The Angel of the Gila: A Tale of Arizona

by Cora Marsland

  CHAPTER III

  CLAYTON RANCH

  Early traders knew Clayton Ranch well, for it was on the old stageroute from Santa Fe to the Pacific coast.

  The house faced south, overlooking Gila River, and commanded amagnificent view of mountains and foothills and valleys. To thenortheast, rose a distant mountain peak always streaked with snow.

  The ranch house, built of blocks of adobe, was of a creamy cementcolor resembling the soil of the surrounding foothills. The buildingwas long and low, in the Spanish style of a rectangle, opening on acentral court at the rear. The red tile roof slanted in a shallowcurve from the peak of the house, out over the veranda, which extendedacross the front. Around the pillars that supported the roof of theveranda, vines grew luxuriantly, and hung in profusion from the strongwire stretched high from pillar to pillar. The windows and doors werespacious, giving the place an atmosphere of generous hospitality.Northeast of the house, was a picturesque windmill, which explainedthe abundant water supply for the ranch, and the freshness of thevines along the irrigating ditch that bordered the veranda. Thedooryard was separated from the highway by a low adobe wall the colorof the house. In the yard, palms and cacti gave a semi-tropicalsetting to this attractive old building. Port-holes on two sides ofthe house bore evidence of its having been built as a place ofdefense. Here, women and children had fled for safety when the Apacheraids filled everyone with terror. Here they had remained for days,with few to protect them, while the men of the region drove off theIndians.

  Senor Mateo, the builder and first owner of the house, had been slainby the Apaches. On the foothills, just north of the house, ten lonelygraves bore silent witness to that fatal day.

  Up the road to Clayton Ranch, late one November afternoon, came EstherBright with bounding step, accompanied, as usual, by a bevy ofchildren. She heard one gallant observe to another that their teacherwas "just a daisy."

  Although this and similar compliments were interspersed with miners'and cowboys' slang, they were none the less respectful and hearty, andserved to express the high esteem in which the new teacher was held bythe little citizens of Gila.

  As the company neared the door of the Clayton home, one little girlsuddenly burst forth:

  "My maw says she won't let her childern go ter Bible school ter belearned 'ligion by a Gentile. Me an' Mike an' Pat an' Brigham wantedter go, but maw said, maw did, that she'd learn us Brigham Young's'ligion, an' no sech trash as them Gentiles tells about; 'n' that thewomern as doesn't have childern'll never go ter Heaven, maw says. Mymaw's got ten childern. My maw's Mormon."

  Here little Katie Black paused for breath. She was a stocky,pug-nosed, freckle-faced little creature, with red hair, braided infour short pugnacious pigtails, tied with white rags.

  "So your mother is a Mormon?" said the teacher to Katie.

  "Yep."

  "Suppose I come to see your mother, Katie, and tell her all about it.She might let you come. Shall I?"

  Her question was overheard by one of Katie's brothers, who saidheartily:

  "Sure! I'll come fur yer. Maw said yer was too stuck up ter come, butI said I knowed better."

  "Naw," said Brigham, "she ain't stuck up; be yer?"

  "Not a bit." The teacher's answer seemed to give entire satisfactionto the company.

  The children gathered about her as they reached the door of ClaytonRanch. Esther Bright placed her hand on Brigham's head. It was aloving touch, and her "Good night, laddie," sent the child on his wayhappy.

  Within the house, all was cheer and welcome. The great living room wasablaze with light. A large open fireplace occupied the greater part ofthe space on one side. There, a fire of dry mesquite wood snapped andcrackled, furnishing both light and heat this chill November evening.

  The floor of the living room was covered with an English three-plycarpet. The oak chairs were both substantial and comfortable. On thewalls, hung three oil paintings of English scenes. Here and there werebookcases, filled with standard works. On a round table near thefireplace, were strewn magazines and papers. A comfortable low couch,piled with sofa pillows, occupied one side of the room near thefirelight. Here, resting from a long and fatiguing journey, wasstretched John Clayton, the owner of the house.

  As Esther Bright entered the room, he rose and greeted her cordially.His manner indicated the well-bred man of the world. He was tall andmuscular, his face, bronzed from the Arizona sun. There was somethingvery genial about the man that made him a delightful host.

  "Late home, Miss Bright!" he said in playful reproof. "This is a roughcountry, you know."

  "So I hear, mine host," she said, bowing low in mock gravity, "andthat is why we have been scared to death at your long absence. Ifeared the Indians had carried you off."

  "I was detained unwillingly," he responded. "But, really, Miss Bright,I am not joking. It _is_ perilous for you to tramp these mountainroads as you do, and especially near nightfall. You are temptingProvidence." He nodded his head warningly.

