Under the Tonto Rim (1991)

by Grey, Zane

  "Make me marry you! Never!" she burst out thickly.

  "Shore I'd not care what you said," he replied.

  Lucy's amaze and wrath knew no bounds. "You--you--" She choked, almost unable to express herself. "You savage! You couldn't even love yourself. You're---" She was utterly at a loss to find words. "Why, you're a fool--that's what you are!...If you mention marriage again I'll give up my work here and leave."

  Then and then only did it seem to dawn upon him that there was something wrong with his mind. He gave Lucy a blank, dead stare, as if he saw something through her. The vitality and intensity withered out of his face. He dropped his head and left her.

  That scene had been long weeks past. For days Edd had remained out in the woods, and when he returned there was a difference in him. None of the family, however, apparently attributed it to Lucy. But she knew. At first, such was her antagonism, she did not care what he did or what became of him; but gradually, as the weeks wore on and she had such wonderful success with her work, while he grew wilder and stranger, she began to pity instead of despising him. Poor backwoods boy. How could he help himself? He had been really superior to most of his cousins and friends. Seldom did he do any work at home, except with his bees. Rumour credited him with fights and brawls, and visits to the old moonshiner who distilled the liquor called white mule. His mother worried incessantly. His father passed from concern to grief. "Dog-gone me!" he ejaculated. "Edd's headed like them Sprall boys. An' who'd ever think it!"

  Likewise, Lucy passed from pity to worry, and from that to a conscience-stricken accusation. If for no other reason she was to blame because she had come to Cedar Ridge. This fall of Edd's was taking the sweetness out of her success. Could the teaching of a few children balance the ruin of their brother? How impossible not to accuse herself of the change in him! She felt it every time she saw him.

  At last Lucy saw clearly that her duty consisted in a choice between giving up her welfare work there and winning Edd Denmeade back to what he had been before she came. Thought of abandoning that work would scarcely stay before her consciousness, yet she forced herself to think of it. She had found a congenial, uplifting vocation for herself. But it was one that she could give up, if it were right to do so. There were other things she could find to do. Coming to think of the change in the Denmeade household, the cleanliness and brightness, the elimination of unsanitary habits, the saving of labour, the development of the children's minds, she could not persuade herself that it would be otherwise than cowardice for her to quit now.

  "I must stay," soliloquised Lucy, at last seeing clearly. "If I quit now, all my life I'd be bitter because I failed of the opportunity I prayed for...Then, if I stay I must save Edd Denmeade...It would be welfare work of the noblest kind...What it costs me must not matter."

  Lucy deliberately made the choice, for good or ill to herself, with her eyes wide open and all her faculties alive to the nature of her task and the limits it might demand. Her home life had inured her to sacrifice. That thought brought her back to Clara and the letter which lay open in her lap. With a wrench of her spirit she took it up and reread:

  Felix,

  July 10.

  Dearest Lucy,

  I came back from Mendino to find you gone. I deserved my disappointment, because I've never written you. But, Lucy, it wasn't because I'd forgotten. I was ashamed. I eloped with Jim, as you know, because father had no use for him. Well, if I had listened to you I'd not be miserable and alone now. Jim turned out worse than anyone thought. He didn't even marry me. I'm as much to blame for the whole business as he. The most shameful thing for me, however, was to discover I didn't love him. I was just crazy.

  Father shut the door in my face. I've been staying with an old schoolmate, Mamie Blaize, who has been kind. But, Lucy, I can't stay here. Felix will be no place for me, after they find out.

  I went to the State Department who employ you. From them I got your address. The woman there was very nice. She spoke of your success, and that you had paved the way for extensive welfare work in other parts of the state. Lucy, I'm proud of you. It was always in you--to do good.

  I'm not very well or very strong. Won't you please let me come out there and stay with you? I'll get well and work my fingers to the bone for you. Let me show you I've had my bitter lesson. I need you, Lucy, dear, for sometimes I grow reckless. I have horrible spells of blues. I'm afraid. And if you fail me I don't know what in the world I'll do. But you won't fail me. I seem to feel that deep inside me. It makes me realise what I lacked.

  Send me money at once to come, and tell me what to do--how to get there. Please, Lucy, I beg you. I'm in the dust. To think after scorning your love and advice I'd come crawling on my knees to you. Judge what has happened to me by that. Hurry and write.

