ready to leave. Mrs. Lurie’s eyes brightened as she looked at her daughter. She hastily scribbled on her pad and held it aloft, “You’ve color in your cheeks and your eyes have their old luster. You’re one of those who blossom in sun and air.”

“Yes, Mother,” Judy sweetly agreed, but she was deeply aware of the real reason for the glowing cheeks and brightened eyes—and judging from the smile lurking on Lynne’s face, so was she!

That evening Mr. Lurie examined his schedule and announced with great satisfaction, “Yes, I can come home early tomorrow—last session at two-thirty. If I get a ride, should be here ten minutes later.”

By two-thirty Judy was dressed. Her mother was in a comfortable chair, her music in her hands which she could study silently. That morning her pad had pleaded for a rehearsal. The doctor was obdurate. “One hour before you appear at the concert. Not before.”

Judy gave herself another fleeting glance at the mirror. The candy-striped blue and white cotton with its full skirt looks cool, Judy considered, even if I’m melting inside of it. The embroidered collar, stiffly starched, scratched—but then, she smiled, Karl has never seen this dress. Maybe it didn’t have the smart elegance of Marian’s tie silk, but it was fresh looking!

As she glanced at the clock, now two-forty-five, she reviewed the things she must tell her father—the egg nog, ready in the refrigerator, the watercress sandwiches. She tiptoed into the bedroom.

Minna’s eyes opened. A descriptive arm indicated the window saying plainly, “Why wait? Why don’t you leave now?”

“There’s not that much rush. I’ll play something. The P.S. (the family abbreviation for Practice Student) hasn’t arrived. Something sweet and soothing to induce sleep.”

Remembered bits of Chopin Nocturnes, the “Minute Waltz,” and the fingers stumbled exactly at the same tricky places. Another look at the clock—the piano was gladly relinquished to the late and harried P.S.

Judy went to the porch and anxiously scanned the street. She returned, stared at the clock as its hands moved relentlessly. At five minutes to four she heard her father’s leisurely step.

“You’re an hour later than you promised—” she said accusingly.

“Dear old faculty meeting—a special one!” he said apologetically. “You needn’t hurry back. I’ll fix dinner—”

Judy was already at the door, mumbling something incoherently about egg nog, refrigerator, watercress—hearing only her father’s puzzled exclamation, “Where’s the fire?” as she recklessly rushed down the porch steps.

The cool, refreshing wind blew through her hair, but she arrived at the Hall hot and breathless.

Judy blinked. The room seemed dim after the sunlight. Two boys were in the room, one at the piano, the other toying with an oboe or flute—she couldn’t tell which. They stopped talking as she entered. She recognized the colored boy whom she had met with Karl. “A brilliant student,” Karl had told her, “completely at home in what must be a new and strange environment.”

“Aren’t you James Powell?” she asked.

“Yes, of course, and you’re Judy. Hello!”

“Hello,” came in hollow tones from some remote region of Judy’s chest. “You didn’t happen to see Karl here, did you?” she asked diffidently.

“He left with a very cute number some fifteen minutes ago,” the other boy volunteered with an innocent smirk.

As Judy made no comment, James added quickly, “He seemed very put out, Judy, he’d been waiting around so long—”

“Yes, I’m late, but it couldn’t be helped.”

“After supper I’ll stop at his home—I’ll give him a message for you.”

“Don’t bother, James, but thanks just the same.”

On the street, the warm sunshine enveloped her like a cloud. She raged at herself, at her father. Why couldn’t he tell those stuffed shirts—And Karl? Well, he just decided I couldn’t get away—and, of course, nobody could use the phone. She tried not to feel hurt, yet he could have waited a little longer.

Her dress looked squashed, the collar itched, her throat felt parched. She was tired, too. All that useless running and waiting—and hungry. She always felt hungry when she was miserable.

“No, I won’t go home and sit around while Father cynically probes, ‘Why back so soon?’”

She opened her bag, powdered her shiny nose, wiped the perspiration from her neck and face. A look into her change purse fortified her.

“I’m going to get the biggest chocolate fudge whipped cream ice cream soda I can buy!”

She walked on aimlessly until she recognized the Cafe and Snack Bar they’d visited the exciting night of the Juillard Concert. It seemed so long ago! How happy she had been, sitting next to Karl—Lynne and Allen, her mother and father—everyone so gay.

She stepped up to the entrance and looked in at the curtained window. It was empty, except for a waiter. No, there in a far corner a table glittered with silver and glassware, a teapot, cups and saucers. And there—coming to the table was Karl! What heavenly luck! How surprised he’ll be when he sees me! At that moment Marian sat down, some music sheets in her hand. Judy stood there ashamed, unable to move! Their heads were close together. Marian was laughing—and Karl looked, yes, looked adoringly into her eyes, just as he looked at Judy at times. She tore herself away.

