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Hilda could read. She hardly remembered a time when she wasn’t able to make a sense that satisfied her, anyhow, out of the words and letters under the pictures in her story books. She had a curious habit of looking at these and partly “making up” as she went along, entertaining herself with such tales as they suggested. At first, her father laughed at it; then, in his careless, haphazard way, tried a bit of teaching. But this was a sort of work that took patience; it was easier to read aloud to the child; and so the lessons usually ended up that way. Uncle Hank, listening, gave the sober opinion that a child of Pettie’s age “ought to have schooling.”

“And I think I can manage it, Charley,” he said to his employer. “They need a school in the neighborhood. There’s eight or ten kids of the right age within riding distance.”

“Go ahead, then, Pearsall. You’ve lived here—you know how to tackle the matter,” Van Brunt answered easily.

So Uncle Hank got Capadine, McGregor, and three other ranches to “join in”; an adobe hut that, before the day of fences, had been a sign camp, was put in repair; an enthusiastic young woman brought out from Kansas; and what the cowpunchers instantly christened “Hank’s Academy” was started with eight pupils. It was Pearsall himself who took Hilda over the first morning, and tenderly launched her on the tide of school life. After that, she rode alone on Papoose, the fat little red pony he had got for her. Hilda’s school and Hilda’s lessons became an important household interest.