Bruce of the Circle A

by Harold Titus

  CHAPTER V

  THE CLERGY OF YAVAPAI

  Hours passed before Ann could sleep, and then her slumber was broken,her rest harried by weird dreams, her half-waking periods crammed withdisturbing fantasies. When broad daylight came, she rose and drew downthe shades of her window and after she had listened to the birds, to thesounds of the awakening town, to the passing of a train, rest came anduntil nearly noon she slept heavily.

  She came to herself possessed by a queer sense of unreality and it wasmoments before she could determine its source. Then the events of theevening and night swept back to her intelligence and she closed hereyes, feeling sick and worn.

  Restlessness came upon her finally and she arose, dressed, wentdownstairs and forced herself to eat. Several others were in the diningroom and two men sat with her at table. She was conscious that the talk,which had been loud, diminished when she entered and that those nearesther were evidently uncomfortable, embarrassed, glad to be through andgone.

  When Nora, the waitress, took her order, Ann saw that the girl eyed hercuriously, possibly sympathetically, and, while that quality could nothelp but rouse an appreciation in her, she shrank from the thought thatthis whole strange little town was eying her, wondering about her,dissecting her as she suffered in its midst and even through her loyaltyto her husband crept a hope that her true identity might remain secret.

  She left the table and started for the stairway, when the boy who hadgiven her her room the night before came out of the office. He had notexpected to see her. He stopped and flushed and stammered.

  "You ... last night ... you said you might ... that is, do you want th'automobile, ma'am?"

  "I shan't want to go out to-day," Ann answered him, forcing her voice tosteadiness. "I have changed my mind."

  Then, she went swiftly up the stairs.

  She knew that the youth knew at least a part of her reason for alteringher plans. She knew that within the hour all Yavapai would know that shewas not going to the Sunset mine because Ned Lytton was drunk and hurt,and she felt like crying aloud to relieve the distress in her heart.

  Her room was hot, its smallness was unbearable and, putting on her hat,she went down the stairs, out of the hotel and, looking up and down themain street, struck off to the left, for that direction seemed to offerthe quickest exit from the town.

  Ann walked swiftly along the hard highway, head down until she had leftthe last buildings behind. Then she lifted her chin and drew a deepbreath of the fine mountain air and for the first time realized theimmensity of the surrounding country. Sight of it brought a little gaspof wonder from her and she halted and turned slowly to look about.

  The town was set in the northern edge of a huge valley which appeared tohead in abruptly rising hills not so far to the westward. But to thesouth and eastward it swept on and out, astonishing in its apparentsmoothness, its lavish colorings. Northward, its rise was more decidedand not far from the town clumps of brush and scant low timber dottedthe country, but out yonder there appeared to be no growth except thegrass which, where it grew in rank patches, bowed before the breeze andflashed silver under the brilliant sun. The distances were blue andinviting. She felt as though she would like to start walking and walkand walk, alone under that high blue sky.

  She strolled on after that and followed the wagon track an hour. Then,bodily weariness asserted itself and she rested in the shade of a lowoak scrub, twining grass stalks with nervous fingers.

  "I would have said that a country like this would have inspiredanybody," she said aloud after a time. "But he's the same. He's small,he's small!"

  Vindictiveness was about her and her tone was bitter.

  "Still," she thought, "it may not be too late. That other man ... is asbig as this...."

  When she had rested and risen and gone a half mile back toward Yavapai,she repeated aloud:

  "As big as this...."

  A great contrast that had been! Bruce Bayard, big, strong, controlled,clean and thinking largely and clearly; Ned Lytton, little, weak, victimof his appetites, foul and selfish. She wondered rather vaguely aboutBayard. Was he of that country? Was he the lover of some mountain girl?Was he, possibly, the husband? No, she recalled that he had said that helived alone.... Well, so did she, for that matter!

  Scraps of Bayard's talk the night before came back to her and shepondered over them, twisting their meanings, wondering if she had beenjustified in the relief his assurances gave her. There, alone in thedaylight, they all seemed very incredible that she should have openedher heart, given her dearest confidences to that man. As she thoughtback through the hour, she became a trifle panicky, for she did notrealize then that to have remained silent, to have bottled her emotionswithin herself longer would have been disastrous; she had reachedYavapai and the breaking point at the same hour, and, had not Bayardopportunely encountered her, she would have been forced to talk to thewheezing hotel proprietor or Nora, the waitress, or the first humanbeing she met on the street ... someone, anyone! Then, abruptly changingher course of thought, she reminded herself of the strangeness of thetruth that not once had it occurred to her to worry over the fact thather husband, in an unconscious condition, had been taken away, she knewnot where, by this stranger. The faith she had felt in Bayard from thefirst prevailed. She faced the future with forebodings; about thepresent condition of Ned Lytton she did not dare think. A comfortingfactor was the conviction that everything was being done for him thatshe could do and more ... for she always had been helpless.

  She breathed in nervous exasperation at the idea that everything shesaw, talked about, thought or experienced came back to impress herfurther with the hopelessness of the situation, then told herself thatfretting would not help; that she must do her all to make matters over,that she must make good her purpose in coming to this new place.

  As she neared the town again, she saw the figure of a man approaching.He walked slowly, with head down, and his face was wholly shaded by thebroad brim of his felt hat. His hands were behind his back and theaimlessness of his carriage gave evidence of deep thought.