She walked woodenly on the familiar and often dearly loved streets and at last stumbled home, bone tired.

As soon as dinner was over and her mother comfortably in bed, Judy pleaded weariness.

“Good idea for us all to get to bed early. Tomorrow is the big day,” her father smiled.

“You’re sure Mother’s going to be able to sing? It’s wonderful, Father—”

Judy picked up her book, an ancient and much worn copy of _Les Miserables_ that she had found in some neglected cabinet. The title appealed to her. With a deprecating little smile at her father, she ascended the staircase, much as Sidney Carton is said to have ascended the gallows.

* * * * * * * *

It was a quarter to four on Wednesday afternoon. The Amphitheater, as the Big Tent was sometimes called, was packed, every seat taken.

Judy, no longer the lonesome stranger of those first weeks in Aspen, knew many people. The children of the camp were there. Even the youngest came to hear his father play in the orchestra. They waved and smiled to her and she waved back. But she was tense and frightened, impatient for the concert to begin, and wishing it were over. Her mother was well, the doctor was more than satisfied. But could that terrible thing happen again—

Mr. Izler Solomon, the conductor, stood on the podium, bowing to acknowledge the applause. Judy sat through Beethoven and Prokofieff, hardly knowing which was which. Her mind was a blank, her heart was pounding.

Minna Lurie stepped on stage, bowed at the ripple of applause. Judy stared open-mouthed. Was that her mother? So poised, so beautiful, in that shimmering green dress? Solomon lifted his baton. The orchestra began.

Minna Lurie’s lovely voice, as if in defiance of the enforced rest, filled the tent. The flute, then the oboe followed her clear notes. The strings came in. Judy sat in a transport of joy. It seemed as if her mother’s voice soared into the orange supports, into the poppy-colored sides of the tent. She felt an ecstasy she had never experienced.

The applause was deafening. “Wonderful!” “Magnificent!”

Judy sat unable to move. Someone gripped her shoulder. It was Lynne. Judy got up dazed. “Wasn’t she marvelous, Judy? I’m so excited!” Lynne said.

People were leaving their seats and the crowd swirled around them. Lynne said something about Saturday.

“What did you say, Lynne?” Judy asked.

“You remember. We’re going to Toklat and Ashcroft on Saturday.”

“But I thought you went last Saturday?”

“No, we wouldn’t go without you.” Lynne was pushed down the aisle. “Saturday,” she repeated. “We’ll call for you at nine o’clock—”

Karl had made his way through the crowd. He pumped Judy’s hand until it ached. The crowd moved toward the exits and Judy and Karl were carried along in its stream. They stood at the tent opening, the large flaps framing them. The field where hundreds of cars had been parked was being emptied swiftly. Many young people, their arms linked, were walking over the rough ground. Now the last stragglers appeared, the men of the orchestra, carrying their instruments. Judy whispered, “Mother and Father will soon be coming too.”

“Judy,” Karl said huskily, “why didn’t you come yesterday?”

“I couldn’t leave Mother,” she said, turning her head so that he shouldn’t see the hurt that was all but forgotten.

The sky was beginning to darken. Something sang in their young hearts. There was no need for words. They just stood there quietly, foolishly smiling at nothing at all.

11
JUDY, AMATEUR PSYCHOLOGIST

With the exaltation of a young acolyte returning to a sacred task, Judy appeared at camp the morning following the concert.

“Now let’s feed the ducks. Who’s in charge?”

“Paul.”

Their white-feathered friends were placidly waiting at the water’s edge and after they were fed, swam out toward the middle of the pond.

The children took their seats at the long wooden table.

“Where’s Willie?” Judy asked. “I saw him just a few minutes ago.”

“Don’t bother about him! He’s a pest!”

“But I must—Oh, there he is under the table.”

On being called and asked to sit with the others, Willie looked up and shook his head. “I don’t want to.”

He seemed so content playing with his little mounds of dirt that Judy didn’t insist. The children were waiting. She set bowls of wet clay and tubes of paint on the table and distributed pipe cleaners.

“See how pliable they are. They bend easily to any shape and with a pair of scissors can be cut any length. I’m going to try to make a man out of this wire and fill in the face with clay.”

The little group became interested. They suggested their own ideas, horses and snakes, violins and trombones. All were soon completely absorbed. Judy, her head bent, was delicately painting the eyes and mouth of her figurine. A stream of icy water descended on her back. Jumping from shock and surprise, she lost her balance and fell from the backless bench, her skirt flying ignominiously over her head. The children were convulsed with laughter as the water continued its steady stream.

