Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 627
Judging from the eagerness of the rest of the boys, with the exception of Cal Thurman, they all preferred meeting Miss Stockwell’s sister to driving cattle. And for several moments it appeared that Enoch would not have much help on the morrow.
“Goodness! I don’t want you all!” she protested. “One of you will do. If it’s such an occasion, you might draw lots.”
But this suggestion did not meet with the approval of the majority. They argued about it. Miss Stockwell had long been used to their simplicity, their earnestness and loquacity, and when opposed, their singular perversity to one another’s ideas and persistence in their own. They argued so determinedly that the teacher feared one of the quarrels which were of daily, almost hourly, occurrence. If one of these boys wanted to do something especially, that was a cue for the others to oppose him.
“Say, can she dance?” suddenly inquired Serge Thurman, brother of Wess. He was a yellow-haired young giant, sunburnt, with eyes reddened by heat and dust and wind. Serge was the most gallant, as well as the best dancer, of all the Thurmans. His query opened up a new train of thought, manifestly of intense interest to the boys.
Miss Stockwell had to laugh. Assuredly the advent of Georgiana would be worth seeing. “Why, I’m pretty sure she dances,” she replied, thoughtfully. It began to dawn upon her that she might repay these Thurmans for some of the innocent little tricks they had played on her.
More arguments followed this tentative admission by Miss Stockwell, and it was in no wise concluded when several of the boys asserted they were going to Ryson, and alone.
“Now, Miss Stockwell, what’s this heah sister of yourn like?” queried Pan Handle Ames. He was one of the several men employed by Enoch, like most of them of Texas stock, and a rider of the desert Pan Handle of Texas before he came to Arizona. He had a homely face and serious air. And his question precipitated such renewed interest that it seemed absolutely vital to the issue.
The teacher studied these friendly, queer young men, laughing to herself, thrilling for them, and slowly yielding to machinations of her own. How likable they were! They would spend hours over this simple matter, unless she settled it.
“I’ll tell you, boys,” she asserted. “I have a picture of her. I’ll fetch it — and then you can decide who really wants to meet her.”
That, at last, was one thing they approved of with instant unity. Miss Stockwell hurried to her room, and with growing consciousness of her opportunity, searched in her effects for the picture of a maiden aunt who was noted for her plain, severe face. She felt a twinge at thought of the use she meant to make of this likeness of the good aunt whom she loved, but did not let such trepidations dissuade her from her purpose. Armed with the photograph, she hurried back to the group of boys in the corral.
“There!” she exclaimed, holding it out.
All of them but Cal Thurman crowded round her, eager to see the likeness of her sister. Cal seemed amused at their actions.... He was Enoch’s youngest brother, a boy of nineteen, and apparently the only one of the clan not particularly interested in girls.
There was a moment of strained, silent attention, then one of them burst out:
“Aw, Miss Mary, she ain’t a bit like you.”
“Not much,” said Serge, decisively, with a finality the teacher did not fail to note.
“Wal, is this — is she really your sister?” queried Enoch, slowly, as if trying to remember. “Shore I thought you once showed me a picture.”
“Ahuh!” added Pan Handle Ames. “Nice sweet-appearin’ lady.” He said it with aloof nonchalance, with obvious insincerity.
Then, as a group they became silent, rather awkwardly and slowly realizing that the situation had subtly changed. They backed away from the teacher’s side and assumed former lounging positions, most of them calmly resorting to the inevitable cigarette. Enoch regarded his clan with undisguised mirth. They had placed themselves in an embarrassing position.
“Wal, I reckon you-all are rarin’ to chase them Bar XX steers in the mawnin’,” he drawled, with dry sarcasm. Enoch knew his clan.
The riders had drifted imperceptibly, as if by magic, back into that cool, easy serenity that usually characterized them. No hint of embarrassment or concern or consciousness of Enoch’s half-veiled scorn showed in look or action.
“Enoch, you cain’t drive that bunch of yearlin’s without me an’ Boyd,” asserted Serge, calmly.