  When the woman was about to pass him, he turned back toward town withoutlooking up and it was the scuffing of her shoe that attracted him. Hefaced about quickly at the sound and stared hard at Ann. The stare wasnot offensive. She saw first his eyes, black and large and wonderfullykind; his hair was white; his shaven lips gentle. Then she observedthat he wore the clothing of a clergyman.

  His hand went to his hat band, after his first gaze at her, and hesmiled.

  "How-do-you-do?" he said, with friendly confidence.

  Ann murmured a greeting.

  "I didn't know anyone was on the road. I was thinking rather fiercely, Iguess."

  He started to walk beside her and Ann was glad, for he was of that typewhose first appearance attracts by its promise of friendship.

  "I've been thinking, too," she answered. "Thinking, among other thingswhat a wonderful country this is. I'm from the East, I suppose it is notnecessary to say, and this is my first look at your valley."

  "Manzanita is a great old sweep of country!" he exclaimed, looking outover it. "That valley is a good thing to look at when we think thathuman anxieties are mighty matters."

  He smiled, and Ann looked into his face with a new interest and said:

  "I should think that such an influence as this is would tend to lessenthose anxieties; that it would tend to make the people who live near itbig, as it is big."

  He looked away and shook his head slowly.

  "I hold that theory, too, sometimes ... in my most optimistic hours. Butthe more I see of the places in which men live, the closer I watch theway we humans react to our physical environments, the less faith I havein it. Some of the biggest, rarest souls I know have developed in themeanest localities and, on the other hand, some of the worst culls ofthe species I've ever seen have been products of countries so big thatthey would inspire most men. Perhaps, though, the big men of the smallplaces would have been bigger in a country like this
; possibly, thosewho are found wanting out here would fall even shorter of what we expectof them if they were in less wonderful surroundings."

  He paused a moment and then continued: "It may be a myth, this traditionof the bigness of mountain men; or the impression may thrive because,out here, we are so few and so widely scattered that we are the onlypeople who get a proper perspective on one another. That would be acomfortable thing to believe, wouldn't it? It would mean, possibly, thatif we could only remove ourselves far enough from any community we wouldappreciate its virtues and be able to overlook its vices. I'd like tobelieve without qualification that a magnificent creation like thisvalley would lift us all to a higher level; but I can't. Some of yourenthusiastic young men who come out from the East and write books aboutthe West would have it that these specimens of humanity which thrive inthe mountains and deserts are all supermen, with only enough rascalssprinkled about to serve the purposes of their plots. That, of course,is a fallacy and it may be due to the surprising point of view which wefind ourselves able to adopt when we are removed far enough by distanceor tradition from other people. We have some splendid men here, but theaverage man in the mountains won't measure up to where he willovershadow the average man of any other region ... I believe. We haven'tso many opportunities, perhaps, to show our qualities of goodness andbadness ... although some of us can be downright nasty on occasion!"

  He ended with an inflection which caused Ann to believe that he wasthinking of some specific case of misconduct; she felt herself flushquickly and became suddenly fearful that he might refer directly to Ned.Last night she had poured her misery into a stranger's ears; to-day shecould not bear the thought of further discussing her husband's life orcondition; she shrank, even, from the idea of being associated with himin the minds of other people and in desperation she veered the subjectby asking,

  "Is it populated much, the valley, I mean?"

  "Not yet. Cattle and horse and some sheep ranches are scattered about.One outfit will use up a lot of that country for grazing purposes, youknow. Someday there'll be water and more people ... and less bigness!"

  He told her more of the valley, stopping now and then to indicatedirections.

  "I came from over there yesterday," he said, facing about and pointinginto the westward. "Had a funeral beyond those hills. Stopped fordinner with a young friend of mine whose ranch is just beyond that swellyonder.... Fine boy; Bayard, Bruce Bayard."

  Ann wanted to ask him more about the rancher, but somehow she could nottrust herself; she felt that her voice would be uncertain, for onething. Some unnamed shyness, too, held her from questioning him now.

  They stopped before the hotel and the man said:

  "My name is Weyl. I am the clergy of Yavapai. If you are to be herelong, I'm sure Mrs. Weyl would like to see you. She is in Prescott for aweek or two now."

  He put out his hand, and, as she clasped it, Ann said, scarcelythinking:

  "I am Ann Lytton. I arrived last night and may be here some time."

  She saw a quick look of pain come into his readable eyes and felt hisfinger tighten on hers.

  "Oh, yes!" he said, in a manner that made her catch her breath. "Iknow.... Your brother, isn't it, the young miner?"

  At that the woman started and merely to escape further painfuldiscussion, unthinkingly clouding her own identity, replied,

  "Ned, you mean ... yes...."

  "Well, if you're to be here long we will see you, surely. And if there'sanything I can do for you, please ask it."

  "You're very kind," she said, as she turned from him.

  In her room she stood silent a moment, palms against her cheeks.Bayard's words came back to her:

  "I didn't think you was married ... especially to a thing like that...."

  And now this other man concluded that she could not be Ned's wife!

  "I must be his wife ... his _good_ wife!" she said, with a stamp of herfoot. "If he ever needed one ... it's now...."