Rising clumsily to her feet, she looked around for the cause. There a few feet back of her sat Willie holding the garden hose while the children frantically cried, “Turn it off!”

For one brief moment Judy stared at the little boy’s cherubic face. The words of Gilbert and Sullivan flashed through her mind, “Let the punishment fit the crime.” She grasped the hose and turned it on Willie. “Now you know how it feels to get soaked to the skin with all your clothes on.”

The children shouted their approval. “He deserves worse than that—” “Always tinkering with that hose—”

Judy asked the children to go back and finish their projects. With as much dignity as she could command, she and Willie, both dripping pools as they walked, went toward the barn. Surprisingly enough, Willie hadn’t uttered a sound nor shed a tear! She helped the boy change into a pair of shorts discovered among the costumes and Lynne’s discarded bathrobe did service for her. Together they hung their wet clothes on the fence where the hot sun would soon dry them.

“Willie,” she said, “let’s sit on the grass for a few minutes before we go back to the others.” She studied the boy and wondered what went on in that little head, behind the woebegone little face.

“I thought you liked me—Don’t you?” She pleaded. “I had to punish you for your naughtiness.”

He said nothing for a moment, then unexpectedly, he put his hand in hers. “I didn’t mean to do anything bad.” His large eyes looked at her earnestly.

“But, Willie, you’re not a baby. I’m afraid I’ll have to mention this to your mother.”

“Mommy’s sick. She’s always sick. You mustn’t bother her.”

Judy was perplexed. “Willie,” she said gently, “tell me why you put the hose on me?”

He looked at her as if surprised at her obtuseness. Then he blurted out, “I wanted to water my garden and you were in the way.”

“Your garden? I didn’t see any garden.”

“Oh, yes, there was, right under the table. I just wanted to water it the way I do at home.”

“I see,” Judy said, not really seeing but trying to understand.

“I can water all I like, all afternoon until Daddy gets home. Your hose here is heavy. I couldn’t hold it right—”

While the little boy was talking, Judy vaguely recalled Allen’s speaking about Willie’s parents. His mother had had a breakdown of some sort; mountain air and rest were supposed to help. His father played the drums and timpani in the orchestra and had a part-time job besides. The boy was of necessity much alone. The camp had been such a happy solution. But Judy had forgotten the story and its possible bearing on little Willie.

“The next time you want to water your garden at camp, you must first ask permission,” she said. She put her arms about the boy. “After all, I’m not a tree.” They both laughed gaily. When they returned to the others, Judy couldn’t help noticing an air of pleased expectancy on their faces as if they rather hoped more fireworks were in order.

“Willie didn’t intend to do anything mean,” Judy said offhandedly. “He was trying to water his garden,” and she pointed to the twigs planted in the mud.

Happy to dismiss the subject, she asked, “Let me see, children, what you’ve accomplished?”

She was delighted with their skill and assured them that the Aspen church would want to acquire the animals and assorted instruments for its bazaar. “Then your parents can buy them right back again,” she said laughingly.

“Wouldn’t it be nice to let Willie take charge of feeding the ducks this week? You don’t mind, Paul, do you?”

“But I do mind.”

“Look, Paul, Willie’s only five years old, the youngest in camp. Don’t you think we could show him we don’t bear any grudge, that we trust him enough to give him this responsibility?”

The appeal to Paul’s better nature succeeded and Willie was acclaimed the mascot for the week. In the days that followed Willie followed Judy about camp much as the little lamb is said to have followed Mary.

Several days later a jeep stopped at the camp entrance. Judy was in charge as Lynne had taken a group horseback riding. A man stepped out of the jeep and moved in long, easy strides toward them. She wondered who he could be until she heard Willie joyfully call out, “Daddy! Daddy!”

She stopped the victrola and managed a sickly smile of welcome. Willie’s father! He’s come to complain about the hosing I gave his boy—maybe withdraw him from the camp?

The man gave a brisk, “Hello, kids!” and stopped to rough up his little boy’s hair. He was young and handsome.

“Are you Judy?” he asked, addressing her.

She nodded and murmured, “Yes.”

“I was driving by. I can only stay for a minute. Is Lynne around?”

“No. Is there anything I can do?” she asked weakly.

“Just tell Lynne I wanted her to know how sorry I was to have missed Parents’ Day. I couldn’t get away.”

“Whew!” Judy almost said aloud in relief. “I’ll tell her,” she smiled for the first time.

