Under the Tonto Rim (1991) Page 14

Joe did not take the school-house trail, but the wilder and less travelled one toward Cedar Ridge. The woodland was dark, grey, cool. Birds and squirrels had awakened noisily to the business of the day. Deer and wild turkeys ran across the trail ahead of the horses. The freshness and fragrance of the forest struck upon Lucy as something new and sweet. Yet the wildness of it seemed an old familiar delight. Green and brown and grey enveloped her. There were parts of the trail where she had to ride her best, for Joe was making fast time, and others where she could look about her, and breathe freely, and try to realise that she had grown to love this wilderness solitude. Her grandfather had been a pioneer, and her mother had often spoken of how she would have preferred life in the country. Lucy imagined she had inherited instincts only of late cropping out. How would her sister react to this lonely land of trees and rocks? Lucy hoped against hope. There was a healing strength in this country. If only Clara had developed mind and soul enough to appreciate it!

  Lucy well remembered the dark ravine, murmurous with its swift stream, and the grand giant silver spruces, and the mossy rocks twice as high as her head, and the gnarled roots under banks suggestive of homes for wild cats, and the amber eddying pools, deep like wells, and the rushing rapids.

  The climb out of this deep endlessly sloped canyon brought sight of sunrise, a rose and gold burst of glory over the black-fringed Rim. Then a brisk trot through a lighter and drier forest ended in the clearing of the Johnsons.

  Early as was the hour, the Johnsons were up, as was evidenced by curling blue smoke, ringing stroke of axe, and the clatter of hoofs. Mr. Jenks, too, was stirring, and soon espying Lucy, he hastened to come out to the fence.

  "Mawnin', folks," he drawled, imitating the prevailing mode of speech. "Miss Lucy, I shore forgot this was your great day. Reckon I'm out of luck, for I'll not be here when you drive back. I'm going to visit Spralls', to see why their children are absent so much from school."

  "Mr. Jenks, will you please take note of these Spralls, so you can tell me about them?" asked Lucy eagerly. "I feel that I must go there, in spite of all I hear."

  "Yes, I'll get a fresh line on them," he replied. "And if that isn't enough to keep you away I'll find other means."

  "Oh, you are conspiring against me," cried Lucy reproachfully.

  "Yes, indeed. But listen, I've news for you," he went on as Joe led the unsaddled horses inside the fence. "Your sister's coming has given me a wonderful idea. When she gets well, which of course she will do here very quickly, why not let her take my school? Affairs at my home are such that I must return there, at least for a time, and this would provide me with a most welcome opportunity."

  "I don't know," replied Lucy doubtfully. "Clara had a good education. But whether or not she could or would undertake such a work, I can't say. Still, it's not a bad idea. I'll think it over, and wait awhile before I speak to her."

  Mr. Jenks made light of Lucy's doubts, and argued so insistently that she began to wonder if there were not other reasons why he wanted a vacation. She had an intuitive feeling that he wanted to give up teaching, at least there, for good. They conversed a few moments longer, until Joe drove up in the buckboard. Then Mr. Jenks helped Lucy to mount the high seat beside Joe, and bade them a merry good-bye.

  Whatever the trail had been, the road was jarringly new to Lucy. There developed ample reason for Joe's advice to "hang on to the pommel," by which he must have meant anything to hold on to, including himself. The big team of horses went like the wind, bowling over rocks, ruts, and roots as if they were not there at all. Lucy was hard put to it to remain in her seat; in fact, she succeeded only part of the time.

  "Say--Joe," cried Lucy, after a particularly sharp turn, which the buckboard rounded on two wheels, and Lucy frantically clung to Joe, "are you--a regular--driver?"

  "Me? Say, I'm reckoned the best driver in this heah country," he declared.

  "Heaven preserve me--from the worst," murmured Lucy.

  "You picked me out, Miss Lucy, an' I shore mean to beat that outfit of boys in to Cedar Ridge," said Joe. "The whole darned caboodle of them will be there. Gerd an' Hal slept heah all night with Sam. An' they're already gone. Suppose the stage beats us to Cedar Ridge!...Say, Sam is up to anythin'."

  "Drive as fast as you want, only don't upset me--or something awful!" returned Lucy desperately.

  On the long descent of the cedared ridge Joe held the big team to a trot. Lucy regained her breath and her composure. When at last they turned out of the brush into the main road of the little town Lucy was both thrilled and relieved.

  "Wal, heah we are, an' we beat the stage," drawled Joe.

