by Zane Grey
“Oh—not yet,” she whispered back. But Enoch smilingly shook his head.
The end of this dance found Mary warm, breathless, and exhausted for the moment. She was glad to rest. The children, all of them pupils of hers, gravitated toward her and seemed to have discovered a new interest. Pale-faced and big-eyed, they showed the effects of unusual excitement and were about ready to fall asleep. Mrs. Gard Thurman and another woman were putting the babies to bed in a corner. Ten babies in all soon lay fast asleep side by side, on beds of rugs and blankets evidently brought for that purpose.
When the dancers filed in again, old Henry Thurman rose, fiddle in hand, and twanged a few sharp notes to attract attention.
“Folks,” he drawled, “as a member of the school board it fell on me tonight to extend a vote of thanks to our good teacher, Miss Stockwell. We shore do appreciate her. An’ it was to be my pleasant duty to ask her to stay long heah with us. But thar won’t be airy need of askin’ now. Miss Mary has elected to make her home heah in the Tonto . . . an’ the darn lucky man is my son Enoch.”
It was then, in the few crowded ensuing moments, that Mary found how she was regarded by the children and their folk. Her happiness would have been complete if only she could have been sure of Georgiana. She wondered why Georgiana did not come to her, as had so many. But it turned out that Georgiana had not been present when the announcement was made. In the middle of the next dance, while Mary was resting and talking to Mrs. Thurman, Georgiana came hurriedly to her, followed by Hatfield, who evidently was her partner.
“Mary—he said your engagement to Enoch was announced,” she burst out, with strong feeling.
“Who said so?” asked Mary, smiling.
“My partner—Mr. Hatfield,” replied Georgiana. “I thought he was kidding me, but he swears not. . . . Mary, you look—”
“My dear, I’m very happy to say it’s the truth.”
“Oh!—You’re going to marry Enoch—to live here in the Tonto?” queried the girl, with something incredulous in her voice. Her eyes were dark, dilated with quickening thought.
“Yes, Georgie,” replied Mary.
“My God! What will become of me?” muttered the girl, under her breath.
Just then, before Mary could reply, Hatfield stepped forward. He was quite gallant and made a favorable impression.
“Miss Stockwell, I congratulate you,” he said. “Enoch Thurman—”
He was interrupted by the arrival of Cal, who came rushing up to Mary, eager and pale, and he bent to kiss her.
“Never was so—glad about anythin’ in my life,” he said, breathlessly. “You’ll be Enoch’s wife an’ my sister. I’ll say we’re lucky.”
“Why, Cal—you—you embarrass me,” replied Mary, laughing. “I had no idea I was so popular.”
Then Cal took notice of Georgiana and Hatfield. She gave him a curt little bow and her escort spoke. Cal eyed them steadily, with cool intent, then without word or nod he turned his back on them. Georgiana flushed scarlet under her paint and powder. What semblance of dignity she had was lost in her over-sentimental turning to Hatfield.
“Come on, Bid. You sure dance divinely,” she said, leaning to him and looking up into his eyes.
Hatfield was not slow or timid in his response to that invitation. But, according to Mary, if Georgiana had expected to crush Cal by this means, she had reckoned falsely. Cal apparently neither saw nor heard her.
“Dance with me, please,” he asked of Mary.
“Wait for the next, Cal,” she replied. “They danced me down last time, surely.”
“What! The night of your engagement? Why, teacher!” returned Cal, teasingly.
“Oh, I’m not down and out, as Tuck Merry calls it, but I need a little rest.”
“Where’s Tuck? He was in for it tonight.”
“Come to think—I haven’t seen Tuck dancing. But of course he’s here. He came in the same car with us. . . . Cal, did you ride up horseback?”
“Yep. An’ after I made up my mind I came a-flyin’,” replied Cal, with a frank laugh.
“You said you were not coming. What brought you?” inquired Mary, in kindly curiosity.
“Well, it wasn’t to have a good time. I got a hunch somethin’ was comin’ off an’ I might be needed.”
“Cal, do you mean a fight?”
