Part 1

# The girl at Silver Thistle ### By Hale, Max

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_The Girl at Silver Thistle_

_By Max Hale_

[Illustration]

_Published By_ THE DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING CO. _Elgin_ _Chicago_ _New York_ _Boston_ Publishing House and Mailing Rooms, Elgin, Ill.

_The Girl at Silver Thistle_

COPYRIGHT, 1919, BY DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING CO., ELGIN, ILLINOIS.

CONTENTS

_CHAPTER ONE_ _CHAPTER TWO_ _CHAPTER THREE_ _CHAPTER FOUR_ _CHAPTER FIVE_ _CHAPTER SIX_

_The Girl at Silver Thistle_

_By Max Hale_

_CHAPTER ONE_

Though it was only five-thirty, supper was over in the yellow station-house at Silver Thistle. Nevada Buckley, singing as merrily as the nightingale, had put away the broom and the floor mop, in the regular task of helping her mother keep the little house tidy. Through the open window of the kitchen, came the staccato firing of a motor exhaust. Without looking at the clock on the shelf, the girl knew it was exactly twenty-eight minutes to six. Also and without looking toward the railroad, she knew that her father, Robert Buckley, had shut down the gas engine that pumped water into the big red tank. He was hauling out the “speeder” to make his regular evening run over the line to place the lamps in the block signals. Regularity and routine, even away out there on the desert, were things of importance at Silver Thistle. Nevada turned and saw her mother lay the last of the three sandwiches in her father’s lunch pail. The lid was clamped on. The girl picked up the pail and hurried out. In a moment she had skipped down the track and placed it in the hamper of the little car. Her father was seated and ready for the start.

“How is the tank, father?” she asked shouting her words in his ear so as to be heard above the loud firing of the motor.

“Plenty of water, Neva,” he told her. “You won’t need to start the engine this evening.” He had his hand on the clutch lever, and the car started forward as he shouted back, “but there’ll be a ‘Special’ through at six-twenty. Jim Fuson, who went through on Number Ten, told me about it. It will follow Number Sixteen.” He was gone then, with the speed of a rocket, straight toward the setting sun. As the “speeder” shot away, he waved a bronzed hand both to the girl on the track and to the one who stood in the door of the station-house.

“A ‘Special’!” said Nevada to herself. “I wonder what it could be? Father didn’t say--and Jim Fuson may not have told him. I wonder and oh, I hope it’s the private car of Superintendent Foster!” She spoke these latter words with an eagerness that proved a keen desire. Let it be said that in the life of those who lived at Silver Thistle, in the heart of the great Mohave desert, the “comings and goings” of the trains were events of importance. And “Specials” being out of the ordinary, were peculiarly so, for they, like all others, had to stop at Silver Thistle for water. And this gave the girl of the little yellow station-house an opportunity to catch fleeting glimpses of the dignitaries and officials of the road, the big men who traveled in private coaches, and who had servants to wait upon them. Famous singers, governors of states, and millionaires also traveled that way, and all of them had to stop at Silver Thistle.

It was not a great deal of notice most of these big or famous folk gave to the ruddy-cheeked girl at the lonely pump-station. And Nevada had only a fleeting peep at most of them through the polished plate-glass windows. Yet there was one who _had_ noticed her. This one was a girl like herself--like herself in years only. For this other girl was not ruddy-cheeked, with arms and neck tanned brown by the desert sun and wind. She was, as Nevada caught sight of her, just a slender slip of a girl, with pale cheeks and big, appealing eyes. Nevada remembered those eyes, for they had looked through the wide window of the big private car straight down at her. She had even smiled, a sweet, kindly smile, when the desert girl returned her gaze!

That was a month ago, when the private car of Superintendent Foster, on its regular round, paused at Silver Thistle. Now it was time for the big car, with its brightly varnished body and shining brass rails to arrive again. Nevada wondered if the pale-faced girl, with the appealing eyes, would look out and smile at her again through the wide plate-glass window.

Hopefully and expectantly, she returned to the house, singing as before. She gave her mother’s glowing face a fond touch of the hand as she went through the door and passed on to her own room. Here she took down a book she had been reading, but she could not get interested in the story. Seated by the open window, she kept lifting her eyes to look down the railroad track of which the long lines of shimmering steel faded away in the distance. Silver Thistle, with its group of three tiny buildings and a water tank, was an oasis in the desert. Around the lonely station spread endless miles of yellow sand, broken only by clumps of gray-green mesquite. Away over on the border line--on the very edge of the world, it seemed, the Funeral Range formed a dim, zigzagged line between earth and sky.

