ve through
such terrible things!"

"Yes, they could, dear," affirmed Aunt Deborah, "only the need hasn't
come. When it does, you'll all be ready. Of course, the Pioneer Days are
over, but there is always need of pioneers--for Vigilantes, like
yourselves."

A half hour later and Aunt Deborah was again in the wagon beside
Alec--again very straight and very stiff. She had had a beautiful day, she
said, smiling upon them all. She had gathered thoughts and memories
enough for another year.

William came up to the carriage just as Alec lifted the reins. His hands
were filled with marigolds--brown and orange and yellow.

"I thought you might like 'em, ma'am," he said shyly.

A light came into Aunt Deborah's gray eyes.

"Like them, William!" she cried. "Like them! They'll give me even more
memories--the very sweetest of my life."

CHAPTER IX

MR. CRUSOE OF CRIPPLE CREEK

Mr. Crusoe was washing an extra shirt in the ford between Elk Creek Valley
and the Gap. The absence of soap was a distinct disadvantage, but water, a
corrugated stone, and Mr. Crusoe's diligence were working wonders. A short
distance away among the quaking-asps smoldered the embers of a small fire;
a blackened and empty bean-can on the hearth-stone, together with a
two-tined fork, bore evidence of a recent breakfast.

His washing completed, Mr. Crusoe turned his attention to his personal
appearance. Deep in the waters of Elk Creek he plunged his arms, bare to
the elbow, and washed his neck and face. From one pocket he drew a soiled
and folded towel, which upon being unrolled disclosed a diminutive brush
and an almost toothless comb. With these he proceeded to arrange his
somewhat long and dripping black hair. His two weeks' old whiskers
apparently worried him, for he pulled them meditatively; but since he was
far from a barber and carried no shaving appliances, the brush and comb
must suffice for them also. Finally he took his battered old hat from a
nearby branch, brushed it carefully, arranged the crown so that fewer
holes appeared, and put it upon his head. His clean shirt, spread upon a
quaking-asp but by no means dry, afforded the best of reasons why he
should not hurry; so, drawing a stained and stubby pipe and sack of
tobacco from another pocket, Mr. Crusoe lay beneath a friendly cottonwood
at the water's edge and gave himself to quiet contemplation.

The morning was perfect, and no one could appreciate it more keenly than
Mr. Cruso