“But it’s you I really came to see.”

“Me?” She was thankful the children had run off to play. She was beginning to marshal her defenses as to just why she had done what she had—

“Yes, you,” he repeated. “That’s what I wanted to talk to Lynne about. Willie’s mother asked me to give you a present but I don’t know what girls like—I thought Lynne would help me out. But never mind—” and again he smiled.

“But I don’t deserve—I’m very fond of Willie but—” Her words tumbled over each other.

Before she could protest any more, he stuck some bills in her hand. “Get something for yourself, please,” and with a hasty “good-bye,” he was gone.

She had come into a fortune of three dollars. After the first pleased sensation of having money of her own, she pondered on how to spend it. That very afternoon she went to the library to secure the book on Aspen history that had been waiting for her and her dollar deposit for over a month. The rest of the money went for presents; a beautiful linen handkerchief for her grandfather, no trouble about that. He adored fine handkerchiefs! Grandmother’s was more difficult. After much hesitation, examining each case of knickknacks with the greatest care, she finally selected a brooch made of two crossed skis. Still she hesitated. Suppose Grandma doesn’t like it? She never likes any present. Judy heard her say time and again to anyone who gave her a gift, “Now why did you have to spend money on me? You know I don’t need anything!” Judy gave the brooch another admiring look. “Well,” she confided to the all-too-patient shop-owner, “if Grandma doesn’t like it, it certainly won’t be wasted. It’ll look stunning on my sweaters.”

Nor was Willie left out of her calculation. Once her deposit was returned, he too would get a present. That was only fair, she decided, since he was the author, so to speak, of her good fortune.

She reached home tired and hungry.

Her father was sitting at a desk absorbed. He looked up at her with an abstracted air and said, “Mother went out marketing. Got a chance to go in somebody’s car. She’ll be back soon. Have a nice day?”

“Lovely,” and Judy patted the gift-wrapped package. She watched him silently for a while. Writing music out of your head without playing an instrument was something she couldn’t fathom. He continued writing.

“I’ll set the table,” she offered. “Anything else?”

“No—well, yes. There’s the music stands to pull out. I borrowed some extra ones. There’ll be eight of us, I imagine.”

“What, a rehearsal again?” Judy asked. “I thought you and Mother were going to have people over tonight just to have fun.”

Mr. Lurie got up and reluctantly closed his desk. “So we are,” he smiled at her. “Whenever musicians get together, they make music. That’s their fun.”

“Hmmmm,” was all Judy said.

“What’s that book you brought home?” He glanced at the title. It was his turn to say, “Hmmmm.”

“You’ve forgotten, Dad, I’m going with Lynne and Allen to Ashcroft. I thought I’d give Lynne a shock by surprising her with my knowledge of the history of these parts around here. No one seems to know anything about Ashcroft.”

“Very commendable,” her father said seriously. “By the way, if you should uncover any clues to hidden treasures overlooked by the early settlers, let me know. A few silver nuggets would come in very handy.”

“Oh, Father,” Judy said impatiently. It’s no use, she decided.

During dinner Mr. and Mrs. Lurie were discussing the next important event of the concert season. In addition to the regular program, original compositions would be played. The judges would make the award to the composer of the best piece of original music and to the most promising conductor.

“Is Karl’s composition going to be played that day?”

“No,” her father answered, “he’s not satisfied with it.” But added with real conviction, “I’m certain it will be heard later.”

Judy immediately lost interest in their talk and pointing to her book, asked to be excused. “I have work to do too.”

Her mother appeared impressed. But her father said, with that dead-pan expression he loved to assume, “I hope the Beethoven Quintet will provide pleasant background music for your scholarly labors.”

Giving him scarcely a smile, although she was laughing inwardly, she ostentatiously picked up the library book and went to her room.

Propped up in bed, surrounded with well-sharpened pencils, reams of paper and her diary, she turned on her radio tuned to some weird jazz. She began to read.

The idea of writing a story for the _Plow_, while still nebulous, had not been discarded. If she wrote something that would stun her classmates into admiration—

Facts, dull facts: drilling—pumps—shafts—mining operations. It was disappointing!

Undiscouraged she plodded on, skipping whole pages. At last she was rewarded by a tiny paragraph that she recorded on her note pad.

“Aspen, situated in one of the most beautiful valleys of the world, is surrounded by giant mountains which guard her treasures. Ashcroft, her near neighbor, just as beautifully situated, makes the picture complete. Together, their silvery riches give promise of greater treasure than has yet been found in the marvelous state of Colorado. Who can foretell the future?”

