Under the Tonto Rim (1991)

by Grey, Zane

  "Mertie's birthday, Sam," replied Edd. "How are you all?"

  "Jest a-rarin' to go," said Gerd Claypool.

  "Edd, I reckon we'd like a lick of that honey pot of yours," added Hal Miller.

  "I gave ma the last half-gallon for Mertie's party," replied Edd. "You might get some, if you don't back on your halter too long."

  "What's become of all your honey?" queried Sam with interest. "I remember you had a lot."

  "Sold. An' I'm offered a dollar a gallon for all I can fetch to Winbrook."

  Sam whistled. "Say, you ain't such a dog-gone fool as we thought, chasin' bees all the time."

  "I'll make it a business," said Edd.

  "Edd, it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to save some of your honey," interposed Sadie Purdue slyly.

  "What you mean?" asked Edd bluntly.

  "Girls like honey," she answered, in a tormenting tone no one could mistake.

  "Reckon I savvy," returned Edd with good humour. "But honey words an' honey ways with girls don't come natural to me, like with Sam."

  His reply raised a howl of laughter at Sam's expense.

  "Wal, I ain't noticin' that I ever go to any dances alone," rejoined Sam sarcastically.

  Lucy could see from the shadow of her room through the door most of the group of young people on the porch. Sam leaned behind Sadie, who sat by the porch rail. Gerd and Hal occupied seats on the canvas packs. The other girls sat on a bench. Dick was the only one of the Denmeade boys in sight. He appeared rather out of it, and stood in the background, silent, listening, with a rather pleasant smile on his keen face.

  It was most interesting and instructive for Lucy to observe and hear these young people. What struck her most was the simple, unrestrained expression of what she divined as a primitive pleasure in tormenting. At the bottom of it was the unconscious satisfaction at another's pain. Sadie's expression was a teasing, joyful malignance. Manifestly she was revelling in the fun at the boys' expense. Mertie wore a bored look of superiority, as if she were tolerating the attentions of these young men for the moment. Amy Claypool's face, honest and comely, was wreathed in smiles. The boys near them wore lazy, bantering expressions, without selfish or unfriendly hint. But to the sensitive Lucy, used to the better educated, their talk seemed crude, almost brutal.

  For a while the sole topic of conversation was the dance on Friday night. It expressed the wholesome and happy regard these youths and maidens held in the only recreation and social function that fell to their lot. Personalities and banterings were forgotten for the moment and other wonderful dances were remembered; conjectures as to attendance, music, ice cream, were indulged in. Presently, however, when they had exhausted the more wholesome reactions to this dance subject they reverted to the inevitable banter.

  "Say, Dick, have you found a girl tall enough to take to the dance--one you wouldn't have to stoop 'way over to reach?" drawled Sam Johnson.

  Dick's youthful face turned ruddy. The attention suddenly and unexpectedly thrown upon him caused him intense embarrassment. The prominent bone in his throat worked up and down.

  "Boy, yore handy with tools," interposed Hal. "Make a pair of stilts for that fat little sister of mine yore sweet on. She's four feet eight an' weighs one fifty. Reckon you'd make Sam an' Sadie look sick."

  Other sallies, just as swift and laugh-provoking, gave the poor boy no time to recover, even if he had been able to retaliate. It was his sister Allie who came to the rescue from the door of the kitchen.

  "Sadie, who're you goin' with?" she inquired sweetly.

  "Sam. He's the best dancer in this country," she announced.

  "So it's settled then," rejoined Allie casually. "When I asked him the other day who he was goin' with I kind of got a hunch it might not be you."

  Sadie flashed a surprised and resentful look up at Sam. He took it, as well as the mirth roused by Allie's covert remark, with an equanimity that showed him rather diplomatic.

  "Sadie, I told Allie you hadn't accepted my invite, which you hadn't," he said.

  "Reckon it wasn't necessary," she retorted, in a tone that conveyed the impression of an understanding between them.

  "Wal, Sadie," drawled Edd's slow, cool voice, "I reckon you'll find it necessary to hawg-tie Sam for dances--or any other kind of shindig."

  This sly speech from Edd Denmeade gave Lucy an unexpected and delightful thrill. Almost she joined in the hilarity it stirred. Even the self-conscious Mertie burst into laughter. For a moment the tables had been turned; Sam was at a loss for a retort; and Sadie gave a fleeting glimpse of her cat-like nature under her smugness and pleasant assurance.

