So Aunt Deborah's stories went on--of the village attacked by night, and her fearful ride to the little fort for protection; of the Vigilantes and their determined hunting-down of robbers and road-agents; of a sickness which broke out in the town toward spring; of hunger and privations--the varied, fascinating, almost incredible tales of pioneer life. Then, like oases, would come stories of Christmas festivities, and of merry, laughing times all together. The minutes, half-hours, and hours flew by as they listened. "My Thought Book will never hold them all," Priscilla whispered to Virginia. "But in the spring," Aunt Deborah finished, casting an anxious glance at the sun, "all was different. A trail to Salt Lake had been opened and provisions came through by stage. I'll never forget the morning the first stage train came. Men had use for their money then, though many of them used gold weighed out in little scales. Flour was a dollar and a half a pound, calico fifty cents a yard, and eggs five dollars a dozen. Shoes were priceless. One man bought a pair for thirty dollars. I remember that Robert and I wanted to give our neighbor's little girl a birthday present. After much thought we decided on an apple, and paid a dollar for it." "I don't see how you did it," said Vivian, who had not spoken a word since Aunt Deborah began. "I don't believe girls of to-day could live 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.