Judy looked blankly at the word “future.” “That rosy future had come and gone,” she sagely commented to herself. But how did it all start? By more diligent searching, she discovered something more of the early beginnings of Aspen and an occasional reference to Ashcroft. Again she faithfully recorded a brief summary of her findings.

“Henry Gillipsie, a man of thirty-one, a graduate of Kansas Agricultural College, left his home to seek his fortune mining gold. When he reached Leadville, the town was in a ferment. Silver had been discovered in the mountains of Colorado! He turned from his dreams of gold to the surer thing—silver. True, there had been news of an Indian uprising; a United States Major had been killed and some soldiers, but Gillipsie made up his mind to go. He got a horse and a pack mule, took his son and persuaded a friend to join him. Some twenty-five other prospectors followed Gillipsie’s trail. All staked out their claims, Gillipsie even buying two mountains. Although a truce had been concluded with the Indians, Gillipsie and the others decided to return to Leadville. Besides the Indians, winter was coming on. But he was no sooner back than he began worrying about his holdings. Once the thaw set in, thousands would go over Independence Pass and might take possession of his claims. He told his fears to a friend who knew all about mines and mine country.

“‘How can we get across the Pass in winter? The reports are terrible. Men and mules bogged down in snow—broken legs—starvation.’

“Together they worked out a plan. They built snow boats of good, strong lumber and loaded them with two hundred pounds of provisions and plenty of blankets. The boats, really giant sleds, would be pulled by miners. All would travel only at night when the snow was hard-packed, making the going easier.

“Still the men objected. ‘How do you expect us to walk over snowdrifts twenty-five feet deep?’

“Undaunted, Gillipsie and his friend had the answer. ‘We’ll need snowshoes. Since we can’t get the webbed kind, we’ll make them out of board, eight feet long, the way the Norwegians do.’

“When Gillipsie and his fourteen men, a strange looking pilgrimage, arrived at their camp, Aspen’s mining history began.

“More settlers arrived, lured on by the tales of fabulous riches. They spread out to Ashcroft, only twelve miles away. The success of Horace Tabor, the owner of the two most famous mines in Ashcroft, stimulated the miners.” (Horace Tabor, the romantic figure who loved Baby Doe) she parenthesized, for the benefit of her grandfather.

“But Ashcroft developed slowly. The mountains were not only high but inaccessible. Progress was slow. In the meantime, Aspen moved on to quicker glory. A one-gauge railroad—buildings went up at terrific speed—churches, schools, a bank, the _Aspen Times_—living expenses were high—flour cost one dollar a pound.”

The music from her radio egged on Judy’s flagging spirit. Further reading only revealed the names of Tabor’s two mines at Ashcroft. It was in vain she looked for more news of Baby Doe. There was nothing. Only the gloomy recital of the ruined silver kings.

History book and diary fell off the bed. She switched off the lights and turned off the radio. The researcher wearily yawned and slept.

12
ASHCROFT, THE GHOST TOWN

The weather all summer had been fine. When there was an occasional shower it came, considerately enough, late in the afternoon. It never interfered with the outdoor activities and indeed was only noticed by the concert-goers, who heard the brief but heavy drumming on the canvas of the huge tent.

This Saturday morning was no exception. The sun rose brilliantly and the air was crystal clear, a perfect day for the excursion to Toklat. To Judy there was only one drawback: if only Karl could have come. Yet he might turn up with Fran, late in the afternoon.

She paced the walk outside her home. Lynne and Allen were late. She thought of that silly old adage about the early bird! All those pancakes she’d left uneaten! There’s such a thing as being too prompt! But, she grudgingly remembered, in that not so distant past she had been the one for whom others had waited.

At last their station wagon approached.

“We overslept!” Lynne gaily announced as the car stopped. Judy climbed in.

The winding road to Toklat hugged the mountain and although Allen drove at only a moderate speed, a number of furry animals, feeling much at home in the early morning stillness, flipped across their path to escape only just in time! Once they all breathlessly exclaimed, “There’s a deer,” but it was so fleet of foot as it bounded into the woods that they couldn’t be sure.

At the entrance to Toklat was a handsome wood and stone structure, Toklat Lodge. Early as it was, people were already lined up to make their reservations for the luncheon they hoped to enjoy later. The food at the Lodge was famous. Everyone knew about the gourmet dishes and the perfection of its service. But Lynne, with a shade of regret in her voice said, “That kind of elegance is not for us or our budget. However,” she smiled as she indicated the lunch basket on the back seat, “we’ve come prepared.”

They parked the car in the shade of some trees and beyond a log fence enclosure they could see the heavy wooded area where the dogs lived. Mr. Mace, they were told, would arrive later to take visitors through the gate and see and hear all about the Huskies.

