by Zane Grey
He was so tall and so loosely-jointed, and he danced so atrociously out of time, that Mary found it strenuous work to last until the end of the number. Tuck was having a tremendously good time, and was absolutely oblivious to his demerits as a dancing partner. Mary enjoyed his pleasure, at any rate; and when the music ended and Tuck had found her a chair, she took advantage of the opportunity to question him.
“Enoch said you’d been fighting. I hope it isn’t true. Is it?”
“Now, Miss Mary, I wouldn’t call it that. I only skinned my knuckles,” he replied, with a grin, extending his huge hand for her to examine. Indeed, his knuckles were raw.
“Then it’s true. . . . Tuck, I guess I’d better not tell Enoch,” said Mary, concernedly.
“Enoch’s a fine old scout. He likes me and I like him. But he’s worried because all this talk makes him feel he’s got to lick me.”
“Tuck, you don’t mean Enoch will deliberately pick a fight with you—just because he’s heard you’ve—you’ve punched fellows?” queried Mary, incredulously.
“That’s about the size of it, Miss Mary,” laughed Tuck. “These Tonto fellows are the queerest ginks. But the finest, squarest, whitest boys I ever met. No wonder they made soldiers. Why, Miss Mary, a million American boys like them would make some army, believe me.”
“I think so, too. But, Tuck, this fighting for—for mere—I don’t know what—why, it’s perfectly outrageous!” protested Mary.
“Now see here, teacher,” replied Tuck, earnestly. “You’ve got it wrong. This fighting is the finest thing in the world.”
“Oh, listen to you! Tuck, won’t you please avoid Enoch? He’s so big and strong. He might hurt you.”
Tuck gave her the queerest, most kindly, and most humorous look imaginable. Mary conceived an idea that he was actually smothering a laugh.
“That’s a good one to tell Cal,” he rejoined, with a broad smile. “Miss Mary, I promise to keep out of Enoch’s way all I can. Because I know you would feel dreadful if he beat me up. But I won’t run from him—and if I should happen somehow to disfigure his handsome face a little, you mustn’t blame me.”
“Tuck, I’ll say the same about you that Enoch said about Cal.”
“And what’s that?” queried Tuck, genially.
“I don’t just exactly trust you—somehow. Maybe I’ll ‘get you,’ as Georgie calls it, if you’ll confess how you skinned your knuckles.”
“Right-o. It was this way. No sooner had I gamboled on to this rural scene when I got tagged by three admirers of my girl.—The first one said, ‘I’m gonna lick you.’ . . . The second one said, ‘Mister Merry, you jest have to lick me, too.’ . . . And the third one said. ‘I reckon I’m not seein’ straight. So come on.’”
“Well!” ejaculated Mary. “That’s not telling what happened.”
“Teacher, I leave that to your imagination. If you go a little strong, you may hit it. And I’m telling you that the three cavaliers who disputed my right to dance are still out there in the woods. . . . Excuse me now, please. Old Henry has started another one of those twenty-round bouts they call tag.”
Enoch came striding up to Mary. “Wal, I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you. Reckon it’s my dance.”
“This is that tag affair. I’ll be torn to pieces. Couldn’t you hang on to me, Enoch, instead of parceling me off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry here?”
“Reckon I can stave off some of the boys.”
But Enoch reckoned without due consideration for the accelerating warmth and spirit of the dance. Mary was more than ever a mark of approval. She was taken away from him at once and every time that he succeeded in getting her back, he did not have time to make one step before he got tagged again. Finally he gave up in disgust. Mary had a hectic time of it during this dance. It was a romp to music, and these riders, manifestly put on their mettle by the challenge of the girls to dance them down, were gay, persistent, and absolutely tireless. Mary danced until her head grew dizzy and her feet dead. Yet the fun of it was contagious.
“Oh—it’s good—I don’t have—to walk to school—tomorrow,” she said, breathlessly, to her last partner, when the music finally stopped.
“Sure you’ll be right heah,” he replied. “This dance won’t break up till breakfast. Your scholars are all present right now an’ most of them asleep.”
