by Zane Grey
Mary Denmeade espied Lucy sitting by the path to the spring, and, as always, she ran to her. The children could not get enough of Lucy’s companionship. Through her their little world had widened wonderfully. Games and books, work and play, had already made incalculable differences. These backwoods children were as keen mentally as any children Lucy had been associated with in the city and vastly easier to interest.
“Here you are,” cried Mary excitedly, her eyes wide. “Edd is scolding Mertie. She’s awful mad. So’s ma. But ma is mad at Mertie and Mertie’s mad at Edd.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mary. Perhaps I had better not go in yet,” returned Lucy. “What’s the trouble? Isn’t it very strange for Edd to scold anyone, much less Mertie?”
“Strange? I don’t know. He never scolds any of us but Mertie. Ma says it’s because he loves her best...Miss Lucy, Edd’s not like he used to be. He stays away more an’ when he does come home he’s no time for us. Mertie said he was moony about you.”
“Was that what caused the trouble?” asked Lucy quickly.
“Oh, no. Mertie said that a long time ago...I wasn’t in the kitchen, but I peeped in and heard him say: ‘Mert, you’ve been ridin’ with Bud Sprall again.’ An’ Mertie said: ‘I’ve no such thing. But It’d be no business of yours if I had.’ An’ Edd said: ‘Don’t lie to me. Someone saw you.’ Then Mertie had one of her bad spells. She raved an’ cried. Ma took her part Edd got hold of Mertie an’ said he’d choke the truth out of her. He looked awful. Ma made him let Mertie go. An’ Edd said: ‘Wal, you stayed last night at Claypool’s. Now what time did you get there after school?’ Mertie said she couldn’t remember. She had the reddest spots in her cheeks an’ she couldn’t look at Edd.”
“Mary, did you listen to all that?” asked Lucy disapprovingly, as the child halted to catch her breath.
“I couldn’t help hearing,” went on Mary. “But I did peep in the door. But they didn’t see me. Edd said: ‘I had a hunch before, Mert Denmeade. An’ yesterday when I was told by someone who seen you I just rode down to Claypool’s, an’ I found out you didn’t get there till near dark. Took you three hours to ride from school to Amy’s home! I asked Amy when she seen you last. She looked darn queer, but I made her tell. You went off down the road with Sadie Perdue.’ Then ma pitched into Mertie so mad that I run.”
Lucy soothed the excited child and importuned her not to tell anyone else about the family quarrel and that perhaps it was not so much against Mertie as it looked. Mary shook her head dubiously, and presently, finding Lucy preoccupied, she gravitated toward the other children playing in the yard.
This was not the first time Lucy had been cognisant of an upset among the Denmeades owing to Mertie’s peculiar ways of being happy. She had been the idol of the family, solely, no doubt, because of her prettiness. Lucy considered Mertie a vain little ignoramus with not enough character to be actually bad. Nevertheless, Lucy reflected, she might be as mistaken in Mertie as she had been in Edd. Of all the Denmeades, this second daughter was the easiest to influence because of her vanity. Lucy had won the girl’s regard with a few compliments, a few hours of instruction in dressmaking, and perhaps that was why Lucy did not value it very highly. Still, for Edd’s sake, and, more seriously considered, for the girl’s sake also, Lucy was now prepared to go to any pains to bring about a happier relation between brother and sister.
Perhaps, however, before she could be accused of meddling in personal affairs she had better wait until her kind offices were invited.
On her way back to her tent she heard the gate chain clank violently, and upon turning she espied Edd stalking away, black as a thundercloud. Should she let him go or halt him? Inspirations were not altogether rare with Lucy, but she had one now that thrilled her. This was her opportunity. She called Edd. As he did not appear to hear, she raised her voice. Then he wheeled to approach her.
“My, but you were tramping away fast and furiously!” said Lucy amiably.
“Reckon I was. What you want?”
“Are you in any great hurry?”
“No, I can’t say I am. Fact is I don’t know where I’m goin’. But I’m a-rarin’ to go, just the same.” His voice was strained with spent passion and his lean face seemed working back to its intent, still expression.
