THE HERITAGE OF BARBARA WORTH.
Barbara, walking quickly, left the little village
and, crossing Dry River on the bridge that now spanned
the deep gorge where the old San Felipe trail once
led down into the ancient wash, climbed the slight
grade to the grave that was marked by the simple headstone
with its one word—“Mother.”
That morning Jefferson Worth had told her of the tin
box found by Texas Joe and Pat. With reverent
care she had read the papers and letters and had looked
long at the portraits of her parents and people.
She could not at first realize that the desert had
at last given up the secret that she had so longed
to know. It was not real to her, the revelation
was so sudden, so startling. She could not think
of herself save as the daughter of Jefferson Worth,
whom she loved as a father.
As soon as the noon day meal was over she had left
her room in the hotel, and once out of doors her steps
had instinctively turned toward her mother’s
grave beside the old trail.
Standing before the headstone she looked at the one
word. “Mother,” she said softly.
“Mother!” Then, still in a whisper, she
repeated the unfamiliar names: “Gertrude
Greenfield; William Greenfield—my mother;
my father! I am Barbara Greenfield—Barbara
Greenfield!”
Seating herself on the ground beside the grave, she
looked about: at the sand hills in the distance;
at the Dry River gorge and the power plant; at the
canals shining like silver bands among the green fields
of the ranchers to the southeast; and at the little
town. An hour passed; then another; and another.
Across the river she saw Pablo riding out of the town
and away along the road that follows the canal.
Then from the power house came Abe Lee with the Seer.
She watched them as they walked along the bank of
the old channel. Once she thought she would call
to them, but hesitated. If they crossed the bridge
and came up the hill they would be sure to see her.
So she waited, keeping still. They passed the
bridge and continued on down the bank of the stream.
Barbara knew instinctively that they were talking
of her and the secret that the desert had at last
revealed, for she had asked her father to tell them.
She thought of her father who had gone to Republic.
He would return that evening and Mr. Greenfield, her
uncle, would be with him. “Her uncle”—how
strange!
Then Barbara saw on the other side of the river a
horseman riding from the south toward the town.
She could not mistake the khaki-clad figure that,
while fully at home in the saddle, still lacked the
indescribable, easy looseness and swinging grace of
the western rider. It was Willard Holmes, and
the young woman’s heart told her why the engineer
had come. Since that meeting at the river in the
hour of his victory she had known that he would come
and she had known what her answer would be.