Once, when Nevada raised her eyes and looked down the track, she saw a black dot appear at the end of the shimmering line. This dot seemed to dance about at first, as if playing with the heat waves; but it grew larger and steadier as the moments passed, soon resolving itself into the form of a locomotive trailed by a long line of passenger cars. Across the desert it came, its swift passage now marked by a rumbling roar, and hurling the dust in a long, thin cloud. When the musical tritone of the whistle reached her, Nevada closed her book with a snap and leaned out of the window. In less than a minute Number Seven, with a loud screeching of its brakes, slid to a halt at the water tank.

The huge, palpitating locomotive, its air-pump breathing hard, like a hound after a hard chase, halted but a few yards from Nevada’s open window. Out of the cab was thrust the gray head of Jerry Kerrigan. Though a pair of motor goggles, worn to protect his keen gray eyes from the flying sand, gave his face a grotesque look, it could not completely hide the jovial smile the veteran engineer ever had for the girl of Silver Thistle. The train stopped but long enough to take water. Then the great, black monster, trembling with the power of its mighty strength, leaned to its load, and moved forward, belching a cloud of smoke from its stack.

“Oh, say, Neva--” Jerry called back, “I almost forgot: The superintendent’s ‘Special’ is just behind us! And, say--his girl will be with him! Look for her!”

The train was gone, with a roar, leaving a smell of burned oil in its wake.

Singing again, even more joyfully, Nevada stood by the window, watching for the “Special.” There came another rumbling roar from down the track, followed by another musical call of a locomotive’s whistle, and a minute later the “Special” had come to a halt at the water tank. There were only two cars--a pitiful load it seemed for that great, high-wheeled engine. The rear car alone attracted the attention of the desert girl. Her eager eyes took in every detail, and a happy smile brightened her face when she saw the name, painted in gold letters on the side. She repeated the name aloud:

“Debue! Debue!”

While she looked, a girl came out on the rear platform, to stand for a while inside the brass railing. Behind her followed a portly, white-haired man--a man whose features and bearing portrayed power and purpose and leadership. Nevada’s heart fluttered exultantly, for the girl was the one who had smiled down at her through the wide window of the coach--and the man who stood near her was Superintendent Foster.

To Nevada’s ear came the joyful exclamation of the girl: “Oh, how lovely they are! I must have some of them. Please, father, can’t I have just a minute to pick some of them?”

Then she turned her big, appealing eyes to her father, and the superintendent with a smile, nodded his assent. “Go ahead, my dear! But be careful--and stay only a minute.”

Wondering what it was the girl had admired and wanted, Nevada watched while a porter opened the railing gate and placed a footstool under the lower step. The girl tripped down lightly and ran out across the right-of-way. Nevada followed her with keenly interested gaze. When the girl uttered another exclamation of delight, Nevada knew what it was that had attracted her. She was plucking the tall thistles--the long-stemmed, silver-plumed thistles that had given the isolated station its name.

[Illustration: She was plucking the tall thistles.]

Nevada, too, had admired the silver thistles--admired them for their hardihood, their happy way of nodding their plumed heads in pleasant salutation when nearly all other growing things were dried up, blistered and burned by the desert heat. She was glad this other girl loved them and could see the simple, unadorned beauty they possessed. She had a big vase filled with them in her room, and another in the cozy living-room of the station-house. Had she only known--could she only have guessed, she would have gathered an armload of them and had them ready when the “Special” arrived. What a chance that would have been to get acquainted, to have received a word from the girl who had smiled down at her!

Just then, she heard a loud, shrieking cry. It came with startling suddenness, causing her to lift her head quickly and look out of the window. The first cry was instantly followed by another, louder than the first. The girl in the silver thistles was standing stiffly erect, holding a long, slender hand above her head. From her hand dangled a wriggling, twisting thing that fell to the ground while the desert girl looked.

“It’s a scorpion--a scorpion! She has been stung by a scorpion!” Nevada spoke aloud in tones of sympathy and alarm. The girl continued to scream while her father and the porter hurried from the car.

Nevada whirled swiftly from the window and out of her room. She knew that help was needed out there, and needed quickly. And she knew what must be done.

“Mother!” she called. “Mother--quick, hot water, ammonia, olive oil--the superintendent’s daughter has been stung by a scorpion!”

She was out of the house then, and running swiftly as a deer down the track.

[Illustration]

_CHAPTER TWO_

Before Nevada reached the rear coach of the “Special,” the superintendent’s daughter, supported by her father, was taken to the car steps. Her wild cries had subsided, but she continued to moan with pain. She had dropped her load of pink-tinted thistle blossoms. Her face was ghastly pale. Her big eyes were filled with a strange terror. She wrung her injured hand incessantly, now opening, now closing her rapidly stiffening fingers.

“Poor dear! Poor dear!” said her father with affectionate sympathy. “Be quiet, Sweetheart--we will help you. Quick, Sam, up the step! We must make a fast run to Alcazar!”