“Come over in the shade and talk with me,” said Lucy, and led him into the pines to a nook overlooking the gully, where she often sat. Plain it was that Edd followed her under compulsion. But this rather stimulated than inhibited Lucy.
“Don’t go away angry,” she began, and seating herself on the clean, brown pine mats, she clasped her knees and leaned back to look up at him.
“Reckon it’s not with you,” he rejoined, drawing his breath hard.
“Of course not. I know what’s wrong. Mary heard you quarrelling with Mertie. She told me...Now, Edd, I wouldn’t for worlds meddle in your affairs. But my job is as wide as your woods. It’s hard for me to tell where to leave off. The question is, if I can be good for Mertie, you want me to, don’t you?”
“Wul, I shore do,” he declared forcibly. “More’n once I had a hunch to ask you. But I — I just couldn’t.”
“You should have. I’m sorry I’ve been so — so offish. It’s settled, then. Now tell me what you think is wrong with Mertie.”
“Reckon I don’t think. I know,” he replied heavily. “Mertie is just plain no good. All she thinks of is her face an’ of somethin’ to deck herself in so she’ll attract the boys. Any boy will do, though she sticks up her nose at most of them, just the same. She’s got one beau, Bert Hall, who lives in Cedar Ridge. Bert is sweet on Mertie an’ I know she likes him best of all the fellows who run after her. Bert owns a ranch an’ he’s got a share in his father’s sawmill. Course he wants to marry Mertie an’ Mertie wants to run wild. Dance an’ ride! I reckon Sadie Purdue hasn’t helped her none...Wal, this summer Mertie has taken on airs. She says if she’s old enough to be asked to dances an’ to marry, she’s her own boss. Pa an’ ma can’t do nothin’ with Mertie. I used to hold her down. But shore — I’ve a hunch my time is past.”
“Well?” queried Lucy, as he ended haltingly. “I understand. What about this Bud Sprall?”
“Mertie always liked that black-faced pup!” declared Edd darkly. “She’s been meetin’ him on the sly. Not alone yet, but with Sadie, who’s got the same kind of interest in Bud’s pard, a hoss-wrangler who lives over Winbrook way. Mertie lied about it...Wal, if I can’t break it up one way I can another.”
“You mean you’ll go to Bud Sprall?” queried Lucy instantly.
“I shore do,” he said tersely.
“You two will fight — perhaps spill blood,” went on Lucy intensely. “That might be worse than Mertie’s affair with Bud, whatever it is. Edd, surely it is just a flirtation.”
“Reckon I fooled myself with ideas like that,” returned Edd bluntly “Boys an’ girls up here do their flirtin’ at dances. Straight out, Miss Lucy, this here sneakin’ has a bad look. I know Sadie Purdue. She jilted me because I was too slow. Reckon she’d never have married me. Funny thing is she never would, even if she’d wanted to, because I found her out. Nobody but you knows that. Wal, Mertie is thick with Sadie. An’ they’re meetin’ these boys. Reckon you know how it will end, unless we stop it. Bert’s an easy-goin’ boy. But Mertie could go too far...You see, Miss Lucy, you haven’t guessed yet just how — how thick many of us backwoods boys an’ girls get. Not me! That’s one reason why I’m a big boob...An’ I always hoped an’ prayed I could keep Mertie different. Shore it goes kind of hard to see I’m failin’.”
“Edd, you’ve failed yourself,” asserted Lucy ringingly. “You’re on the down grade yourself. You’ve taken to the bottle and to fights. How can you expect to influence your sister to go straight if you’re no good yourself?”
“By God! that shore’s been — eatin’ into me!” he ejaculated huskily, and hid his sombre face in his grimy hands.
“Oh, I’m glad you see it!” cried Lucy
, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Edd, you must come back to your old self.”
“Yes, I reckon I have to,” he agreed. “If only it’s not too late — for Mertie!”