“No, I reckon I wouldn’t have come to get into a fight or keep anyone out.”
“Then why?” went on Mary, more interested. Cal was laboring under strong suppressed excitement. He seemed more manly, full of reserve force, and the touch of sadness became him. He was evasive, however, and laughed off Mary’s queries. She watched him keenly as he sat there making himself agreeable, and she noted how his dark eyes roved over and among the dancing couples to signal out Georgiana. When, however, during the whirl of the dancing circle, she drew near to where he sat, he gave no indication that he had seen her at all. Mary noted, to her dismay, that Georgiana’s dancing became wilder.
“Cal, you said you didn’t come to have a good time,” spoke up Mary. “You don’t mean that. You must dance and enjoy yourself.”
“Teacher, my heart is broken,” he replied, with sudden somber change of face and tone.
“Oh, Cal!” she exclaimed, in distress.
Abruptly he left her, and did not return until the music started up for the next dance. Then he seemed more like his old self. Still Mary was not reassured. Something rankled deep within Cal. She felt it, and a sense of fear grew upon her. During the whole of that dance she revolved in mind some things she meant to say to him.
“Boy, you didn’t dance so well as usual tonight,” she said.
“Reckon not, teacher. My mind wouldn’t stick to the steps.”
“Cal, what’s on your mind?”
Before he could reply Enoch loomed over them and drew them out of the crowd.
“Shore you couldn’t keep out of trouble, hey?” he queried, curtly, with a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
Cal’s dark, steady eyes peered up into Enoch’s searchingly, questioningly, but he did not answer.
“Wal, I reckon if you’ll listen to me I’ll be glad you came.”
“Don’t I always listen to you?” asked Cal, brusquely.
“Not always, when you’re riled. An’, Cal, this heah’s a time when you need to listen, if there ever was one.”
“What’s come off?” queried Cal, sharply.
“Wal, not much yet. But I reckon the earmarks are bad,” replied Enoch, in serious tone. “Tim is gettin’ drunk. Somebody fetched drink an’ I can’t locate it. Georgie has turned Tim down for Bid Hatfield. Tim is shore courtin’ trouble. An’ Tuck Merry has been a-rarin’. I didn’t see him an’ I cain’t find him, but there’s a report out heah that he’s had three fights.”
“Good! I’d like to see the three fellows.”
“Say, boy, you seem to be tolerable shore that long-necked gander has licked them,” declared Enoch, testily. Evidently he did not fancy the prowess attributed to Cal’s friend. “I’ve been heahin’ things aboot this Tuck Merry, an’ I just cain’t believe them. Reckon I’ll have to get mad an’ find out for shore aboot him.”
“It’s a great idea, Enoch, but don’t try it tonight,” replied Cal, with a bright boyish gleam of fun and devilry in his eyes.
“I can’t trust you, either, Cal Thurman,” went on Enoch, dubiously.
“Whatever are you boys driving at?” asked Mary, half in alarm and half in amusement.
“Cal, I’m askin’ you to stay in heah till I come back,” said Enoch, earnestly.
“Ahuh,” replied Cal. It was a promise as well as an expression of his conviction. He had guessed why his brother had asked him to stay indoors.
“Come, Mary, I want you out heah,” went on Enoch, and led her out into the dark, cold night. The stars were bright above the black pines. Gay chatter and song and laughter sounded from the yellow flare of bonfire. Couples appeared to be strolling into and out of the gloom.
> “Mary, when I was comin’ in someone tagged me an’ told me Georgie was carryin’ on sort—sort of wild with Bid Hatfield,” whispered Enoch, bending close to her. “Now with Tim drinkin’ an’ Cal heah this will never do. Someone is goin’ to tell them an’ then there will be hell.”
“What can we do?” asked Mary.
“I reckon all we can do is to get Georgie inside an’ keep her there.”
“I’m sure I can guarantee that,” responded Mary.
“Wal, mebbe. Reckon you don’t savvy Georgie. Anyway, she’s out there in my car with Hatfield. An’ I’m tellin’ you strong we’ve got to break that up or somebody is goin’ to—”
“Wait here. I’ll go,” interrupted Mary.