Boyd nodded his assurance of this, and his big eyes shone with a glare as he spoke: “Reckon thet new Bar XX foreman won’t like you any better, Enoch. An’ considerin’ how much thet was, he’s goin’ to be riled when he finds out. He’s always achin’ to start a fight. An’ if you don’t drive thet bunch off our range he’ll swear we’re rustlin’.”
Enoch took this seriously, as if there was a good deal in it.
“Boyd, I was only doin’ Bloom a favor,” he replied. “It was near dark when we rounded up that bunch. An’ his outfit is ridin’ Mescal Ridge tomorrow.”
“Shore. But my advice is to get them cattle on his range before the day’s busted,” went on Boyd. “An’ it mightn’t be easy to find them all.”
Enoch then turned to Miss Stockwell with more of a serious consideration of the matter. “Miss Mary, I’m needin’ Serge an’ Boyd tomorrow, an’ so none of us can meet your sister. But shore any of the rest of my obligin’ an’ lady-killin’ outfit can get off for the day.”
“Thank you, Enoch,” replied the teacher, and thus fortified by his permission, she turned again to the boys to inquire sweetly: “Now which one of you will do me this favor?”
As her gaze surveyed them all collectively they remained mute, thoughtful, very far away; but when she singled out Pan Handle Ames to look directly at him, he drawled:
“Miss Mary, air you forgettin’ how I drove you home from the school-house one day?”
“Indeed I’m not!” returned Miss Stockwell, with a shudder. “Driving automobiles is not your forte.”
“Wal, it shore ain’t. But all the same, I’d ‘a’ got you home if the car had held together,” replied Pan Handle, and then settled back coolly to enjoy his cigarette. He knew he was out of the reckoning.
Then it seemed incumbent upon the others to face Miss Stockwell, ready to answer her appealing and reproachful gaze, when it alighted upon each of them.
Dick Thurman was the youngest of the boys, and he was still in school. “You know, teacher, I’d go, if it wasn’t for lessons. I’m behind now, you say, an’ father keeps me busy before an’ after school.”
Lock Thurman was the dark-skinned, dark-eyed, and dark-haired member of the family, a young man of superb stature, and the quietest, shyest of all the clan.
“Lock, please, won’t you go?” asked the teacher.
He shook his head and dropped it, to hide his face. “I reckon I’m afeared of women,” he said.
“Huh! Why don’t you say you’re afeared of thet there girl of yourn — Angie Bowers?” retorted his brother Wess.
“I ain’t no more afeared of her than you are of her twin sister Aggie,” responded Lock.
“Wal, when you cain’t tell which is Angie an’ which is Aggie — all the time mixin’ up your gurls — you oughta be scared. What’ll you do if you ever git married?” spoke up Serge.
This might have led to another argument had not Miss Stockwell broken in upon them by appealing to Wess.
“Teacher, I just hate to tell you I cain’t go for your sister,” replied Wess, in apparent deep sincerity. “I got a lot to do tomorrow, an’ shore need that day off Enoch said we could have. My saddle’s got to be mended, an’ my boots need half-solin’, an’ father’s at me to begin doctorin’ the dog’s feet — for we’ll be chasin’ bear soon — an’ mother wants a lot done — an’ I just cain’t go to Ryson. Ask Arizona there. He can leave off cuttin’ sorghum for tomorrow.”
Thus directed, Miss Stockwell turned to the young man designated as Arizona. If he had another name she had never heard it. He was the only one of small stature in the group, a ruddy-faced, blinking-eyed rider, with a reputation for humor that his appearance belied.
“Aw, Miss Stockwell, I’m ‘most sick because I cain’t oblige you,” asserted this worthy, in the most regretful of voices. “But old Hennery gave me plumb orders to cut thet sorghum before it rains.”
“Wal,” spoke up Wess, “it hasn’t rained for a month an’ it’ll go dry now till October.”
“Nope. It’s a-goin’ to rain shore aboot day after tomorrer. See them hazy clouds flyin’ up from the southwest. Shore sign of storm. You get Con to go.”
Con Casey, the comrade now referred to by Arizona, was a newcomer to the Thurman range, an Irishman only a few years in America and not long in the West. He was the most earnest and simple-minded of young men, and a source of vast amusement to his comrades. They liked him, though they made him the butt of their jokes and tricks.