“Let us hope and pray it is not,” rejoined Lucy earnestly. “I’m shocked at what you say, but yet I feel absolutely sure Mertie is still good. She’s vain, she’s wild. I know her kind. And, Edd, I promise to devote myself to Mertie. I must go to Felix for a week this fall. I’ll talk about that to Mertie, hold it out to her. I’ll take her with me. Oh, I know how to manage her. We’ll marry her to Bert before she knows it.”
“Wal, what ma said about you is shore true,” he said, lifting his dark face stained with tears. “An’ I’ll make you a promise.”
“Yes?” queried Lucy encouragingly.
“I’ll go back to my wild-bee huntin’.”
Lucy divined the import of that strange promise and she rejoiced over it, happily proud for him and the Denmeades.
Chapter VIII
THE NEWS THAT Lucy’s sister was coming spread all over the immediate country. Lucy was hugely amused at the number of gallants who visited Denmeade’s on Sunday and found transparent excuses to interview her. There was no use to try to avoid them on the issue that portended.
Lucy exhibited Clara’s picture with conscious pride, and did not deem it necessary to explain that the likeness dated back several years. She was both delighted and concerned over the sensation it created. Of all the boys she had met there, Joe Denmeade appeared to be the quietest and nicest, the least given to dances, white mule, and girls. Lucy experienced one acute qualm of conscience before she approached Joe to ask him to meet her sister at Cedar Ridge. That qualm was born of a fear that Joe might meet his downfall in Clara. She silenced it with the resigned conviction that circumstances were beyond her. What a feeble little woman she was!
Sunday afternoon on the Denmeade porch found the usual visiting crowd largely augmented. Sam Johnson paid his first call for weeks, this time without Sadie. He seemed less debonair and obtrusive than had been his wont. Least of all did he question Lucy about the pretty sister, but he drank in all that was said. Lucy watched Sam closely as he looked at Clara’s picture; and soberly she judged by his expression that, unless, as she devoutly hoped, Clara had changed, there would be some love-lorn gallants haunting the Denmeade homestead.
“When’s she comin’?” queried Sam.
“I’ll hear in to-morrow’s mail. Wednesday or Saturday,” replied Lucy.
“Reckon you’re goin’ in to meet her?”
“Indeed I am. Joe will drive me to town from the school-house. Mr. Jenks has offered his buckboard.”
“Joe! So he’s the lucky cub?” snorted Sam. “Reckon you’d need a man.”
Lucy’s choice was news to all the listeners, including Joe himself, who, as usual, sat quietly in the background. She had shot him a quick glance, as if to convey they had an understanding. Whereupon Joe exhibited surprising qualifications for the trust she had imposed upon him.
“Sam, you don’t get the hunch,” he drawled. “Miss Lucy’s sister isn’t a well girl. She’s goin’ to need rest!”
The crowd was quick to grasp Joe’s import, and they laughed their glee and joined in an unmerciful bantering of the great backwoods flirt.
After supper, as Lucy sat on the steps of her tent, Joe approached her.
“Now, teacher, how’d you come to pick on me?” he asked plaintively.
“Pick on you! Joe, you don’t mean—”
“Reckon I mean pick me out, as the lucky boy,” he interrupted. “I’m just curious about it.”
Lucy liked his face. It was so young and clean and brown, square-jawed, fine-lipped, with eyes of grey fire!
“Joe, I chose you because I think you will give my sister a better impression than any other boy here,” replied Lucy with deliberation.
“Aw, teacher!” he protested, as shyly as might have a girl. “Are you jokin’ me? An’ what you mean by this heah impression?”
“Joe, I ask you to keep what I tell you to yourself. Will you?”
“Why, shore!”
“My sister is not well and she’s not happy. It would give her a bad impression to meet first thing a fellow like Sam or Gerd or Hal, who would get mushy on sight. Edd now would be too cold and strange. I ask you because I know you’ll be just the same to Clara as you are to me. Won’t you?”
“An’ how’s that, teacher?” he queried, with his frank smile.