  "Edd, have you asked any girl yet?" she inquired sweetly.

  "Nope. Not yet. I've been away, you know," he replied.

  "'Course you're goin'?"

  "Never missed a dance yet, Sadie."

  "It's gettin' late in the day, Edd," she went on seriously. "You oughtn't go alone to dances, as you do sometimes. It's not fair to break in on boys who have partners. They just have to set out those dances...Edd, you ought to be findin' you a regular girl."

  Sadie's voice and face were as a transparent mask for the maliciousness of her soul.

  "Shore, Edd," put in Sam, "an' you ought to hawg-tie her, too."

  "Funny aboot Edd, ain't it?" interposed Gerd. "The way he can see in the woods. Say, he's got eyes! He can line a bee fer half a mile. But he can't line a girl."

  "Nope, you're wrong, boy," replied Edd, with evident restraint. "Never had no trouble linin' a girl. But I haven't got the soft-soap you fellows use."

  "Who are you goin' to ask to the dance?" insisted Sadie.

  They nagged him, then, with this query, and with advice and suggestions, and with information that no matter what girl he asked he would find she had already accepted an invitation. It must have been their way of having fun. But to Lucy it seemed brutal. Almost she felt sorry for Edd Denmeade It struck her that his friends and relatives must have some good reason for so unmercifully flaying him.

  For, despite the general bantering, they had made him the centre and the butt of their peculiar way of enjoying themselves. The girl Sadie seemed the instigator of this emphasis thrown upon Edd, and Sam ably seconded her.

  Amy Claypool, however, manifested a kindlier spirit, though apparently she did not realise the tirade was little short of a jealous brutality.

  "Edd, I'd ask the new schoolmarm," she said, lowering her voice. "She's awful pretty an' nice. Not a bit stuck-up."

  Lucy heard this suggestion, and at once became a prey to amusement and dismay. Why could not the young people, and their elders, too, leave her out of all reckoning? Her pulse quickened with an excitation that displeased her. How her very ears seemed to burn!

  Sadie Purdue burst into a peal of laughter. "Amy, you're crazy!" she exclaimed. "That city girl wouldn't go dancin' with a wild-bee hunter!"

  This positive assertion did not produce any mirth. No doubt Sadie had no intention now of being funny. A red spot showed in her cheek. The sudden scrape of boots and clank of spurs attested to the fact that Edd Denmeade had leaped to his feet.

  "Sadie Purdue, I reckon it's no disgrace to hunt bees," he said sharply.

  "Who said it was?" she retorted. "But I've been among town folks. You take my hunch an' don't ask her."

  Edd stalked off the porch, coming into range of Lucy's sight when he got down into the yard. His stride seemed to be that of a man who was hurrying to get away from something unpleasant.

  "Sadie, you shore don't know it all," said Amy mildly. "If this home-schoolmarm wasn't a nice an' kind sort she'd not be up heah. Fun is fun, but you had no call to insult Edd."

  "Insult nothin'," snapped Sadie. "I was only tryin' to save his feelin's."

  "You never liked Edd an' you don't want anyone else to," returned Amy. "I know two girls who might have liked Edd but for you."

  Lucy's heart warmed to this mild-voiced Amy Claypool. She did not make the least show of spirit. Sadie turned petulantly
to Sam, and there was a moment of rather strained silence.

  "Come an' get it, you birthday party," called Allie from the door.

  That call relieved the situation, and merriment at once reclaimed the young people. Lucy was glad to see them dive for seats at the table. She was conscious of a strength and depth of interest quite out of proportion to what should have been natural to her. Still, she had elected to undertake a serious work among these mountaineers. How could she help but be interested in anything that pertained to them? But the wild-bee hunter! Quick as a flash then Lucy had an impulse she determined to satisfy. Would Edd Denmeade give these guests of his sister's the last bit of the honey upon which he set such store? Lucy felt that he ought not to do so and would not, yet she contrarily hoped that he might. There appeared to her only one way to ascertain, and that was to walk by the table and see. Despite her determination, she hesitated. Then fortunately the problem was solved for her.

