Part 8

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.