by Grey, Zane
"Wal, if you ask me, this is what made me win," Abe drawled, touching a bit of ribbon in his buttonhole. "What do I get for winning? 'Cause sure I'll spend most of that prize money on you?"
"What do you want, Abe?" she asked, wistfully.
"I reckon seeing you like this is enough."
"But Abe! You'll dance with me?"
"Sure... Bab, I ran plump into George with his lady. Doggone, but she's handsome! Made eyes at me! But I didn't speak. I'll bet George will raise hell with me."
"Neither did I, Abe," replied Barbara. "George has danced only with her so far."
"Gosh, the fool is loco: That Campbell outfit will break loose pronto."
Lucinda intervened, troubled by these disclosures, and she begged Abe to warn George to avoid a fight.
"All right, Maw, I'll try," said Abe dubiously. "But it won't be no use.
George is riding high, and he's due for a spill... Come, Barbara, see if you can make me dance as well as you made me shoot."
Affairs of this kind lasted all night, to break up at daylight. As the hours wore on the dancers grew more and more obsessed with something that Lucinda thought for most of them was physical contact. They swayed to the music, but it was only a means to an end. The young men outnumbered the young women, and, as a result, the latter had little rest during the evening. The best girl dancer, in the estimation of the majority of men, was the one who could dance all the men down. Mil Campbell had enjoyed such reputation before she had become infatuated with George Huett. She was a strongly built, wiry young woman in her twenties, with a bold, flashing kind of beauty and allurement that went to the heads of young swains like wine.
For that matter, few indeed were the boys who did not drink as the dance wore on. A local liquor, called white mule, distilled by moonshiners down in the wild Tonto, was far from being conducive to the peaceful continuance of the dance. On rare occasions Logan had indulged in a drink or two of this fiery liquid that was so disarmingly named. Lucinda thought it had rather an amusing and relaxing effect upon her husband.
Grant became exuberant under its influence. Abe never touched it, nor any other kind of drink. Fortunately for George and his family, dances and other festive occasions were rare, for he was fond of the sorghum juice, and it always acted subtly and oppositely on his genial temperament.
These reflections had passed through Lucinda's mind, and had been forgotten, at least for the period of agreeable intercourse with some new women acquaintances. But not all the conversations Lucinda happened upon, or could not avoid hearing, were agreeable. There were cliques in that section of Arizona--homesteaders, squatters, pioneers, cattlemen, ranchers, Mormons, and others of whom it was not safe to speak.
Lucinda heard a swarthy woman say, "Thet stuck-up Huett outfit," which remark gave violent check to her friendly feelings of the moment. When later her ears burned at inuendoes that could not have concerned anyone else but George and the Campbell girl, Lucinda thought her hopes of enjoying one dance without distress were futile.
There were few intermissions between dances. The fiddler and his accompanist played through long intervals, only stopping to wet their throats before beginning again. When, however, there was excitement outside, those who were dancing and watching would rush madly from the cabin.
This inevitable circumstance held off so long that Lucinda's fears began to wane. They were revived quickly, however, when she encountered Barbara at the wide front door, attempting to drag Grant inside. Barbara was pale and her eyes were purple blazes.
"Now!" ejaculated Lucinda, her heart sinking like lead.
"Mother--don't go out," panted Barbara. "There's a fight--about----"
"What's happened?" interrupted Lucinda, aghast.
"Oh, if it hadn't been one thing it'd have been another. But they had to drag me into it... All George's fault!... Jack Campbell just asked me to dance. He wasn't drunk. And he was decent about it. Said I might stop a fight if I'd dance with him. But I was confused--angry, and I said no... Oh, I should have danced with him whether Abe liked it or not!"
"You did right to refuse him. How can that start a fight?"
"I don't know. But it will. He said so."
"You stay with Grant. I'll go out and get Abe. We'll go home."
"Maw, we can't do that," objected Grant, sharply. "George is a jackass.
But Abe won't leave him here alone to be half beaten to death by that Campbell outfit. And neither will I."
"Where's Dad?"
"He went off to town with Holbert."
Lucinda pushed through the crowded door, followed by Grant and Barbara.