On the other side of the road stretched a vast, treeless meadow abruptly ended by the range of mountains rising sheer from the valley. There were some houses sparsely set in the field.

“Is that part of Toklat, too?” Allen asked the man idly standing guard at the gate.

“Nope,” came the laconic answer. “That’s Ashcroft.”

In the clear sunlight the houses seemed close at hand. They could count eight, maybe ten. Judy recalled the description of Ashcroft described in her library book, “The giant mountains guarding their silvery treasure.” She wondered what there was to guard in that desolate spot now. She was eager to go there at once. The tour could wait. Judging by the crowds already arrived, there would be a number of tours. Besides, if Karl did come, he would expect to meet her at Toklat.

Lynne agreed, but Allen preferred to remain in the hope of having a few words alone with Stuart Mace. They would meet later “over there,” meaning Ashcroft.

“And don’t forget the lunch,” Lynne cautioned.

Crossing the rough fields overgrown with wild, prickly grasses, they soon came close enough to see the houses—large, three stories high, the frames of gray, weather-beaten timber, ageless. Two of them had wooden signs nailed over the entrance, “Groceries,” “Drygoods.” They tried to look in and discover if anything remained of the boasted merchandise. But the windows were barred. They walked down to another house further down the field, but that too had the doors and every window boarded up.

“You’d think from the care with which they closed the houses they expected to return,” Lynne said wonderingly.

All had the sad, forlorn look of houses long empty and deserted. But one house, larger than the others, gaped wide open. Glad of the opportunity at last to satisfy their curiosity as to what the interior might be like, they stepped inside. Had vandals carried away the staircase to the upper chambers, or torn out the partitions that must have once divided this huge room?

The window frames in the upper portion of the house were hung with vines through which no ray of sun could penetrate. From the heavy beams under the roof, wisps of clothes waved weird and ghostlike in the slight wind. The two girls stood huddled together and felt like intruders as they talked of the people who once must have lived there. Judy, her imagination in full flight, pointed to the tattered garments.

“Look, I can make out a miner’s cap—and there’s an old bearskin coat. They probably had to shoot the bear, eat the meat—bear meat is very good, you know—and then use the fur to keep from freez—”

She stopped in the middle of her rhapsody. A pair of small beady eyes looked down on her. She could distinguish a wing—then another. It moved! more wings—more beady eyes. Wings fluttered—began to circle near them.

“Bats! The place is full of them. They can attack us—get into our hair!”

Without a moment’s delay, they flung hands over their heads and rushed to get out, stumbling over the ancient doorsill in their hasty exit.

Once out in the sunny meadow, Lynne laughed at herself. “I feel like a goose running out the way I did. Who ever heard of bats attacking anyone?”

“Is that so?” Judy said warmly. “One night a few summers back a bat got into my bedroom. It flapped around horribly, looking for me. I still get the creeps when I think of it. If Grandpa hadn’t come in—”

“O.K. I’ve heard of bats in the belfry,” Lynne said dryly, “but never mind. Have it your own way.”

They walked on to examine the few remaining houses. Except for the ruins of a fence and an upside-down hut that was probably once an outhouse, nothing remained to indicate that people once lived there.

“Ashcroft is sure a ghost town,” they both agreed.

They started to trudge back. They had gone further than they expected and found the walking hard and tiring. When they stopped once or twice to rest, they thought they heard the unmistakable chop chop of an ax. Following the direction of the sound, they came upon a cabin, no larger than a good-sized woodshed. Near it stood a man swinging his ax with an easy, steady rhythm.

He looked up as they approached and said, in answer to their greeting, “’Tis a fine morning.” He nodded and smiled at them.

They could see at once that he was old, very old. His face was crisscrossed with fine lines, but his blue eyes were bright and he held himself so erect that Judy involuntarily straightened her slumping shoulders.

“Isn’t that pretty strenuous?” Lynne asked, pointing to the huge tree he was splitting.

He smiled again. “I’m eighty-two and never felt better. We’ll need all the wood we can cut.” He spoke with the pride of the very old whom the years have used well.

Judy walked closer to the cabin and the door being ajar, she looked inside—two cots, some shelves sparsely stacked with cans of soup, some other foodstuffs.

“You don’t live here, do you?” she asked, her voice incredulous as she again faced the old man.

“Yes. My pal and I, we live here. We’re the only two natives left in Ashcroft.”

“You are?” Lynne and Judy said in one voice.

“Let’s stay here for a while,” Judy whispered. “The meadow’s so flat, we can’t help seeing Allen when he comes looking for us.”