  Love,

  Clara.

  This letter saddened Lucy more because of its revival of memory of the beloved little sister than the news it contained. Lucy had never expected anything but catastrophe for Clara. It had come, and speedily; Clara had been away from Felix a year and a half. She was now nearly nineteen. This frank letter revealed a different girl.

  Lucy re-read it, pondered over what she confessed, wept over the ruin of her, yet rejoiced over the apparent birth of soul. Clara had never been one to beg. She had been a sentimental, headstrong girl and she could not be restrained. Lucy forgave her now, sorrowed for the pitiful end of her infatuation for the cowboy Jim Middleton, and with a rush of the old sisterly tenderness she turned to her table to answer that letter. Her response was impulsive, loving, complete, with never a word of reproach. She was accepting Clara's changed attitude toward life as an augury of hope for the future. She would help take the burden of responsibility for that future. It was never too late, Clara must reconstruct her life among new people, and if her disgrace became public she could never return to Felix. Better perhaps that Felix become only a memory!

  Lucy concluded that letter with interesting bits of information about this wilderness country, the beauty of its forests, and the solitude of its backwoods homes. She did not include any remarks anent the stalwart young backwoodsmen or their susceptibilities to the charms of young girls. Even as she thought of this Lucy recalled Clara's piquant, pretty face, her graceful form, her saucy provocative ways. How would Edd Denmeade, and that fine quiet brother Joe, respond to the presence of the pretty sister? Lucy had to dispel misgivings. The die was cast. She would not fail the erring Clara. Enclosing a money order on her office, Lucy sealed the letter and stamped it with an air of finality and a feeling of relief and happiness. It had taken a calamity to drive Clara to her heart and protection.

  "There!" she breathed low, almost with a sob. "That's done, and I'm glad...Come to remember, that's the second decision in regard to my problem. There was a third--when should I leave the Denmeades?...I can't leave just yet. I will stay. They have begged me to stay...It cannot matter, just so long as I do my duty by these other families."

  Then Lucy assuaged her conscience and derived a strange joy out of the decisions she had made. Where might they lead her? The great forest arms of the wilderness seemed to be twining round her. She was responding to unknown influences. Her ideals were making pale and dim the dreams she had once cherished of her own personal future--a home--children--happiness. These were not for everyone. She sighed, and cast away such sentiment.

  "Edd would say I'm bogged down in welfare work," she said. "Now to go out and begin all over again!"

  It seemed significant that as she stepped out of her tent she espied Edd stalking up the lane toward the cabin. He had not been home for days and his ragged apparel showed contact with the woods. As Lucy halted by the gate to wait for him, she felt her heart beat faster. Whatever sensations this wild-bee hunter roused, not one of them was commonplace.

  "Good morning, Edd," said Lucy cheerfully, as if that greeting had always been her way with him. "You're just the person I want to see. Where have you been so long?"

  "Howdy!" he replie
d as he stopped before her. He gave her one of his piercing looks, but showed no surprise. He appeared thin, hard, hungry, and strained. He had not shaved for days, and his dark downy beard enhanced the strange wild atmosphere that seemed to cling round him. "I've been linin' new bees. Reckon it was high time I set to work. It's shore a fine year for bees. You see, there wasn't much rain. A rainy spring makes lots of yellow-jackets, an' them darn insects kill the wild bees an' steal their honey. This dry season keeps down the yellow-jackets. Reckon I'll have my best year findin' honey. Lined two trees to-day."

  "When will you get the honey?" inquired Lucy.

  "Not till after frost comes. October is best."

  "Will you take me some day when you line bees and also when you get the honey?" asked Lucy, plunging headlong into her chosen task. She wanted to burn her bridges behind her. If she listened to caution and selfish doubts she could never keep to her decision. She expected her deliberate request to amaze Edd and cause him to show resentment or bitterness. But he exhibited neither.

  "Shore will. Any time you say," he drawled, as he dragged his trailing rope to him and coiled it.

  "I've news for you. I'm having my sister Clara come out to live with me," she announced.

  "Shore that'll be good," he replied with interest. "How old is she an' what's she like?"

  "Clara is nearly nineteen. She's blonde, very different from me. And very pretty."

  "Wal, you're light-headed yourself, an' I reckon not so different."