  "You must be a wonderful driver, Joe, since we actually got here," averred Lucy. "But there'll be no need to drive that way going back--will there?"

  "Reckon we want Clara to know she's had a ride, don't we?" he queried coolly.

  "Joe!"

  "What'd you pick me out for? Reckon I've got to be different from that outfit. Look at the hosses. Whole string of them!"

  "You mean the boys will waylay us?" queried Lucy, anxiously.

  "Like as not they'd bust this heah buckboard if I left it long enough. Shore they'll expect to meet Clara an' have a chance to show off. But we'll fool them. When the stage comes you grab her. Go in to Mrs. Lynn's an' get some grub to pack with us. Don't eat in there. Sam'll be layin' for that. Hurry out an' we'll leave pronto, before the gang get their breath."

  "But, Joe, why all this--this fear of the boys, and the rush?" queried Lucy.

  "Reckon you know the boys. They'll be up to tricks. An' on my side, since you picked me, I want to have Clara first."

  "Oh, I--see!" ejaculated Lucy. "Very well, Joe. I trust you, and we'll do your way."

  They reached the post office, where Joe reined in the team. Lucy espied a porch full of long-legged, big-sombreroed, clean-shaven young men, whose faces flashed in the sun.

  "Miss Lucy, I'll feed an' water the hosses," said Joe. "Reckon you need a little stretch after that nice easy ride."

  "It'll be welcome," declared Lucy, getting down. "You keep an eye open for the stage while I run in to see Mrs. Lynn."

  By going into the hotel entrance Lucy avoided the boys slowly gravitating toward her. Mrs. Lynn greeted her most cordially, and was equally curious and informative. Lucy took advantage of the moment, while she was chatting, to peep out of the window. The cavaliers of Cedar Ridge lounged on the porch, and stalked to and fro. One group in particular roused Lucy's amused suspicions. Sam Johnson was conferring most earnestly with several of his cronies, two of whom were Hal Miller and Gerd Claypool. They were not particularly amiable, to judge from their faces. A gesture of Sam's attracted Lucy's gaze toward two picturesque riders, lean and dark and striking. She recognised the handsome face and figure of one of them. Bud Sprall! The other was a taller, lither man, with flashing red face and flaming hair of gold. Young, bold, sinister, dissipated as he appeared, the virility and physical beauty of him charmed Lucy's eye.

  "Who is that man--there, with Bud Sprall?" queried Lucy, trying to appear casual.

  Mrs. Lynn peeped out. "I was askin' my husband that very question. He didn't know the fellow's name. Pard of Bud's, he said. Two of a kind! Some of the boys told him Bud was thick with cowboys of the Rim outfit. This one is new in Cedar Ridge."

  Presently as Joe appeared driving the buckboard to a shady place under a cottonwood, some rode from the front of the post office. Through the window, which was open, Lucy caught amusing and significant remarks.

  "Howdy, boys!" drawled Joe, in answer to a unit of greetings.

  "What you-all doin' here with them work clothes on?" queried one.

  "Joe, yore shore kinda young to tackle this hyar city proposition," said another.

  "Wal, Joe, I reckon you can't drive that big team with your left hand," asserted a third banteringly.

  "Hey, Joe, I see you're a Denmeade all over," said another. "But take a hunch from Edd's cold tricks."

  These remarks and
others in similar vein attested the dominant idea in the minds of these young countrymen--that a new girl was soon to appear upon the scene, and that only one attitude was possible. She was to be seen, fought over humorously and otherwise, and to be won. It afforded Lucy much amusement, yet it was also thought-arresting.

  She went out and climbed to a seat beside Joe, careful to appear very vivacious and smiling. The effect was to silence the bantering boys and to cause, on the part of Sam and several others, a gradual edging toward the buckboard. Lucy appeared not to notice the attention she was receiving, and she quite bewildered Joe with a flood of rather irrelevant talk. Then one of the boys shouted that the stage was coming.

  That checked all fun-loving impulses in Lucy. Her heart gave a lift and began to pound against her side. Glimpses she caught of the dusty well-remembered stage, while many thoughts flashed through her mind. Would Clara come, after all? How much had she changed? Would she be as sweet and repentant and appealing as her letters had implied? What a situation would arise if she did not like this wilderness country! Then a thrilling, palpitating joy that Clara had at last yearned for her!

  The stage wheeled round the corner of cottonwoods, and the old driver, with great gusto and awareness of his importance, hauled the sweaty horses to a halt in front of the post office.