  Allie, sailing out of the kitchen door, set a pan rather noisily upon the table. "There's the last of Edd's honey. Fight over it!"

  The next few moments' observation afforded Lucy the satisfaction of seeing the birthday guests actually engaged according to Allie's suggestion. From that scene Lucy formed her impression of the deliciousness of wild-bee honey.

  Lucy did not lay eyes upon Edd Denmeade until late the following morning, when, after the visitors and school children had ridden away, he presented himself before her where she played with the twins on the porch.

  "Mornin'. Reckon I'd like a few words with you," he said.

  "Why, gladly!" replied Lucy, as she sat up to gaze at him.

  Edd was standing down in the yard, holding his sombrero in his hands and turning it edgewise round and round. On the moment he did not look at her. Seen now at close range, with all the stains of that terrible ride home removed from garb and face, he appeared vastly different. He was labouring with thought.

  "Ma an' pa have been tellin' me about you, but I reckon I'm not satisfied."

  "Yes? Is there anything I can tell you?" said Lucy, relieved. She had actually been afraid he would ask her to go to the dance.

  "Shore. I want to know about this here work you're goin' to do."

  Then he looked up to meet her eyes. Lucy had never met just such a glance. His eyes were so clear and grey that they seemed expressionless. Yet Lucy conceived a vivid impression of the honesty and simplicity of the soul from which they looked. Whereupon Lucy took the pains to explain quite at length the nature of the work she had undertaken among his people. He listened intently, standing motionless, watching her with a steady gaze that was disconcerting.

  "Pa an' ma talked more things you were goin' to get the state to buy for us," he said reflectively. "I'm wonderin' if they don't take more to that."

  "It would be only natural," responded Lucy earnestly. "I must have time to show actual good, rather than gain."

  "I reckon. Pa's sendin' me to Cedar Ridge, where I'm to post your letters an' buy all that outfit you want. I'm takin' three burros to pack. Reckon I'll put the sewin' machine on Jennie."

  "Oh--a little burro to carry it--all alone!" exclaimed Lucy.

  "Shore. Jennie packed the kitchen stove up that trail you come on. An' she packed a hundred an' fifty pounds of honey to Winbrook."

  "Well, I'll say that Jennie is a wonderful little beast of burden," replied Lucy.

  "Now--you aim to stay with us awhile, an' then go to Claypool's an' Johnson's an' Miller's an' Sprall's?"

  "Yes, that is my plan, but no definite time is set. I have all the time there is, as I heard your Uncle Bill say."

  "Wal, it's a bad idea. It won't do," he declared.

  "How? Why?" queried Lucy anxiously.

  "First off, you're too young an' pretty," he said, wholly unconscious of the language of compliment.

  "Oh!" returned Lucy, almost confused. "But surely, Mr. Denmeade--"

  "Nobody ever called me mister," he interrupted.

  "Indeed!...I--well--surely my youth--and my good looks, as you are kind to call them, need not stand in my way?"

  "Shore they will. If you were an old woman, or even middle-aged, it might do. But you're a girl."

  "Yes, I am," rejoined Lucy, puzzled and amused. "I can't deny that."

  Manifestly he regarded his bare statement as sufficient evidence on the point, whatever this was; for he went on to say that the several families would quarrel over her, and it would all end in a a row.

  "Reckon no matter what pa said I'd never let you go to Sprall's," he concluded simply.

  "You...May I ask what business it would be of yours?"

  "Wal, somebody has to take these here things on his shoulders, an' I reckon most of them fall on me," he replied.

  "I don't understand you," said Lucy forcibly.

  "Wal, somethin' wrong is always happenin' up here among us people. An' I reckon I'm the only one who sees it."

  "Wrong! How could it be wrong for me to go to Sprall's?" protested Lucy. "From what I hear they need me a great deal more than any family up here."

  "Miss, I reckon you'd better not believe all you hear," he returned. "If you was to ride over to Sprall's you'd say they'd ought to be washed an' dressed, an' their cabin burned. But that's all you'd see unless you stayed a day or so."

  "Oh!...Suppose I'd stay?" queried Lucy.

  "You'd see that was long enough."

  "But don't you understand I'm here to help poor families--no matter how dirty or ignorant or--or even wicked?" cried Lucy poignantly.