  "Edd, are you paying me a compliment?" she asked archly.

  "Nope. I just mean what I say. When'll your sister come?"

  "If all goes well she'll arrive in Cedar Ridge on the stage Wednesday week. But someone must ride in to-morrow so my letter can catch Monday's stage."

  "Give it to me. I'm ridin' to Cedar Ridge this afternoon."

  "Edd, did you intend to go anyway?"

  "Wal, reckon I didn't," he declared honestly. "I've had about enough of town."

  "You've been drinking and fighting?"

  "Shore," he answered simply, as if there were no disgrace attached to that.

  "I don't want you to go to town with my letter unless you promise me you'll neither drink nor fight," she said earnestly.

  Edd laughed. "Say, you're takin' interest in me mighty late. What for?"

  "Better late than never. I refuse to discuss my reasons. But will you promise?"

  "Wal, yes, about the white mule. Sorry I can't promise about fightin'. I've too many enemies I've ticked, an' if I happened to run into one of them, drunk or no drunk, they'd be a-rarin' to get at me."

  "Then I'd rather you stayed away from Cedar Ridge."

  "Wal, so would I. Honest, Lucy, I'm sort of sick. Don't know what it is. But to-day in the woods I began to feel a little like my old self. It's bee huntin' I need. To get away from people!"

  "People will never hurt you, Edd. It's only that you will not like them...Tell me, have you had trouble with Bud Sprall?"

  "Nope. Funny, too. For Bud's been lookin' powerful hard for me. He never goes to town an' I never go to dances, so we haven't bucked into each other."

  "What's this trouble between you and Bud? Doesn't it date back to that dance you took me to?"

  "Wal, it's part because of somethin' he said about you at that dance. I'd have beat him half to death right there, only I didn't want to spoil your good time."

  He seemed apologising to her for a softness that he regretted.

  "About me!" exclaimed Lucy in surprise. "What was it?"

  "Reckon I'm not hankerin' to tell," he replied reluctantly. "Shore I always blamed myself for lettin' it happen. But that night I was plumb locoed."

  "Edd, if it is something you can tell me, do so at once," demanded Lucy.

  "Wal, I can tell it easy enough," returned Edd, with a smile breaking the hardness of his grimy face. "Bud just bragged about peepin' through the cracks of the shed back of the schoolhouse. Swore he watched you undress."

  "Oh--the sneak!" burst out Lucy, suddenly flaming.

  "Wal, don't let the idea upset you," drawled Edd. "For Bud was a liar. He never saw you. He just hatched that up after you wouldn't give him the other dance."

  "How do you know?" queried Lucy, in swift relief.

  "Reckon I didn't know that night. But shore I found out afterward. I rode down to the schoolhouse an' looked. There wasn't a crack in that shed anywheres. Not a darn one! You can bet I was careful to make shore. Bud just lied, that's all. He's always been a liar. But I reckon I hold it as much against him as if he had seen you...An' now there's more I'm sore about."

  Lucy did not delve into her mind to ascertain why she had no impulse to nullify Edd's anger against Bud Sprall. The subject seemed natural to Edd, but it was embarrassing for her.

  "How about my letter?" she asked, ignoring his last speech.

  "Gerd's ridin' in to-day an' he'll go by here. Fetch me the letter an' I'll see he gets it."

  Lucy ran back to her tent, and securing it she returned to hand it to Edd, with a word as to its importance.

  "Shore. More trouble for us backwood boys!" he ejaculated, amicably, as he grinned.

  "Trouble! What do you mean?" she asked, though she knew perfectly well.

  "Another pretty girl ridin' in," he rejoined, with a hint of pathos, "an' one that wouldn't an' couldn't care a darn for the likes of us."

  "Edd, that is unkind," protested Lucy, uncertain how to meet such speeches of his. There seemed only one course to pursue, and that called on all her courage.

  "Reckon it is. I'm not as kind feelin' as I used to be."

  "Indeed you're not," returned Lucy hastily. "And I want to talk to you about that. Not now. Some time when you're rested and cheerful...Come here. I want to show you what I have done during this last absence of yours."