  Lucy leaped down and ran. There were four or five passengers, and a great store of bags, boxes, and bundles, all of which she saw rather indistinctly. But as she reached the stage she cleared her eyes of tears and gazed up expectantly, with a numbness encroaching upon her tingling nerves. Clara might not have come.

  There was a hubbub of voices. Manifestly others of these passengers had friends or relatives waiting.

  "Hallo--Lucy!" cried a girl's excited, rather broken voice.

  Lucy almost screamed her reply. Behind a heavy old woman, laboriously descending the stage steps, Lucy espied a slim, tall, veiled girl clad in an ultra-fashionable gown and hat the like of which had not been seen at Cedar Ridge. Lucy knew this was her sister, but she did not recognise her. As the girl stepped down to the ground she threw back her veil, disclosing a pale face, with big haunting blue eyes that seemed to strain at Lucy with hunger and sadness. Indeed it was Clara--vastly changed!

  "Sister!" cried Lucy, with a sudden rush of tenderness. Clara met her embrace, mute and shaking. How strange and full that moment! Lucy was the first to think of the onlookers, and gently disengaging herself from clinging hands she burst out: "Oh, I didn't know you. I was afraid you'd not be in the stage...I'm so glad I'm half silly....Come, we'll go in the hotel a moment...Don't mind all this crowd."

  Thus Lucy, talking swiftly, with no idea of what she was saying, led Clara away; but she was acutely aware of the fierce clutch on her arm and the pearly whiteness of her sister's cheek. Lucy did not dare look at her yet. The sitting-room inside the hotel happened to be vacant. Clara did not seem to be able to do anything but cling mutely to Lucy.

  "You poor dear! Are you that glad to see me?" murmured Lucy, holding her close.

  "Glad--My God!" whispered Clara huskily. "You'll never--know how glad. For you've never--been without--friends, love, home, strength."

  "Oh, Clara, don't--don't talk so!" cried Lucy, in distress. "Don't break down here. Outside there are a lot of young backwoods boys, curious to see you. We can't avoid that. They are nice, clean, fine chaps, but crazy over girls...Don't cry. I'm so glad to see you I could cry myself. Brace up. We'll hurry away from here. There's a long ride in a buckboard and a short one on horseback. You'll love the horse you're to ride. His name is Baldy. You'll love the woods. I live in a tent, right in the pines."

  This meeting had proved to be unexpectedly poignant. Lucy had prepared herself for a few moments of stress, but nothing like this. Clara seemed utterly changed, a stranger, a beautiful, frail, haunted-eyed young woman. Lucy was deeply shocked at the havoc in that face. It told her story. But strange as Clara seemed, she yet radiated something Lucy had never felt in the old days, and it was love of a sister. That quite overpowered Lucy's heart. It had come late, but not too late.

  "Clara, I hope you're strong enough to go on to-day--to my home," said Lucy gently.

  "I'm not so weak as that," replied Clara, lifting her face from Lucy's shoulder. It was tear-stained and convulsive. "I was overcome. I--I never was sure--till I saw you."

  "Sure of what?" asked Lucy.

  "That you'd take me back."

  "You can be sure of me for ever. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to know you want to come...Let us sit here a few moments. As soon as you rest a little and compose yourself we'll start. I've ordered a lunch which we'll eat as we ride along."

  "Ought I not to tell you--about my trouble--my disgrace--before we go?" asked Clara, very low.

  "Why should you--now?" rejoined Lucy, in surprise.

  "It might--make a difference."

  "Oh no! You poor unhappy girl. Do you imagine anything could change me? Forget your troubles," returned Lucy tenderly.

  "I wanted to--at least when I met you after so long a separation. But those tall queer men outside. Such eyes they had! They must know about me."

  "Only that you're my sister and coming to stay with me," said Lucy hurriedly. "They've ridden into town to see you--meet you. Don't worry. They won't meet you. I have told only that you were ill."

  Clara seemed passionately grateful for Lucy's thoughtfulness. She had little to say, however, yet listened strainingly to Lucy.

  A little later, when they left the hotel, Clara had dropped the veil over her white face, and she clung closely to Lucy. Meanwhile Joe had driven up to the high porch, from which Lucy helped her sister into the buckboard.

  "Clara, this is Joe Denmeade," said Lucy, as she stepped in beside Clara.

  Joe quaintly doffed his huge sombrero and spoke rather bashfully. Lucy was pleased to see his fine brown, frank face smile in the sunlight.