Alcazar, the next town of any importance or size, where medical aid could be had, was one hundred miles away. It could not be reached, even by the “Special,” in less than one hour and twenty minutes. By that time the deadly venom from the scorpion’s sting would have done its fatal work.

Nevada Buckley heard the name of the distant town spoken and she guessed the intention of the superintendent. In his anxiety and alarm he had not observed the coming of the desert girl. But now she made her presence known, speaking to him quickly. “Please, Mr. Foster, bring her to the house. Mother and I know what to do. Don’t take her on until she is relieved.”

The superintendent lifted his head in surprise. Anxiety was printed on his usually serene countenance. “Are you certain?” he said. “It must be cared for at once. We can make a fast run to Alcazar--”

“It would take too long,” Nevada cried. “Bring her to mother. She is getting things ready now. We know just what to do. I was stung by a scorpion in almost the same way.”

Nevada drew closer and looked unflinchingly into the steady gray eyes of the railroad magnate. For a brief moment he seemed not only to be gazing at her, but sounding the depths of her very soul, measuring her ability, her sincerity. It was his way of estimating the worth of those whom he trusted. And this was the time when his trust meant more than ever.

“Very well,” he said in tones of finality. “We’ll take her to the house! Come, Sam, help me carry her! Easy now, easy, that’s the man!” The two lifted the injured girl and carried her between them. Nevada ran on ahead. Her mother had built a quick fire in the kitchen stove and already the kettle was singing. The living-room sofa was drawn out to a convenient position. Near it was placed a stand with a ready ammonia bottle, olive oil, bandages and a sharp-bladed penknife.

“Lay her here,” directed Nevada, when the two men entered with their burden, followed by other members of the crew, all offering their assistance, all eager to help. They waited at the door, their caps in their hands, while Nevada, with the deftness and sureness of a trained nurse, proceeded to remove the poison and dress the wound of the superintendent’s daughter. Their hearts went to their throats, brave fellows though they were, when the half-unconscious girl screamed with pain. Then her head dropped limp on the arm of her father, while Nevada worked on with swift-moving fingers.

“It’s out now, the worst of the poison is out!” she spoke assuringly, as she poured on the soothing olive oil and wrapped the injured finger with a broad bandage. “She will soon be all right.”

She brought cold water, the coldest that could be had in the station-house, dipped her cool fingers in the basin and rubbed them gently over the forehead of the unconscious girl. After a time--a very long time it seemed to those who anxiously waited--a bit of color came into the pale face, and the big, dark eyes opened wide and staring. They gazed first into the strong face of the superintendent, who began at once to talk to his daughter in words of happy assurance. Then they looked up into the ruddy face of Nevada, looked up, as they had looked through the window that day, in mute appeal, with real kindness and genuine sympathy. When Nevada smiled, the other girl smiled in return.

“Where am I?” asked the wounded girl in wonderment, as her gaze shifted from one to another of the group around her in the little room lighted by the red glow of the sunset. But now dusk was falling and Mrs. Buckley placed a lamp on the stand as Mr. Foster answered.

“You’re at Silver Thistle, in a house of friends,” he said. “This Little Doctor Lady has removed the scorpion’s sting, for which we are thankful.”

Nevada bathed the hand again, and this time the girl on the sofa gave her a happy look of recognition. “Oh, I know!” she exclaimed, raising her uninjured hand to the warm, round cheek so near her. “You are the girl at Silver Thistle. I’ve seen you. And I’ve wanted to meet you.”

Thrilled by the kindness and sympathy of the girl’s words, Nevada lovingly touched her lips to the outstretched hand, then took it in her own cool fingers and pressed it tenderly. It was the beginning of a real friendship, the welding of human hearts, and Superintendent Foster, big stern man that he was, looked on with eyes of understanding. He tried to speak, but a lump came up in his throat and choked him.

Just then the uniformed conductor of the “Special,” cap in hand, and carrying a brightly polished lantern, came in on tiptoe and touched the superintendent on the shoulder. “I beg pardon,” he said in low tones, “I merely ask for orders. We’re an hour behind now, Number Eighteen is behind us, and Number Eleven is waiting at Sand Ridge siding.”

“You’re right,” spoke the magnate quickly. During the past hour of anxiety and uncertainty he had forgotten everything save this one who was dearer to him than all else in the world--forgotten that he was a railroad man with a life of routine keyed to schedules, time tables and orders. “We’ve tied up the line, all right,” he added with a smile. “The road is probably wondering what’s wrong. No doubt they think that the ‘Special’ is lost in the desert. We’ll move on, Ralston, in just a few minutes.”

“Very well, sir,” the train chief responded, as he turned and left the room.