  She led him across the open clearing and along a new-cut path into the woods. It ended abruptly on the edge of the gully. A board walk had been erected on poles, extending some yards out over the gully, to a point just above the spring. By means of a pulley and rope a bucket could be lowered into the spring and hauled up full of water, at very little expenditure of energy. Lucy demonstrated it with ease, showing the great saving of time and effort. Mrs. Denmeade and Allie had been compelled to make many trips a day to this spring, going down the steep trail and climbing back.

  "Now what do you say to me? I thought that out and had your father and Uncle Bill put it up," declared Lucy with pride.

  Edd appeared to be either dumbfounded or greatly impressed. He sat down rather abruptly, as if this last manifestation of Lucy's practical sense had taken something out of him.

  "Simple as A B C," he ejaculated. "Why didn't pa or me--or somebody think of that long ago? I reckon ma an' Allie are ashamed of us."

  His torn black sombrero fell to the ground, and as he wiped his moist face with a soiled scarf his head drooped. How tremendously he seemed to be struggling with a stolid mind! He resembled a man learning to think. Finally he looked up squarely at her.

  "Reckon I'm about licked," he declared. "I've been dyin' hard--Miss Lucy Watson from Felix. But thick as I am I'm shore no darned fool. This here job to make fetchin' water easy for ma an' Allie is shore enough to make me kick myself. It makes me understand what you mean. I was against you. Every time I came home ma showed me somethin' new. Shore that livin'-room, as they call it now, seemed no place for my boots an' spurs an' chaps--for me. But I couldn't help seein' a difference in ma an' Allie an' the kids. They began to look like that room, with its furniture an' curtains an' pictures an' rugs an' bright both day an' night. Reckon I can't tell you just how, but it felt so to me. Clean clothes, pretty things, must mean a lot to women an' kids...An' so I'm comin' down off my hoss an' I'm thankin' you."

  "Then you really believe I'm helping to make your people live better and happier?" asked Lucy earnestly.

  "It's hard for me to knuckle, but I do. I'm not blind. You've been a blessin' to us," he replied with emotion.

&
nbsp; "But--Edd," she began hurriedly, "I--I haven't helped you."

  "Me!...Wal, some fellows are beyond helpin'. I'm a savage. A big fool!...Only a wild-bee hunter!"

  As his head drooped and his bitter reply ended Lucy divined the havoc that had been wrought by those hard words of hers, uttered long weeks before, in an anger she could not brook. He had taken them to heart. Lucy yearned to retract them, but that was impossible.

  "Edd, judged by my standard for men, you were--what I called you," she said. "But I was unjust. I should have made allowance for you. I was hot-tempered. You insulted me. I should have slapped you good and hard."

  "Wal, reckon I could have stood that," he replied. "You must have heard what Sadie an' other girls called me. An' you said it, too. Shore that was too much for me."

  "If you'll promise not to--to talk the way you did then--never again, I'll forgive you," said Lucy hesitatingly.

  "Wal, don't worry, I'll shore never do it again. But I'm not askin' you to forgive me," he returned bluntly, and rising, he stalked away toward the cabin.

  Lucy realised that somehow she had been too impulsive, too hasty in her approach toward friendliness. Perhaps the old lofty superiority had unwittingly cropped out again. Nevertheless, something had been gained, if only her deeper insight into this wild-bee hunter. He was vastly ignorant of an infinite number of things Lucy knew so well. Somehow she had not accorded him a depth of emotion, a strength of individuality, the same that abided in her. Because he was a backwoodsman she had denied him an intimate personal sense of himself. She had not tried to enter into his way of looking at life or people or things. As far as he was concerned she had been a poor judge of humanity, a poor teacher. No easy task would it be to change him. Her reflection brought out the fact that the brief conversation with him had only added to her concern. His confession gratified her exceedingly. She had wanted more than she knew to have him see that she was helping his people to a better and happier life. How powerfully this motive of hers had seized hold of her heart! It had become a passion. He had called her a blessing to his family. That was sweet, moving praise for Lucy. No matter how he had been hurt in his crude sensitiveness, he surely was grateful to her. He was not wholly unapproachable. Only she must be tactful, clever, sincere. The last seemed the most important. Perhaps Edd Denmeade would see through tact and cleverness. Lucy pondered and revolved in mind the complexity of the situation. It must be made so that it was no longer complex. The solution did not dawn on her then, but she divined that she could learn more about him through his love of bees and the forest where he roamed.