The excitement of the jostling couples could have been felt even if it had been suppressed. Brush had been thrown upon the fires, and flames with great sparks leaped high towards the black pines. In the open space before the cabin it was as light as day. A circle of men and women extended from one fire to the other. The dancers were craning their necks to see, climbing up on tables, and stumps in the background, trying to edge through the cordon.
Lucinda scorched her gown squeezing near the fire into the circle. In the full glare of the twin blazes George stood confronted by the dark, long-haired, uncouth-appearing Jack Campbell. Behind them Mil Campbell was struggling with her other two brothers to keep from being dragged into the crowd. On the instant she broke loose to run and take hold of Jack, who fiercely shoved her back. Lucinda had the same impulse, but Abe, who came from behind, laid powerful hold on her.
"Too late, Maw," he whispered, tensely. "Just as well they have it out."
What Lucinda hated most at that instant was not to see George standing there, pale, with gimlet eyes of fire, plainly at the end of his tether, but the tension of the onlookers, the suspended whispers of eager speculation and passion that rail through them, the raw something in their gleaming faces. Dance, drink, and fight were the only emotional outlets these backwoods and cattle people enjoyed in their lonely, elemental lives.
"I told you to leave Mil to her own outfit," rasped out Campbell.
"Sure. But you're a damn fool! She didn't want that," replied George, hotly.
"All Mil wants is to make trouble. An' all you want, Huett, is to play fast an' loose with her. Wal, I'm callin' you right heah an' now."
"Holler your head off. It won't stop me. But if you had and decency you wouldn't drag your sister's name in the dirt, rejoined George, scornfully. He was roused to wrath, probably inflamed by drink, but hard, calculating, holding himself in check. On the other hand, Jack Campbell appeared to be under the influence of the liquor as well as a malignant purpose which he would not see thwarted. His swaggering, bold front attested to an issue long desired. He had at last hounded this son of the exclusive Huetts into the open.
"George Huett, I'm gonna mess up yore dude clothes an' mash yore pretty mug," declared Campbell, with robust satisfaction.
"Like hell you are! But if you pick a fight with me, I'm telling everybody it's just hate. You've no cause."
"Didn't I accuse you of playin' fast an' loose with Mil?" demanded Campbell.
"That's a lie, Jack. And I can prove it."
"Bah, you cain't prove nothin' to me."
"Ask Mil. Only to-night I told her I'd marry her if she'd turn her back on your rotten outfit."
Campbell wheeled in amaze and fury. "Mil, is thet so?"
"Yes, it's so," cried the young woman, wildly, divided between shame and fright. Her flashing dark beauty gained from genuine distress and the play of the firelight upon her face. "Jack, this--this deal is outrageous... For my sake--"
"Aha. You can declare yourself, Mil Campbell, right heah an' now. Are you playin' fast an' loose with Huett?"
"No--I'm not," she panted.
"Wal, how aboot Rich Harvey? You're thick with him. You was gonna marry him till this dude Huett--"
"Shut your dirty mouth!" screamed his sister, in her rage and evident guilt. "You're drunk."
"I'm sober enough to see through you, Mil Campbell. Y
ou're dishin' my pard Rich for this Huett guy. Wal, I'm givin' you away to him."
Mil hissed like a snake at her brother and, turning to flee, she almost ran across the fire, in her madness to escape.
"Huett, I'm tellin' you," went on Campbell, sombrely. "If Mil dishes Rich Harvey it won't change the fact thet she ought to marry him."
"Campbell, I wouldn't believe a word you said," declared George.
"Huett, mebbe you'll believe this," launched Campbell, craning his black, ragged head at George. "I jest asked yore sister to dance with me. She said no! an' she drew back her white duds as if she might dirty them if they touched me."
"Campbell, I can believe that last. But you leave her name out of this," retorted George, subtly transformed.
"She's no better than Mil," burst out Campbell, surrendering to the passion he knew would break Huett's restraint. "Some folks down heah hints she's unnatural fond of her brothers----"
George leaped to swing a terrific blow upon Campbell's mouth. Loosened teeth rattled on the leaves as he fell. The men onlookers shouted lustily; some of the women screamed. Lucinda pressed behind Abe, against Barbara, who was clinging to Grant. But Lucinda's instinct was only to get out of the open. A burning within her burst all bounds.