When the teacher appealed to Con he sat up, startled. His solemn freckled face lost its ruddy color, his big pale-blue eyes dilated and stared. There was no mistaking his sincerity or his fright.
“My Gawd!” he ejaculated, in deep solemn tones, “Miss Stockwell, shure I niver was alone wit’ a woman in me loife.”
The boys guffawed at this, and cast sly banter at him, but there was no doubt that they believed him.
Miss Stockwell wore a manner of great anxiety which was really not in strict harmony with her true feelings. She was enjoying the situation hugely, and saw that it would probably work out exactly as she had hoped. Then what a climax on the morrow, when Georgiana appeared on the scene!
Tim Matthews, another rider, added his ridiculous excuse to avoid meeting the teacher’s sister; and the last one, excepting Cal Thurman, nonchalantly made a statement that he was not very well and might soon be having the doctor from the village.
At that Cal slouched up with all his five-foot-eleven of superb young manhood and surveyed his brothers and comrades in amused derision.
“You’re a lot of boobs, I’ll tell the world,” he said.
Miss Stockwell thrilled at this, and felt the imminence of something she had hoped for. This nineteen-year-old son of Henry Thurman’s was, in her opinion, the finest of the whole clan. He had all the hardiness, simplicity, and ruggedness of the Tonto natives, and somewhat more of intelligence and schooling. He seemed more modern and was fairly well read. Cal had spent his last year of school under Miss Stockwell and he had been a good student. His grandfather had been a Texan and a Rebel noted for his wild fiery temperament, which, according to family talk, Cal had inherited.
“Teacher, I’ll be glad to go meet your sister,” he declared, turning to her. “I was only waitin’ to see how they’d wiggle out of it.”
“Thank you, Cal. I’m certain you won’t be sorry,” replied the teacher, gratefully. She was indeed pleased, and now began to revolve in mind just how to prepare Cal for the advent of Georgiana. Certainly up to that moment it had not occurred to her to go on with the deception.
“She’s to come on the stage from Globe?” inquired Cal, as he walked with Miss Stockwell toward the corral gate.
“Yes. Tomorrow.”
“What’ll I take — the buckboard or car?”
The teacher thought that over a moment.
“It’s an awful old clap-trap — that bundle of rusty iron,” observed the teacher, remembering her few experiences in the family automobile. “I don’t believe it’s as safe as the buckboard.”
“Sure I’ll get her here safe,” replied Cal, with a laugh.
By this time they had reached the corral gate, which he opened for her. Suddenly loud cries of mirth resounded from the boys back by the barn. The teacher turned with Cal to see what had occasioned them such amusement. Some of them were standing with their heads close together and were apparently conversing earnestly. Their very air intimated deviltry and secrecy.
Cal gazed at them suspiciously, and a darker fire gleamed in his eyes. He had a smooth, almost beardless face, clear brown tan, and less of the leanness and craggy hardness that characterized his brothers’ features. He looked something better than handsome, the teacher thought.
“Say, that outfit is up to tricks,” he muttered. And he pushed back his huge sombrero to run a sinewy hand through his brown hair.
“Tricks?” echoed Miss Stockwell, vague. Had she better not divulge her own duplicity?
“Sure. Just look at Tim. He’s plannin’ something now. He always wags his head that way when he’s . . . Aw, I can read their minds.”
“What are they going to do?” inquired Miss Stockwell, curiously.
“They’ll be in Ryson tomorrow when I meet your sister,” he answered, grimly.
“What! They will?” cried the teacher, almost too eagerly. Cal looked at her dubiously, and again he brushed back his hair. He wanted, and meant, to be obliging, but evidently he did not have any delightful anticipations at the prospect before him. Almost like a flash came the inspiration to Miss Stockwell to go on with the deception and not enlighten Cal as to the truth regarding Georgiana. He would be all the more amazed and dazed when the realization burst suddenly upon him. How supremely happy he would be to lord it over his tricky comrades! And as for Tim Matthews, and those few evidently elected to have great fun at Cal’s expense — what poignant consternation and regret they would suffer! Miss Stockwell reveled in her idea. Georgiana, too, would make the best of it.