From that hour Mary became a spectator. The dance went on and grew in every sense from the fiddling of old Henry to the action and endurance of the participants. Gradually, however, the married couples withdrew, leaving the floor to the young folk. All during the evening Mary had heard the occasional monotonous singsong voice of the old fiddler as he called out something she could not distinguish. But now she had opportunity to listen, and she grew much interested and amused.
“Cinch ‘em tight
An’ swing all night—
Tee dell de tee dell de.”
Every few moments Henry would break out with one of his improvisations. Manifestly they were eagerly awaited and happily received.
“Serge’s mad an’ I can see
Trouble ahead ‘twixt him an’ Lee.”
This brought forth shouts of approval and inspired Henry to greater heights.
“Edd’s shore a-walkin’ on air
An’ all the while trompin’ on Clair.”
Edd Thurman was the giant of the assembly and danced like a lumbering rhinoceros. A huge laugh went up at his expense. Henry was quiet for a long time, his grizzled head bent over his fiddle, and he had a manner of profound meditation.
“Them riders air weakenin’, girls, as I can see
Their feet air draggin’, ‘twixt you an’ me.”
Henry must have imagined the content of this last rhyme. There was no justification for it that Mary could see. As the hours wore toward dawn, these lengthy riders appeared to grow fresher. If any lagging showed at all, it was on the part of the girls.
“Mere an’ Merth are pretty little twins.
Go to it boys an’ see who wins.”
That seemed to exhaust the old fiddler for a long spell. When at length he raised his head to call out again, it was in stronger voice:
“I’m the fiddlenest fool
Full of white mule.”
Then after a full pause, as if for effect, he roared out:
“Listen, boys, an’ heah this verse.
Some of you go out an’ fetch a hearse.
Tuck Merry’s slammed three of our best;
It’ll never do till he meets the rest.”
At this hour, which was about three o’clock in the morning, the enjoyment and excitement of the dance appeared to be at its height. The dancing had become almost continuous. Henry Thurman gathered strength and enthusiasm as the hours wore away. The boys took turns beating with the little sticks upon the strings of his fiddle. Manifestly this beating was an important adjunct to the music. The laughter and gaiety, however, diminished in proportion to the increased fervor of the dancers. It grew to be a contest. The riders who had just finished the fall roundup, the hardest week of the year, refused to be danced down by the ambitious girls. So it looked as if there would be a deadlock, with physical exhaustion for both sides as the outcome.
Mary, happening to remember the untoward fears of the early evening, remarked to Enoch that apparently she had exaggerated the possibilities of trouble.
“Wal, it’s only the shank of the evenin’ yet,” he replied, enigmatically.
“What do you mean?”
“Shore I cain’t say. But I’ve a hunch somethin’ is goin’ to come off. The longer it waits the worse it’ll be. . . . An’ now that you make me thoughtful, I want to tell you that none of us older folks like your sister’s dancin’.”
“Oh!” cried Mary, in dismay. “I was—worried. But Georgiana has been dancing very—very decorously for her.”
“Reckon she has up to this heah dance. Take a look at her.”
Mary was not long in picking out her sister’s li
the, supple, wiggling form. Her partner was Dick Thurman, the youngest of the family, and he was one, Mary remembered, that Georgiana had coached in the new Eastern dances. How sadly out of place was the jazz dancing here in this backwoods schoolhouse! Mary was fascinated as well as repelled. Georgiana was indeed a striking little figure. She bent, she swayed, she gyrated, and seemed to inspire her partner to be oblivious of all save her.
“Wal, that wouldn’t be so damn bad if Georgie was dressed different,” muttered Enoch, as if correcting his own judgment.
Mary endeavored to catch Georgiana’s eye. This appeared to be impossible. Georgiana apparently had no eyes for anybody except her partner. Yet of course she must have been aware of the sensation she was creating.
“Wal, I’ll be doggoned!” burst out Enoch. “She’s got some of the kids doin’ it. Mary, it’s all plain as print. Georgie has taught that dance to some of our crazy youngsters, an’ now they’re aboot to spring it on us. The nervy little devil!”