Lynne nodded. “May we sit here a little while and rest, Mister? We expect to meet someone later.”

He seemed pleased. “I’m glad of your company.” He picked up his ax and placed it against the woodpile.

“Set yourselves down. Make yourselves comfortable—the logs or the grass.”

He sat down on the fallen tree and Judy, on the stiff undergrowth, looked up at him with deep, commiserating eyes.

“I don’t see how you can bear to live in that little cabin all winter. I should think you’d die of lonesomeness or freeze to death!”

“It’s never that cold, Miss. The sun’s good and hot even on the coldest days. And I’m used to it.”

He looked at Lynne. “Came here as a boy when my father worked in the silver mines and I’ve stayed here, off and on, ever since.”

He fished out a pipe from his shirt pocket and the girls watched the gnarled fingers first clean it and then stuff it with some yellowish weed.

“Was Ashcroft ever like Aspen? You know what I mean, well populated, with lots of mines?” Lynne asked, as the old man puffed contentedly on his pipe.

“Well, yes and no. Ashcroft was built up before Aspen, but Aspen got ahead faster.”

“Why?” Judy asked.

“I’ll tell yer. For one thing, the mines out this way were hard to work and new mines weren’t easy to locate. At Aspen things were different. New veins kept on being opened all the time and they weren’t so hard to mine. Nature favored it more, or maybe it was better equipment. Anyhow, prospectors and settlers both got discouraged. They gradually took off. Yep, they just moved away. A lot of them dragged their houses with them by mule team.”

“What about Montezeuma and Tam-o-shanta? They were here. Horace Tabor made a big success of his mines.” Judy wagged her head in the manner of one who had spent her life in the bowels of the earth.

Lynne looked at her in surprise. “How do you know?”

“Oh, I’ve been reading up about it,” she answered with a superior smile.

But the old man saw nothing strange in Judy’s erudition.

“The young lady’s right,” he said. “Montezeuma had plenty of good ore and it did well. Made Tabor a tidy fortune. But it was too high. Nearly thirteen thousand feet. Dragging supplies out there was hard, but only a man like Tabor could make a good thing of it.” He nodded at them and a great smile spread over the wrinkled face, deepening the two well-marked furrows around his jaw.

“Tabor built a mansion out here, real elegant, gold paper on the walls. Built it for Baby Doe. That’s the second Mrs. Tabor that maybe you heard about.”

“Yes. Did you ever see her?” Judy asked, with mounting interest.

“Well, in a manner of speaking. Saw her coming and going. The day she came out to see Montezeuma, Tabor was that happy he declared a twenty-four-hour holiday for everyone working in the mine. He was a real silver king.” The old man shook his head appreciatively. “He treated everyone that day to all the liquor he could drink.”

But his smile quickly faded. “Augusta got that mine too.” He sat thinking for a moment. “Not that you can altogether blame her, the first Mrs. Tabor. She’d helped him when he was—well, nobody. And now that he was rich and famous, she wanted to hold on. Guess she loved him, so she said right out in all the newspapers.”

“Augusta seems to have done very well for herself,” Judy commented sternly.

Again Lynne lifted her eyebrows. She was certain now Judy had been boning up not only on the history but on the gossip column of those days.

“Well, did Horace Tabor and his new love live happily ever after?” Lynne asked lightly.

Judy brushed aside the question. “What happened after the Silver Panic, Mister? Did Baby Doe leave Tabor when he became poor?”

“No, Miss.” The answer was emphatic. “She stuck to him through thick and thin. Nobody expected it of her—she was that young and handsome. When she married Tabor, the biggest people in Washington came to the wedding. Tabor was an important man, not only rich. He’d done a lot for Leadville—the opera house and then at Denver, built a hotel and lots more.

“The State of Colorado was grateful and he become a Senator for a while.” His words came more slowly as if the embers of his excitement had died out like his pipe.

“Well, Augusta made such a scandal of his leaving her that she spoiled his chances in politics. Then comes the Panic—1893! Baby Doe, from being the millionaire darling of a silver king, came down to even taking in washing. She proved herself a good wife and faithful.”

“I knew she would,” Judy said triumphantly. She wanted to know more. “Is that all?” she asked.

“No.” The old man shook his head gravely. “As I was saying, Tabor lost everything and what he didn’t lose, he’d given to Augusta. She was rich and stayed rich. All that remained to Tabor was one mine. He still owned Matchless. It wasn’t paying any but he had great faith in it. When he was on his deathbed, he tells Baby Doe, ‘Hold on to Matchless. It’ll make a fortune yet.’”