Campbell bounded up and with lowered head plunged at George like a bull.
He swung both fists wildly. Then came a furious exchange of blows, finishing with a sodden thump upon Campbell's nose that spattered blood and upset him. The backwoodsman plumped down ridiculously, to the hoarse guffaws of the men. He snarled like a beast, and, leaping up, tried again to beat down Huett's defence. But he was outmatched. His opponent's longer reach and cooler method put Campbell at a disadvantage. The break in his confidence was manifest to all and it transformed him into a savage.
"Look out, George!" yelled Abe, piercingly. "Knife!"
Lucinda saw the bright glitter of a blade in the firelight. She staggered back upon Grant, crying out: "For God's sake stop them!" A husky acclaim from men and screams from women gave way to a strained silence.
"Huett, I'll cut yore heart out," hissed Campbell, crouching with his right hand low.
"Jack, thet ain't fair play," yelled some man from the crowd.
Huett appeared cornered between his assailant and the nearer fire.
Campbell had so manoeuvred as to be facing both George and Abe.
"George, if he swings, grab his arm," whispered Abe, in a silence so deep that all heard. Then Abe turned to call caustically: "Somebody pass me a gun--if you're not ail Campbells!"
"Jim--Sandy," shouted Campbell, manifestly to his brothers. "Copper any more there... This's my deal, an' I shore got a hand!"
The white-faced George swayed a little to and fro in his intense wariness. Then Campbell leaped, whirling the blade so swiftly that only its glitter could be seen. He evidently cut George's right arm, for it fell limp. Then his next move was a downward stab that wrenched a cry of agony from George. But with left hand he held Campbell's wrist momentarily.
On that instant Abe sprang in to deal Campbell a blow that resounded suddenly through the woods, lifting Campbell clear from his feet and knocking him into the fire. Screeching horribly, the man rolled out, his clothes blazing, his visage ghastly, his hands beating like broken wings.
The knife was gone. The nearest onlookers broke out of their trance to drag Campbell away from the fire. Then the hoarse cries and lamentations were suddenly hushed as Abe Huett flung himself upon Jack Campbell's brothers.
A battle began that drew wild delight from the watching men and turned the women's faces white and tense. Lucinda had almost fainted when George was stabbed, but she revived to an appalling interest in Abe's onslaught upon the other two. The three combatants moved so swiftly that Lucinda could not tell who was who, until one of them went down. But Abe was not that one. The crowd stilled to the heavy blows, the tearing of garments, the deep curses and pants of the fighting men. Then the smaller of the Campbells stumbled, and fell flat on his back. Groggily he staggered half-way to his knees, when a powerful kick under his chin flattened him again. This coup left Abe engaged with the larger Campbell, who, unable to keep his feet before his agile and 'powerful opponent, resorted to the backwoods rough-and-tumble fight, which went obviously, from the first, against Campbell. His wrestling, his beating grew less fierce, until it was plain he had been bested. But when he bawled enough, Abe dragged him up to his knees and struck one final blow at the distorted visage.
Campbell's head struck the ground with a thud, and he lay prone like his brother.
The dance sustained a longer intermission than usual. There was a woman among the guests who professed skill with wounds, and who bound up George's gashes. The cut on his arm was nothing to be concerned about, but the stab high on his breast had just escaped the lung. It would be painful, but not necessarily serious. According to talk in the cabin, Jack Campbell had been hauled away to the village, terribly burned, and in a critical condition.
After some of the men carried George to the Huett wagon the old musician began fiddling more engagingly than ever, and the dance went on as if nothing had happened. When Lucinda expressed wonder at this, one of her women listeners replied: "Shucks, there's been more'n one dancer carried oot of heah feet first!"
Lucinda had not heard from Abe since the fight, but Barbara, pale and distraught, told her that she had seen him run to bend over George, and that he had arisen to say: "Not bad knifed. Tie him up and send him home."
"But Abe... Wasn't he hurt?" queried Lucinda, poignantly.