“Let me see that picture you showed the boys — so I’ll know her,” said Cal.
Miss Stockwell handed it to him without a word. Cal gazed at it for a moment.
“Can’t see any resemblance to you,” he remarked, presently. “She’s homely an’ you’re good-lookin’.”
“Thank you, Cal,” replied Miss Stockwell, demurely. “I appreciate your compliment. But you didn’t have to say so just because you found my — my sister plain.”
“Say! — I mean it, teacher. Why, Enoch thinks you’re the best-lookin’ woman he ever saw. An’ sure he’s a good judge.”
Miss Stockwell felt a little warmth on her cheek that was not all the westering sun. She liked the boy’s faith in Enoch. There was a singularly fine relation between these brothers, and one that augured well for the boy’s future.
“Cal, I think I’d take the buckboard instead of that old car,” suggested Miss Stockwell. She was thinking of the spirited black horses usually driven with the buckboard, and how much more they might appeal to a girl.
“Aw, she won’t mind the looks of that old gas-wagon. An’ sure I don’t care,” said Cal, with a laugh. “You see, the stage gets in late sometimes, an’ if I take the car I can drive your sister out here quick, before dark. It’s fifteen miles to Ryson, you know, an’ would take me several hours with the team. I’d like to get home before dark.”
“Why — so particularly? I’ve heard how you can ride the trails after night.”
“Aw, that outfit will be up to some trick, an’ between you an’ me I’d rather not be caught along a dark road with that old — I mean — your sister,” replied Cal, finishing lamely.
“Oh, I see,” mused Miss Stockwell, slowly, studying the perplexed face of the young man. “Very well, Cal. You do as you think best. But take a hunch from me, as you boys say. You won’t be sorry I inflicted this job on you.”
“Aw, now, teacher, I didn’t mean you’d done that,” he protested. “It’s only Tim an’ those darn fools. They’ve got a chance to get even. You don’t know what I did to them last dance.”
“Well, I don’t care what you did to them or what they do to you — tomorrow. You’re not going to be sorry you went. You might be very glad.”
“Why?” he asked, with a dawning of curiosity. He eyed her in confidence, yet withal as a boy who realized an unknown quantity in women. He had not the slightest idea what she meant, yet he had acquired an interest apart from his kindliness or desire to oblige her. “Maybe she’s rich an’ will give me a new saddle or somethin’,” he remarked, jokingly.
“Maybe. She’ll give you something, that’s certain,” replied Miss Stockwell, mysteriously.
She left him at the corral gate, holding it open for her, a pleased and rather vaguely expectant smile on his face as he turned to look back at his scheming comrades.
CHAPTER II
NEXT MORNING WHEN Cal presented himself at the breakfast table, fully two hours later than the usual time for the riders, he was filled with dismay to discover that several of his comrades had not gone off about their range tasks.
“Howdy,” was Pan Handle’s greeting.
“Mawnin’, Cal,” drawled Arizona.
“Wal, Cal, you shore bit the hay last night,” said Wess, dryly.
“Reckon it’s bad fer you to have meetin’ ladies on yore mind,” added Tim Matthews, solicitously.
“Ahuh!” growled Cal as he eyed his friends distrustfully.
During warm weather the Thurmans served meals on the porch that connected the adjoining sections of the large, rambling ranch house. A roof of rough boards stretched rather low above the porch, and a stairway led from the floor up to a hole in the attic. Here some of the riders slept. Cal, who preferred the outdoors, had slept in a little log bunkhouse of one room, which he had erected himself. With a knowing smile Cal passed the boys at the long table and proceeded to a bench against the log wall, where he filled a basin with water and vigorously washed face and hands. In fact, he splashed so violently and shook his tousled wet head so vehemently that he dashed water clear to the table.
“Hey, air you a whale blowin’?” complained Pan Handle.
“Naw, he’s only coolin’ off his haid,” observed Tim.
Cal went about his morning ablutions without paying any attention to his tormentors; and he broke his rule of shaving only once a week. This appeared to be of exceeding interest to the boys.
“Say, he’s shavin’,” ejaculated Arizona, as if that simple action was astounding.