“And did it?” Judy asked anxiously.

The old man shook his head. “She held on to it because Tabor told her. She become that poor, she didn’t have a roof over her head. So she moved out to the mine. Lived alone in a one-room cabin.”

He leaned forward, holding his young listeners.

“Gettin’ enough to eat wasn’t all her trouble. Tax collectors came out to the mine and she held them off with a gun. But she had friends who stuck by her, respected her grit, like that Jacob Sands of Aspen and some others, I forget the names. They spent money to clear her title to Matchless so that she could hold on to it, to the very end. She held it for forty years, but it never paid any.” He sighed deeply.

“They found her one day, her body dressed in rags, her feet covered with newspapers to keep out the cold—found her frozen to death.”

For a while no one spoke. Then as if wishing to break the pall of sadness that engulfed him, Lynne asked, “Do you ever get to Aspen?”

“Sometimes. We have friends over there,” and he pointed in the direction of Toklat.

Looking across the field, they saw Allen coming toward them with great long strides. “Had a wonderful time with Mr. Mace,” he said as soon as they were within earshot. Then coming closer he noticed the old man. Allen’s eyes seemed to ask, “Where did you pick up this ancient?”

“Allen,” Lynne said quickly, “this gentleman is one of the two natives of Ashcroft—and still lives here.”

“I’m happy to know you,” Allen said, shaking his hand.

They repeated the Baby Doe story for Allen’s benefit as they spread their lunch, which they insisted the old man share with them. When they left, he stood there waving, a tall spare figure, framed by the deserted houses and the brooding mountains.

Allen hurried them along. “What an extraordinary man Mace is! What skill he uses in handling his dogs!”

“What’s so special about that?” Judy asked, still ruminating about the ups and downs of Baby Doe. “Horses pull wagons and dogs pull sleighs. Why is Mr. Mace so wonderful?”

“For one thing, kid,” Allen said, annoyed at Judy’s lack of enthusiasm, “he was with the ski troops that saw Arctic duty in World War II. He learned about dogs the hard way.”

Allen turned to a more appreciative audience. “Lynne, I guess none of us realized what these mountain troops went through out in that wasteland of snow and ice. The pilots they saved, the planes and cargo they salvaged—”

“What had the dogs to do with the pilots?” Judy asked.

“Fierce storms often forced the planes down,” Allen explained patiently. “Mace was in charge of a division whose job it was to search for and rescue the flyers and, of course, to save the air cargo on which their lives depended. You see, Judy, only dogs and dog-sleighs can travel over that sort of country.”

They moved along at a snail’s pace as Allen became more and more engrossed in his subject. “Mr. Mace had to train the dogs, keep the drivers from fighting each other. Tempers get ugly under such conditions. The war went on. Sleighs wore out. He had to make new ones—new equipment.” Allen shook his head. “Mace is a modest man. You have to drag the story out of him.”

“How did he happen to get to Ashcroft?” Lynne asked.

Allen laughed. “I asked him that myself. It seems that when the war was over, they didn’t know what to do with those wonderful dogs. The top brass ordered them sold. Mace said he’d grown to love working with dogs. The thought of giving it up made him wretched. He saved some money and he bought all the top-strain dogs he could afford. He and his wife decided to take their dogs to Aspen to breed and train them, as a hobby.”

“What did he do before the war?” Lynne asked.

“Some kind of research on flowers that grow on the Rocky Mountain slopes. But when he came back, there was no interest in that sort of thing. And there weren’t any jobs that he could find to do around Aspen. So he decided to move out to Ashcroft. Land was cheap and snow lay on the mountains seven months of the year. Dog-sledding and skiing had become a great national sport. So he decided to turn his hobby into a job! He and Mrs. Mace worked through one summer and a long hard winter to build the log and stone lodge we passed. Guests can stay there and enjoy long trips into the mountains with the dog-sled teams and—”

Lynne, interrupting him with a laugh, said, “You’re so wound up talking about Mr. Mace, you forgot about the tour. I can see from here people crowding through the gate.”

They made the remaining distance on the run. They arrived in time to join the twenty or thirty others all trying to squeeze as close as possible to the owner and guide, while Judy unabashed scrutinized every likely or unlikely person that might be Karl.

13
THE HUSKIES

Stuart Mace was dressed in well-fitting khaki trousers and a plaid shirt open at the throat. His sturdy bronzed neck suited the finely molded features of his face and his smile was warm and friendly.

“As you see,” he began, “we have a great family of dogs, bred for hard work in the mountains, ice and snow. From our original nine dogs we have eighty, among them some of the finest leaders and teams in the country.”