“Why, Joe, you’re just yourself!” answered Lucy, somewhat taken at a disadvantage.
“Never thought aboot bein’ just like myself. But I’ll try. I reckon you’re not savvyin’ what a big job you’re givin’ me. I mean pickin’ me out to take you to town. If your sister comes on Saturday’s stage every boy under the Rim will be there in Cedar Ridge. Reminds me of what I heard teacher Jenks say once. Some men are born great an’ some have greatness thrust on them. Shore I’m goin’ to be roped in that last outfit.”
“I like you, Joe, and I want you to live up to what I think of you.”
“Miss Lucy, are you shore aboot me bein’ worth it?” he asked solemnly.
“Yes, I am...To-morrow you stay till the mail comes for Mr. Jenks. He’ll have mine. Then we’ll know whether Clara is coming Wednesday or Saturday. I’d like you to borrow Edd’s horse Baldy for Clara to ride up from the school-house. Any horse will do for me. We’ll have to leave early.”
“It’d be better. I can drive in from the school-house in three hours. The stage arrives anywheres from eleven to four. I’m givin’ you a hunch. We want to be there when it comes.”
The following day when Joe rode home from school he brought Lucy’s mail, among which was the important letter from Clara — only a note, a few lines hastily scrawled, full of a wild gratitude and relief, with the news that she would arrive at Cedar Ridge on Saturday.
“It’s settled, then, she’s corning,” mused Lucy dreamily. “I don’t believe I was absolutely sure. Clara was never reliable. But now she’ll come. There seems some kind of fate in this. I wonder will she like my wild, lonesome country.”
Lucy had imagined the ensuing days might drag; she had reckoned falsely, for they were singularly full of interest and work and thought. Edd had taken to coming home early in the afternoons, serious and moody, yet intent on making up for his indifference toward Lucy’s activities with his family. He veered to the opposite extreme. He would spend hours listening to Lucy with the children. He was not above learning to cut animals and birds and figures out of paper, and his clumsy attempts roused delight. Lucy had, in a way vastly puzzling to the Denmeades, succeeded in winning Mertie to a great interest in manual training, which she now shared with Mary. Edd wanted to know the why and wherefore of everything. He lent Dick a hand in the carpentry work, of which Lucy invented no end. And he showed a strange absorption at odd moments in the children’s fairy-story books. He was a child himself.
Naturally, during the late afternoon and early evening hours of the long summer days he came much in contact with Lucy. She invited his co-operation in even the slightest tasks. She was always asking his help, always inventing some reason to include him in her little circle of work and play. She found time to ask him about his bee hunting, which was the one subject that he would talk of indefinitely. Likewise she excited and stimulated an interest in reading. As he read very slowly and laboriously, he liked best to listen to her, and profited most by that, but Lucy always saw he was left to finish the passage himself.
At night when all was dark and still, when she lay wide-eyed and thoughtful under the shadowy canvas, she would be confronted by an appalling realisation. Her sympathy, her friendliness, her smiles and charms, of which she had been deliberately prodigal, her love for the children and her good influence on Mertie — all these had begun to win back Edd Denmeade from the sordid path that had threatened to lead to his ruin. He did not know how much of this was owing to personal contact with her, but she knew. Edd was unconsc
iously drawn toward a girl, in a way he had never before experienced. Lucy felt he had no thought of sentiment, of desire, of the old obsession that he “must find himself a woman.” Edd had been stung to his soul by his realisation of ignorance. She had pitied him. She had begun to like him. Something of pride, something elevating, attended her changing attitude toward him. What would it all lead to? But there could be no turning back. Strangest of all was for her to feel the dawn of real happiness in this service.
Saturday morning arrived earlier for Lucy than any other she remembered. It came in the dark hour before dawn, when Joe called her to get up and make ready for the great ride to Cedar Ridge — to meet Clara Lucy dressed by lamp-light and had her breakfast in the dim, pale obscurity of daybreak. Mrs. Denmeade and Edd were the only others of the household who had arisen. Even the dogs and the chickens were asleep.