CHAPTER
10
W
ITH mingled emotions of shame and anger Mary hurried out into the darkness to find Georgiana. She did not intend to mince matters. It was not quite clear to her just what catastrophe impended, but she felt that here was one. Cal had seemed too cool, too intense, too pleasant to be safe, and the significance of Enoch’s words had not been lost upon her. Georgiana was an outsider, and it began to look serious for her.
There were lovers strolling to and fro under the pines, and here and there low voices coming from the darkness. Mary had some difficulty in finding Enoch’s car, and it was Georgiana’s well-known voice that guided her.
“Cut it out, will you! I don’t want my dress mussed any worse,” Georgiana was saying.
Hatfield’s reply sounded rather deep and pleasant. “Say, kid, there isn’t much of it to muss.”
Mary hurried up to the car. In the gloom she could see Georgiana’s white form. She appeared to be in Hatfield’s arms. On the moment he bent to kiss her. Georgiana then endeavored to free herself, but her action was not by any means desperate.
“Georgiana, get out of that car and come back into the schoolhouse,” demanded Mary, in a voice she had never used before.
Hatfield released Georgiana and stepped out of the car. Mary could just see the pale gleam of her sister’s face. Georgiana sat there a moment in silence.
“Am I a child to be ordered about?” she asked.
“Your conduct is disgraceful,” replied Mary, coldly. “If you have no respect for yourself, I insist that you have some for me.”
“Mary!” cried out Georgiana.
Then without another word she flounced out and hurried toward the schoolhouse. Mary started to follow her, but was intercepted by Hatfield.
“Miss Stockwell, I reckon it’s only square for me to take the blame,” he said. “Georgie didn’t want to come out.”
“No apologies are necessary, Mr. Hatfield,” replied Mary. “I do not blame you in the least. But if you are in need of advice, I would say that you are courting trouble.”
“Thanks. Sure I know what I’m up against. But I can’t see where I’m called to show yellow. Your sister must like me or she wouldn’t stand for—for me. An’ if that’s so I’ll fight the whole Thurman outfit.”
“I agree with you,” returned Mary. “But the worst of this is—Georgiana doesn’t care in the least for you. I—I honestly wish she did, so that I would not be ashamed of her.”
“Look here, Miss Stockwell,” he rejoined, bluntly, “I’m thinkin’ you’re on the level. Reckon I’m in love with Georgia, an’ she could make a decent fellow out of me.—No girl could kiss—an’—an’ talk like Georgie unless she cared. Sure she’s a wild little filly—an’ wants the boys crazy over her. But she couldn’t go so—so far unless she cared.”
“I think Georgie could,” replied Mary. “I don’t know, for certain, but you’re welcome to what I believe. Georgie seems to be devoid of shame, of conscience—not to say more. She’s just playing with you.”
Hatfield started as if he had been struck. He bent to peer closely into Mary’s face.
“You say that—her sister?” he queried, with a catch in his breath.
“Yes. I believe it. I don’t want to be unkind to you or unjust to her. But the situation is bad, you must admit.”
“I reckon it is. Mebbe worse than you think,” he muttered.
“I’ve no more to say, Mr. Hatfield,” added Mary, moving away.
“You’ve said a heap. You’ve showed me a hoss of another color. I’m thankin’ you an’ I’m sorry she’s your sister. If you’ll take a hunch from me, you’ll send her back where she belongs. The Tonto won’t stand for little hussies like her.”
Mary bowed her acknowledgments and hurriedly returned toward the schoolhouse. Hatfield did not appear to be such a bad sort, and probably a really good girl might have done wonders for him. He struck Mary as having the same crude manliness characteristic of all these riders of the Tonto. His last words, and especially his suggestion as to Georgiana, troubled her exceedingly. Indeed, the girl did not fit here among these primitive people.
Then Enoch loomed over Mary and his hard hand, seeking hers, seemed something to cling to.