A tense silence followed the conductor’s exit, during which the superintendent’s gray eyes were held on the upturned face of the desert girl. She knew the meaning of that look, and her heart sank. It meant the magnate was making ready to go.

“My Little Doctor Lady,” he said finally. “I’m in a position where I feel I must take orders from you. How about it--may we move the patient? May we take her on right away?”

Might they take her away--this girl who had come into her life, whose kindness, sympathy and friendship promised so much? Nevada did not reply at once. She wanted the girl to stay. Already the superintendent had tarried an hour, a very long time for a railroad chief to tarry at a place like Silver Thistle. Nevada wished with all her heart that the girl might stay. But she would tell the truth.

“She could be moved safely,” she said at length, “for the poison is out of her hand, and the inflammation will soon leave. You can get a doctor and nurse at Alcazar. But if you would trust her with us--for a time--I would--”

Nevada hesitated. Though she had summoned all her courage to make this heart demand, she found herself unable to finish what was on her mind to speak. The superintendent’s gray eyes were sounding the depths of her being again. It was a big thing to ask of him, a bigger thing, no doubt, than was his custom lightly to grant. He kept on searching her, even when she ceased speaking. And when he turned his gaze away, he let it shift to Mrs. Buckley, then from one corner to another of the little room. He was measuring them, gauging them, that he might be sure.

Nevada, watching him, found no offense in his searching glances. She was filled with the spirit of the railroad, and she knew how much depended upon human faith and confidence. She begged only for an opportunity to serve, to prove herself a capable, trustworthy friend to this daughter of the chief. She looked down into the white face again, and was thrilled when the girl said:

“Let me stay, father, just a little while. There’s so much sunshine out here in the desert, and this dear girl and I will have such a good time--”

“Oh, yes, we will indeed!” Nevada brought in exultantly.

A happy smile came again into the face of Mr. Foster. “Very well, my dear,” he assented. “I will go on, and leave you here.” He turned and said to Mrs. Buckley: “I have known your husband for some time, by his record. There is not a mark against him. And I feel that I know him better since I have witnessed what his daughter can do.”

The little woman of the station house blushed proudly. He turned again to Nevada. “Little Doctor Lady, I’m going to leave my daughter with you for a week. It will require just that length of time for me to make the round. Remember that for real loved ones, I am alone in the world except for her. She is everything to me.”

[Illustration: “I am going to leave my daughter with you for a week.”]

A tear glittered on his cheek as he stooped and kissed his daughter’s white face. “Good-by, Sweetheart,” he spoke in affectionate farewell. “Get well. Get all the sunshine you can. Be careful, and obey the orders of the Little Doctor Lady!”

She clung to him a moment, with her well hand, and then let him go. He rose quickly, erect and alert, a railroad man again. “Sam,” he spoke to the porter, “bring her suit case and luggage bag from the car. She will need nothing more!” As he went out of the door he called to the conductor, who paced restlessly back and forth. “All ready, Ralston,” he said. “Make quick time to Sand Ridge!”

Nevada, stooping by the sofa, with the hand of the girl pressed in her own, heard the shrill call of the locomotive as its five long blasts brought in the rear brakeman. Then the bell clanged, and with a mighty roar, as if impatient of the delay, the superintendent’s “Special” whirled away into the desert night.

_CHAPTER THREE_

For a long while Nevada remained by the sofa. Most of the time the injured girl lay dozing. As often as she opened her eyes she found herself looking into Nevada’s radiant face. Then a smile passed between them.

Trains went by, following each other rapidly, trains that had been halted and delayed by the “Special’s” unexpected stop at Silver Thistle. At eleven o’clock Nevada’s father returned from his run. She heard him roll the little speeder into the tool house, and a few minutes later came the sound of his thick-soled shoes on the floor. Mrs. Buckley met him in the kitchen and in low tones informed him of the presence of the superintendent’s daughter in the station-house.

Before retiring, Mrs. Buckley and Nevada moved the patient to the bed in the latter’s room. Nevada herself, took the sofa having moved it near the open door. With the lamp turned so low that it filled the little apartment with a soft, subdued glow, she prepared to keep watch through the night. Twice she dressed the injured finger, carefully and tenderly. She was pleased to note that the inflammation was much reduced and that the girl slept more quietly.

“She will be almost well of the sting tomorrow,” Nevada declared happily. “And we will have such a good time together.”

Nevada had never known the joy of close fellowship with a girl of her own age. All her life she had been without a playmate. She had never gone to school, even for a day. Her mother had been her teacher and companion, and the only home she had ever known was the station-house close by the railroad, always in some remote place. Her only acquaintances, the big-hearted men of the train crews who could not play with her, although they had ever been her devoted friends, bringing her sweets and toys, and waving their bronzed hands in happy recognition from the time she could lift her own chubby ones in response.