  "But I am not afraid," she persisted.

  "I know that. More's the pity. But you ought to be. Some day you maybe captured and carried off, and no one in camp to rescue you."

  "How romantic!" she answered, a smile lurking in her eyes and abouther mouth.

  She seated herself on a stool near the fire.

  "Why didn't you ask me why I was so late? I have an excellent excuse."

  "Why, prisoner at the bar?"

  "Please, y'r honor, we've been making ready for Christmas." Sheassumed the air of a culprit, and looked so demurely funny he laughedoutright.

  Here Mrs. Clayton and Edith, her fifteen-year-old daughter, enteredthe room.

  "What's the fun?" questioned Edith.

  "Miss Bright is pleading guilty to working more hours than sheshould."

  "Oh, no, I didn't, Edith," she said merrily. "I said we had beenmaking ready for Christmas."

  Edith sat on a stool at her teacher's side. She, too, was ready for atilt.

  "You're not to pronounce sentence, Mr. Judge, until you see what wehave been doing. It's to be a great surprise." And Edith looked wiseand mysterious.

  Then Esther withdrew, returning a little later, gowned in an old-rosehouse dress of some soft wool stuff. She again sat near the fire.

  "Papa," said Edith, "I have been telling Miss Bright about the annualRocky Mountain ball, and that she must surely go."

  John Clayton looked amused.

  "I'm afraid Edith couldn't do justice to that social function. I amquite sure you never saw anything like it. It is the most primitivesort of a party, made up of a motley crowd,--cowboys, cowlassies,miners and their families, and ranchmen and theirs. They come early,have a hearty supper, and dance all night; and as many of them imbibepretty freely, they sometimes come to blows."

  He seemed amused at the consternation in Esther's face.

  "You don't mean that I shall be expected to go to such a party?" sheprotested.

  "Why not?" he asked, smiling.

  "It seems dreadful," she hastened to say, "and besides that, I nevergo to dances. I do not dance."

  "It's not as bad as it sounds," explained John Clayton. "You see thesepeople are human. Their solitary lives are barren of pleasure. Theycrave intercourse with their kind; and so this annual party offersthis opportunity."

  "And is this the extent of their social life? Have they nothingbetter?"

  "Nothing better," he said seriously, "but some things much worse."

  "I don't see how anything could be worse."

  "Oh, yes," he said, "it could be worse. But to return to the ball. Itis unquestionably a company of publicans and sinners. If you wish todo settlement work here, to study these people in their native haunts,here they are. You will have an opportunity to meet some poorcreatures you would not otherwise meet. Besides, this party is givenfor the benefit of the school. The proceeds of the supper help supportthe school."

  "Then I must attend?"

  "I believe so. With your desire to help these people, I
believe itwise for you to go with us to the ball. You remember how a greatTeacher long ago ate with publicans and sinners."

  "Yes, I was just thinking of it. Christ studied people as he foundthem; helped them where he found them." She sat with bent head,thoughtful.

  "Yes," John Clayton spoke gently, "Christ studied them as he foundthem, helped them where he found them."

  He sometimes smiled at her girlish eagerness, while more and more hemarveled at her wisdom and ability. She had set him to thinking; andas he thought, he saw new duties shaping before him.

  It may have been an hour later, as they were reading aloud from a newbook, they heard a firm, quick step on the veranda, followed by alight knock.

  "It's Kenneth," exclaimed John Clayton in a brisk, cheery tone, as hehastened to open the door. The newcomer was evidently a valued friend.Esther recognized in the distinguished looking visitor one of the menwho had protected her the day of the organization of the Bible school.

  John Clayton rallied him on his prolonged absence. Mrs. Clayton toldhim how they had missed him, and Edith chattered merrily of what hadhappened since his last visit.

  When he was presented to Esther Bright, she rose, and at that moment,a flame leaped from the burning mesquite, and lighted up her face andform. She was lovely. The heat of the fire had brought a slight colorto her cheeks, and this was accentuated by her rose-colored gown.Kenneth Hastings bowed low, lower than his wont to women. For a momenthis eyes met hers. His glance was keen and searching. She met itcalmly, frankly. Then her lashes swept her cheeks, and her colordeepened.

  They gathered about the hearth. Fresh sticks of grease woods, and pinecones, thrown on the fire, sent red and yellow and violet flamesleaping up the chimney. The fire grew hotter, and they were obliged towiden their circle.

  What better than an open fire to unlock the treasures of the mind andheart, when friend converses with friend? The glow of the embers seemsto kindle the imagination, until the tongue forgets the commonplacesof daily life and grows eloquent with the thoughts that lie hidden inthe deeps of the soul.