When Mary verified the truth of Enoch’s observation her dismay increased. Three young couples had begun to dance in a way calculated to excite mirth and disgust. Their intentions were plain, but their execution was ridiculous. Georgiana’s dancing had grace, rhythm, and beauty despite the quality that was objectionable. Many couples left off dancing the better to watch this new and bewildering style. Gradually Georgiana and her pupils drew the attention of old and young alike. There was no mistaking the undisguised disapproval of the mothers and fathers present, nor any doubt about the young people being fascinated.
That dance ended, to Mary’s infinite relief. Then she asked Enoch if it would not be wise for her to seek Georgiana, though not to compel attention, and advise against any further dancing of that kind.
“Let her jump the corral bars!” ejaculated Enoch, with more force than elegance.
His reply silenced Mary and made her more thoughtful than ever. It might be just as well to let the willful Georgiana have her own sweet way. Mary felt a growing anger toward her sister. More than that, she sensed something in Enoch’s ultimatum which was hard to define. Was it that Enoch knew his people and how they would react to this young firebrand from the East? Mary caught a glimpse of Cal’s face and that added to her pain. The boy showed the havoc that had been wrought in him.
There was the usual short intermission, in the middle of which Bid Hatfield swaggered across the empty floor and went straight to Georgiana, manifestly to claim her for the next dance.
“Wal, I reckon Bid ain’t to be blamed much, but it’s sort of hard luck for him,” spoke up Enoch.
“Why—hard luck?” faltered Mary. When had she ever seen Enoch’s eyes flash like gray lightning or his lean jaw bulge and set hard as flint?
“Mary, you know we Thurmans fight among ourselves—at a toss-up—just for the fun of it. But we’re shore slow to fight with outsiders. Hatfield has gotten away with a lot of stunts—slapped right in our faces. Reckon we all think Cal’s no better than anybody else, but it looks like Georgie has given him a dirty deal. So has Hatfield. . . . Wal, to come to the point. Georgie an’ Hatfield have got pretty thick an’ it’s offensive to us Thurmans. If they have the nerve to dance that—that nigger stuff together, it’ll break up—”
The loud discordant twang of old Henry’s fiddle interrupted the conclusion of Enoch’s statement. Mary did not need to hear it. She was distressed, yet somehow she was resentfully and thrillingly awaiting the issue. This time, for some strange reason, the couples were slow to get into the dance. Couple by couple they started out as if impelled to dance because the music had begun. But plain it was that they would rather have watched. This tardiness gave Georgiana and Hatfield an opportunity they were not slow to grasp. They started off in a close embrace and with swaying motion Mary knew had never before been seen on that floor. Critically she watched them. Either Hatfield had been more carefully instructed or had taken to this style of dancing more skillfully than the others who had essayed it. For he presented an admirable partner for Georgiana. They both did very well indeed what never should have been done at all. Hatfield was not cool, but he was defiant. No doubt, he realized infinitely more than Georgiana the sensation they were creating. As for Georgiana, her face was hot and her eyes were wicked. Youth, pride, vanity, and mistaken sense of conquest had brought her to a risk she did not realize.
Mary looked up at Enoch and was relieved to find him smiling as he watched. He was as broad-minded and kindly as he was forceful. Then Mary glanced from Enoch to the older Thurmans near at hand. She could not discern any difference in their demeanor. But presently, the stalwart Gard Thurman, the uncle of Cal, got up and strode along between the dancers and the wall until he reached old Henry.
Suddenly the fiddling stopped so shortly that everybody seemed startled into an expectant pause. Gard Thurman stood up on a box, high above the dancers. His square shoulders appeared aggressively wide. He had a strong dark visage, weather-beaten and rugged, with deep-set fiery eyes and grizzled locks.
“Folks an’ friends,” he began in a sonorous drawl, “before we go any farther with this heah dance, I’ve got a word to say. . . . We’ve had good times heah in this old schoolhouse, an’ many an’ many a dance. They’re shore been aboot all the fun us Tonto folks can look to. . . . Wal, I reckon these dances hevn’t been much to brag aboot, but they’ve always been decent an’ they’re always goin’ to be decent. An’ I’m statin’ flat thet no outsider can come in heah an’ make our dances indecent. . . . Thet’s all. I’m sayin’ this as a gentleman an’ allowin’ fer the foolishness of young folks. But there won’t no more be said.”
