she returned from
escorting Siwash to the gate and out upon the mesa. "We'll never hear the
last of it if you do. 'Twas our own fault. We didn't close the gate,
that's all, and Siwash has always loved company!"

So the boys never knew, though they wondered not a little at the
significant and secret glances which the Vigilantes exchanged upon their
arrival home the next morning, and at intervals during the days that
followed whenever homesteading became the topic of conversation. Once Aunt
Nan, to whom also the secret was denied, attempted to probe the mystery,
choosing Vivian as the most likely source of information.

"Did you really have a splendid time, Vivian?" she asked.

"We certainly did, Aunt Nan," answered the loyal Vivian. "I never had a
better time in all my life. Only one night of homesteading is enough for
me. There are lots of things I envy Jean MacDonald, but homesteading isn't
one of them!"

CHAPTER VIII

AUNT DEBORAH HUNTER--PIONEER

Aunt Deborah Hunter was driving from her ranch on Snake Creek to spend the
day with her nephew, her grand-niece, and her grand-niece's guests. Clad
in her best black silk dress, her black bonnet with the red cherries on
the front, and her well-darned black cotton gloves, she was sitting up,
very straight and stiff, beside Alec on the front seat. One would have
said that her dignity forbade her to rest her shoulders, doubtless tired
from the fifteen mile drive. Still, it was not altogether dignity which
made Aunt Deborah scorn the support of the cushions which Alec had placed
behind her. A great part of it was eagerness.

It had been a long time since she had left her ranch even for a day. No
one there could attend to things quite so well as she herself, she always
insisted. But now, between shearing and threshing, she had chosen a day
upon which to accept Virginia's and her father's oft-repeated invitation,
and it was a festive occasion for her. Truth to tell, she needed one day a
year, she said, "to meet folks." For the remaining three hundred and
sixty-four, the hired man, her two dogs, an occasional visitor, her
thoughts, and the mountains were quite enough.

If the infrequent passer-by had paused long enough to look into Aunt
Deborah's gray eyes beneath the cherry-trimmed bonnet, he would have seen
therein the eagerness that made their owner scorn the sofa-pillows. It
sparkled and beamed, now on this side, now on that, as she spied blue
gentians blossom