  Such converse as this held this group of friends in thrall. KennethHastings talked well, exceedingly well. All the best stops in hisnature were out. Esther listened, at first taking little part in theconversation. She was a good listener, an appreciative listener, andtherein lay some of her charm. When he addressed a remark to her, shenoticed that he had fine eyes, wonderful eyes, such eyes as belongedto Lincoln and Webster.

  One would have guessed Kenneth Hastings' age to be about thirty. Hewas tall, rather slender and sinewy, with broad, strong shoulders. Hehad a fine head, proudly poised, and an intelligent, though sternface. He was not a handsome man; there was, however, an air ofdistinction about him, and he had a voice of rare quality, rich andmusical. Esther Bright had noticed this.

  The visitor began to talk to her. His power to draw other people outand make them shine was a fine art with him. His words were like aspark to tinder. Esther's mind kindled. She grew brilliant, and saidthings with a freshness and sparkle that fascinated everyone. AndKenneth Hastings listened with deepening interest.

  His call had been prolonged beyond his usual hour for leave-taking,when John Clayton brought Esther's guitar, that happened to be in theroom, and begged her for a song. She blushed and hesitated.

  "Do sing," urged the guest.

  "I am not a trained musician," she protested.

  But her host assured his friend that she surely could sing. Then allclamored for a song.

  Esther sat thrumming the strings.

  "What shall I sing?"

  "'Who is Sylvia,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton.

  This she sang in a full, sweet voice. Her tone was true.

  "More, more," they insisted, clapping their hands.

  "Just _one_ more song," pleaded Edith.

  "Do you sing, 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'?" asked Kenneth. Foranswer, she struck the chords, and sang; then she laid down theguitar.

  "Please sing one of your American ballads. Sing 'Home, Sweet Home,'"he suggested.

  She had been homesick all day, so there was a home-sigh in her voiceas she sang. Kenneth moved his chair into the shadow, and watched her.

  At last he rose to go; and with promises of an early return, hewithdrew.

  Not to the saloon did he go that night, as had been his custom sincecoming to the mining camp. He walked on and on, out into the vastaloneness of the mountains. Once in a while he stopped, and lookeddown towards Clayton Ranch. At intervals he whistled softly.--Thestrain was "Home, Sweet Home."

  John Clayton and his wife sat long before the fire after Esther andEdith had retired. Mary Clayton was a gentle being, with a fair, sweetEnglish face. And she adored her husband. They had been talkingearnestly.

  "Any way, Mary," John Clayton was saying, "I believe Miss Bright couldmake an unusually fine man of Kenneth. I believe she could make him abetter man, too."

  "That might be, John," she responded, "but you wouldn't want so rare asoul as she is to marry him to reform him, would you? She's like asnow-drop."

  "No, like a rose," he suggested, "all sweet at the heart. I'd reallylike to see her marry Kenneth. In fact, I'd like to help along alittle."

  "Oh, my dear! How could you?" And she looked at him reproachfully.

  "Why not?" he asked. "Tell me honestly." He lifted her face andlooked into it with lover-like tenderness. "You like Kenneth, don'tyou? And we are always glad to welcome him in our home."

  "Y-e-s," she responded hesitatingly, "but--"

  "But what?"

  "I fear he frequents the saloons, and is sometimes in company totallyunworthy of him. In fact, I fear he isn't good enough for Miss Bright.I can't bear to think of her marrying any man less pure and noble thanshe is herself."

  He took his wife's hand in both of his.

  "You forget, Mary," he said, "that Miss Bright is a very unusualwoman. There are few men, possibly, who are her peers. Don't condemnKenneth because he isn't exactly like her. He's not perfect, I admit,any more than the rest of us. But he's a fine, manly fellow, with agood mind and noble traits of character. If the right woman gets holdof him, she'll make him a good man, and possibly a great one."

  "That may be," she said, "but I don't want Miss Bright to be thatwoman."

  "Suppose he were your son, would you feel he was so unworthy of her?"

  "Probably not," came her hesitating answer.

  "Mary, dear," he said, "I fear you are too severe in your judgment ofmen. I wish you had more compassion. You see, it is this way: many whoseem evil have gone astray because they have not had the influence ofa good mother or sister or wife." He bent his head and kissed her.

  A moment later, he leaned back and burst into a hearty laugh.

  "Why, what's the matter?" she asked. "I don't think it's a laughingmatter."

  "It's so ridiculous, Mary. Here we've been concerning ourselves aboutthe possible marriage of Kenneth and Miss Bright, when they have onlyjust met, and it isn't likely they'll ever care for each other,anyway. Let's leave them alone."

  And the curtain went down on a vital introductory scene in the dramaof life.