"Hurt? I couldn't tell," replied the girl, tragically. "But he slipped away--from me. Oh, he was all rags, mud, blood!"
Logan soon appeared on the scene. He had heard all about the fight.
Lucinda had always feared what his wrath might be, yet here, as always, he was calm, practical, apparently unfeeling.
"Come, Luce, we'll go home," he said. "Barbara, stay with Grant if you want. The dance has hardly begun."
"Thanks, but I'll go with mother," declared Barbara, constrainedly. "No more Tonto dances for me!"
"Abe's horse is gone," said Grant, when they reached the wagon. "I reckon I'll fork mine and amble along."
George came out of his dazed state to ask from his bed in the wagon, "Dad, where's Abe?"
"Gone home, I reckon, which is where we're going pronto."
"Was he bad hurt?"
"Not so you'd notice it, Grant said," drawled Huett. "Ben Holbert saw the fight. According to Ben that Campbell outfit made a mistake to jump you when Abe was around."
"Abe saved my life. Aw, Dad, I've been such a--a fool."
"Well, son, they say you had cause, with that handsome, black-eyed cat throwing herself at you. Let it be a lesson. Keep quiet now... Lucinda, are you ready to leave?"
"Yes, unless Barbara wants to change her dress."
"I'll ride as I am. Give me a blanket," said the girl, and she climbed into the wagon upon the hay beside George. Grant rode behind, leading George's horse.
Lucinda thought she would never forget the bonfires, blazing up anew, the square log cabin with its gleaming lights, the pioneers standing around discussing the fight, the young couples coming out of the dark woods to join the dancers, the monotonous squeak of the fiddle and the strange, intense, rhythmic tread of feet. How weird were the tall black pines!
They reminded Lucinda of those she had seen first in Arizona, a score and more of years ago.
Logan wrapped a blanket around her and clucked to the horses.
"Well, home by sun-up," he said, cheerfully. "Maw, I tell you I made a good deal to-night. Holbert put me on to it. Pretty decent of him. But he's in no shape to take up any deal. Besides, he couldn't find the browse. That's where Sycamore Canyon has all these ranges beat. My oak thickets, my maple thickets with all their browsing leafage--they'll sure make my fortune yet!"
Chapter TWELVE.
The first snow had fallen, making ample amends in its white drifts and blanc
hed trees for the tardiness of its arrival.
Just when the wintry twilight began to steal down from the rims, Grant came stamping into the cabin with brimming pails of milk.
"Dad and Abe not home yet?" he stopped whistling to ask. "When did they ever come back early from a hunt? And the first this fall!" returned his mother.
"Doggone it! Let's not wait supper for them. What say, George?"
The eldest son sat near the wall close to the red fire, which shone ruddily on his thin cheek. He was mending from his wounds.
"Not very long, anyhow," he said.
"Where are your ears--you?" interposed Barbara. "I can hear Dad's deep voice."
Lucinda had often heard this welcome sound with gladness and relief. How many, many times! She could tell that Logan had had good hunting. Heavy footfalls on the porch preceded the opening of the door. Logan entered to set his rifle against the wall and throw off his snow-covered coat. His broad visage wore a bright smile of satisfaction at sight of them all and the cheery fire and steaming pots. Abe followed, burly in his buckskins, soft of step and still-faced, with glad eyes for Barbara and his mother.
They brought cold air and the piney breath of the forest with them.
"What luck, Dad?" asked Grant, eagerly.
"Four-point buck and two turks for me," replied his father, with immense gratification in the telling. "Ask Abe what he got."
"I couldn't hit a flock of barns to-day," replied Abe ruefully. "But, Dad, I really didn't have a good shot."
"Ha! ha! You had the same as I--at the buck, anyway."
"Take care, father," taunted Barbara. "You know it's happened that you and Abe shot at the same buck at the same time--and you thought you hit when really you missed."
"By thunder, you're right, Bab. I forgot... It sure was fine up on top to-day. 'Pears I can't walk as I used to. Abe had my tongue hanging out... Luce, it's good to get home. Something smells awful good. My mouth has begun to water. What you got for supper?"
"Beef and potato stew, for one thing," replied Lucinda. "If you and Abe wash up a bit, supper will be ready."