“Wal, you shore fetched her,” he drawled. “She came a-rarin’, an’ when I tried to stop her—what do you think she said?”
“Goodness knows,” replied Mary, helplessly.
“Wal, it was funny. I seen her comin’, an’ I said, ‘Wal, Georgie, as I’ll soon be a sort of dad to you, reckon you’d better come an’ make up with me.’”
“Enoch, you didn’t?”
“I shore did. An’ the little wildcat glared at me an’ says, sassier than I ever heard her, ‘How’d you like to go where it’s hot?’”
Enoch’s mellow laugh rang out and he slapped his leg with a broad hand. But Mary could not laugh. She was on the verge of tears.
They entered the schoolhouse to find the dance at last in full swing. The children were all asleep in the two corners reserved for them. The old folk were looking on and chatting. Henry Thurman had warmed up to his fiddling job. And the young people were settling down to real dancing, as Enoch put it. Mary found the only difference to be a more crowded floor, a swifter step, and a mounting significance of more than pleasure and excitement. She gathered now that this was a serious matter, this endless swaying to the old fiddler’s rhythm, and was in fact the courting time of the young people of the Tonto.
After that dance came an intermission during which the ladies served sandwiches, cake, and pie. Henry Thurman made an announcement: “Folks, our friend from Globe only fetched eight freezers of ice cream an’ it didn’t last.”
“An’ say, Henry, this yere’s why,” bawled Tim Matthews. “W-Wess Thurman eat sixteen plates.”
“Ho! Ho!” replied Wess. “I ain’t the only long-bellied galoot who’s full of ice cream.”
“Wal, thar’s others full of somethin’ stronger,” called out Enoch.
But for the most part the talk was confined to those within easy speaking range. Now and then someone burst out boisterously, which broke rather coarsely upon the low hum of conversation. Every seat round the room was occupied, and many were standing. It was possible now for Mary to look about and see whom she recognized. She was really surprised at the pleasure of the moment. But for the undercurrent of suppressed feeling that had communicated itself to her, this dance would have been singularly happy. Still, she was happy anyhow, she argued with herself. But there was a bitter drop in her cup.
Everybody seemed to act and talk with perfect naturalness, so that Mary could not help doubting fights were imminent. Cal sat with his Uncle Gard and appeared to be ignoring the feminine contingent. Hatfield had a window seat where he reclined between very attentive young ladies, strangers to Mary. Georgiana sat under the lamplight, which fact Mary believed was no accident, and she was not lacking attendants. Tuck Merry appeared to be most happily engaged, with no rivals near the lady he favored. If he had been in fights, he assuredly did not show it. Tim Matthews had a very red face and a very loose tongue. Apparently, however, he was still good-natured. He was with some boys near the door, all standing, and when he started to leave them, someone dragged h
im back. Enoch said there was a bottle in that crowd and if Tim touched it a few more times he would be ready to be thrown out. Mary had no difficulty discerning that most of these kindly boys were hanging on to Tim to keep him out of mischief. Not improbably Tim was the only person at the dance who had not remarked Hatfield’s attention to Georgiana.
It was altogether a homely scene of backwoods life, yet it appealed strongly to Mary. Simplicity and virility had faded out of many walks of American life. But they abided here. Almost every one of these boys had seen service during the war, and some of them had been in France. What a record Boyd Thurman had brought back! Still, no one would have guessed it. Even the stress of a great war could not change these Arizonians. Their lives had been too free, too rough, too hard for war training to make any material change in them.
Mary remembered well what Serge Thurman had said in reply to her query as to what he had gotten out of the war: “Wal, I reckon all I got was the flu an’ a knock on the haid.”
Henry Thurman brought the intermission to an end with a twang of his fiddle.
“Rustle yore pardners now,” he called. “I’m a fiddlin’ fool an’ I’m lookin’ to see some of these heah long-legged riders danced down.”
A shout greeted Henry’s speech. Evidently it was a challenge put forward by the girls and accepted by the boys. The music started and the dancers took to the floor with a rush. Mary had that dance with Enoch, and the next she promised to Tuck Merry.