A blank silence followed the conclusion of Gard Thurman’s speech. He stood there a moment, a powerful figure, menacing yet with all friendliness, his deep gaze fixed upon the guilty dancers. Then he stepped down and his brother Henry began to fiddle valiantly, as if to make up for lost time and an embarrassing moment. Again the dancers fell into their shuffling, rhythmic movements.
But Georgiana and her partner did not dance again. Mary’s keen eye followed them out of the throng to the comparative seclusion of a far corner, where they evidently talked with their backs to the dancers. Soon Georgiana wheeled about and came hurriedly down the room, to the corner where the coats and wraps had been left. Hatfield followed her. Mary saw him spread wide his hands as if expostulating or appealing. Georgiana apparently paid no attention to him. She was in a hurry.
Mary left her own seat, and in going round the room she lost sight of Georgiana for the time being. Meanwhile Enoch had disappeared. When Mary reached the far end of the long room, near the door, she found Enoch there, talking earnestly to Cal. As soon as he saw Mary he discontinued whatever he was saying. Cal was as white as a sheet. There were others near, some of them women, but Mary had no interest to note who they were.
Georgiana appeared in the act of dismissing Hatfield. He looked angry. She did not deign him so much as a glance, and she turned toward the door. She had put on her heavy coat, and she was tying a white fleecy shawl over her head. She came straight for the group in front of the door. At sight of her face Mary’s anger softened.
“Georgie, where are you going?” she asked, hurriedly.
But Georgiana might not have heard her, for all the sign she gave. She did not see Mary’s outstretched hands. Just then the music ceased. Georgiana walked straight to Cal and looked up at him. Mary, though watching her so closely, still saw the intent, curious faces of others in the group.
“Cal, will you take me home?” she asked, in low but distinct voice. “Tim is drunk. I’m afraid of Hatfield. There isn’t anyone else I’d ask—except you. . . . Will you take me?”
Then Mary found it in her heart to both pity and admire this little sister. Georgiana had experienced a sudden violent shock. She seemed under an intense strain, about ready to collapse, yet upheld by spirit. She was brave. She made no apology or excuse. But pride, defiance, devilry had gone out of her face. The fire and force of her had faded.
Then Mary bent a most eager gaze upon Cal Thurman. How would he meet this utterly unexpected situation? Mary felt Enoch’s strong hand squeezing hers. He too was intensely curious, and Mary knew in him Georgiana had a friend, despite her faults.
What an opportunity for the flouted and scorned boy! He could have his bittersweet revenge right then. Of all the young men present, who had seen her humiliated, she had chosen to ask the one least calculated to stand by her in the moment of her shame. That would have been the verdict of the crowd. But did her intuition guide her rightly in this trying ordeal? The fact was that when the catastrophe had fallen she had appealed to Cal. Mary realized, from the dark, hard gleam in Georgiana’s eyes, from the strained white resoluteness of her, that if Cal repudiated her, gave her scorn for scorn, she would go home alone, she would walk every step of that long lonely road through the forest. Would Cal be little or would he be big? Would he give in to the natural human weakness, to hurt her as she had hurt him? But Mary divined that if Cal was ever to win the love of Georgiana, this was the time to do it. There was no telling all that revolved in that girl’s mind. Did she boldly give him this opportunity to insult her, and did she expect just that?
“Why sure I’ll take you home,” replied Cal, with dark, steady eyes on hers. He was as self-possessed as Enoch. “I came to take you home.”
Then in the quick break of Georgiana’s composure was a proof that she had not in the least been sure of his chivalry. But, womanlike, in the hour of stress she had put him to the test. She drooped her head. Perhaps only his loyalty could have shamed her.
Cal took her arm and led her through the opening crowd before the door, and out into the dark.
“Hey, Cal,” called Enoch, after him, “fetch the car back for us.”
CHAPTER
11
I
T WAS the noon hour up at Rock Spring Mesa, and the December sun shone so pleasantly that the men ate in their shirt sleeves.