  "Shore I understand. An' I reckon it's your goodness of heart, an' of these people who sent you. But it won't do, maybe not for us, an' shore an' certain never for such as the Spralls."

  "You must tell me why, if you expect me to pay the least attention to what you say," retorted Lucy stubbornly.

  "Shore! can't talk about the Sprall women to a girl like you," he protested. "If ma won't tell you, it's no job for me. But I reckon there's no need. You're not goin' to Sprall's."

  Lucy was at a loss for words. His bare assertion did not seem to stir her anger so much as a conviction that for some reason or other she would not go to Sprall's.

  "I've heard, since I've been here, that there was bad blood between you and Bud Sprall. It must have been your mother who said it," replied Lucy slowly, trying to keep her temper.

  "Nope. The bad blood is on Bud's side. Reckon if there'd been any on mine I'd have killed him long ago...Now, miss, you're a city girl, but you ought to have a little sense. If I told you I couldn't let Mertie stay where Bud Sprall was--you'd understand that, I reckon."

  "Yes. I am not quite so stupid as you seem to think," retorted Lucy.

  "Wal, for the same reason I'd not let you go, either...Now we're wastin' time talkin' about Sprall's. To come back to this here work of yours, I'm sorry I can't see it favourable like pa an' ma. But I just can't."

  "I'm sorry, too," replied Lucy soberly. ". It'll be discouraging to have even one person against me. But why--why?"

  "I reckon I can't figure that out so quick," he replied. ". It's the way I feel. If you was goin' to live among us always I might feel different. But you won't last up here very long. An' suppose you do teach Liz an' Lize an' Danny a lot of things. They've got to grow up an' live here. They might be happier knowin' less. It's what they don't know that don't make any difference."

  "You're terribly wrong, Edd Denmeade," replied Lucy with spirit.

  "Ahuh! Wal, that's for you to prove," he returned Imperturbably. "I'll be goin' now. An' I reckon I'll fetch your outfit in about midday to-morrow."

  Lucy stared after the tall figure as it stalked with a flapping of chaps keeping time with a clinking of spurs. Edd Denmeade was six feet tall, slender, yet not lean like his brothers. He was built like a narrow wedge, only his body and limbs were rounded, with small waist, small hips, all giving an impression of extraordinary suppleness and strength. Lucy had seen riders of the range whose form resembled this young bee hunter's. They had been,
however, awkward on their feet, showing to best advantage when mounted on horseback. This Denmeade had a long, quick, springy stride.

  When he had passed out of sight down the lane Lucy let the children play alone while she pondered over his thought-provoking words. She realised that he was right in a way, and that it might be possible to do these children more harm than good. But never if she could only impress them lastingly. The facts of the case were as plain as printed words to her. These backwoods people were many generations behind city people in their development.

  In a fairly intelligent and broad way Lucy had grasped at the fundamentals of the question of the evolution of the human race. Not so many thousand years back all the human family, scattered widely over the globe, had lived nomad lives in the forests, governed by conditions of food and water. Farther back, their progenitors had been barbarians, and still more remotely they had been cave men, fighting the cave bear and the sabre-toothed tiger. Lucy had seen pictures in a scientific book of the bones of these men and beasts. In ages back all the wandering tribes of men had to hunt to live, and their problems were few. Meat to eat, skins to wear, protection from beasts and ravaging bands of their own species! Yet, even so, through the long ages, these savages had progressed mentally and spiritually. Lucy saw that as a law of life.

  These backwoods people were simply a little closer to the old order of primitive things than their more fortunate brethren of civilisation. Even if they so willed with implacable tenacity they could not for ever hold on to their crude and elemental lives. They could never evade the line of progress. Edd Denmeade's father was a backwoodsman; Edd himself was a bee hunter; his son would most likely be a forest ranger or lumberman, and his grandson perhaps become a farmer or a worker in the city.

  Naturally this giant boy of the woods understood nothing of all this. Yet he had a quaint philosophy which Lucy felt she understood. In a sense the unthinking savage and the primitive white child were happier than any children of civilised peoples. In a way it might be a pity to rob them of their instincts, educate them out of a purely natural existence. But from the very dawn of life on the planet the advance of mind had been inevitable. Lucy was familiar with many writers who ascribed this fact to nature. Her personal conviction was that beyond and above nature was God.