  "Wal, reckon we're all heah," he said briskly. "The stage driver gave me five valises--four big an' one small. They were tagged Clara Watson. I packed them in. An' if that's all the baggage we can be movin' along."

  "That is all, thank you," returned Clara.

  "Miss Lucy, did you fetch the lunch?" asked Joe, with his eye on the boys, who had nonchalantly sauntered closer to the buckboard.

  "I have it, Joe. Drive away before--" whispered Lucy.

  Sam Johnson, the foremost of the group, stepped forward to put a foot on the wheel of the buckboard. His manner was supremely casual. No actor could have done it better.

  "Howdy, Joe! Good afternoon, Miss Lucy," he drawled blandly.

  Lucy replied pleasantly, and introduced him to Clara, and after they had exchanged greetings she added: "Sorry we've no time to chat. We must hurry home."

  Sam made rather obtrusive efforts to pierce Clara's veil. Then he addressed Joe: "My hoss went lame comin' in, an' I reckon I'll ride out with you."

  "Awful sorry, Sam," drawled Joe, "but I've got a load. Heah's Miss Clara's five valises, an' a pack of truck for ma."

  "I won't mind ridin' in the back seat with the girls," rejoined Sam, in the most accommodating voice.

  "Shore reckon you wouldn't," returned Joe dryly. "But this heah's Mr. Jenks's buckboard an' he asked me particular not to load heavy. So long, Sam."

  Joe whipped the reins smartly, and the team started so suddenly that Sam, who had been leaning from the porch with one foot on the wheel, was upset in a most ridiculous manner. The boys on the porch let out a howl of mirth. Lucy could not repress a smile.

  "Serves him right," said Joe. "Sam's shore got a nerve. All the time with Sadie in town!"

  "Joe! Did you see her?" asked Lucy quickly.

  "I shore did. She was across the road, peepin' out of Bell's door when Sam got that spill."

  Lucy, relieved as well as amused at the quick start, turned to find Clara removing the veil. Her face was lightened by a smile. Slight as it was, it thrilled Lucy.

  "Young men are--funny," she said, with
a tinge of bitterness.

  "Indeed they are," vouchsafed Lucy heartily; "Well, we're free of that crowd. Joe, are they apt to ride after us?"

  "Like as not," drawled Joe. "But the road is narrow. They shore can't pass us, an' all they'll get will be our dust."

  "Suppose we eat lunch while we don't have to hold on," suggested Lucy. "Presently the road will be rough, and--to say the least, Joe drives."

  "Let him drive as fast as he can," replied Clara tensely. "Oh--the breeze feels so good! The air seems different."

  "Clara, you'll find everything different up here. But I'm not going to say a word till you ask me....Now, let's eat. We'll not get supper till dark or later...Biscuits with jam. Chicken--and pie. Joe, I overheard one of those boys speak of your driving with one hand. So, surely you can drive and eat at the same time?"

  "I reckon," rejoined Joe. "But see heah, Miss Lucy. Gerd Claypool said that, an' he shore didn't mean I'd be usin' my free hand to eat."

  "Joe, do you think me so dense? Don't those boys ever think sense about girls?"

  "Never that I reckoned. Edd used to lie worse than any of them. But he's over it, I guess, since you same, Miss Lucy!"

  Whereupon Clara's quick glance caught Lucy blushing, though she laughed merrily.

  "Joe Denmeade! That is a doubtful compliment...Come, you'd better begin to eat--this and this and this...Clara, I get ravenously hungry up here. It's the wonderful air. I hope it will affect you that way."

  Whereupon they fell to eating the ample lunch, during which time Lucy made merry. Nevertheless she took occasion now to observe Clara, unobtrusively, at opportune moments. Out in the clear bright sunlight Clara seemed indeed a pale frail flower. Always as a girl she had been pretty, but it would have been trivial to call her so now. Her face had strangely altered, and the only features remaining to stir her memory were the violet eyes and golden hair. They were the same in colour, though Clara's eyes, that had once been audacious, merry, almost bold in their bright beauty, were now shadowed deeply with pain. Clara had been an unconscionable flirt; to-day no trace of pert provocativeness was manifest. Indeed, suffering, shock, whatever had been the calamity which was recorded there, had removed the callow coarseness of thoughtless adolescence, and had left a haunting, tragic charm. Lucy thought the transformation almost incredible. It resembled that birth of soul she had divined in Clara's letters. What had happened to her? Lucy shrank from the truth. Yet her heart swelled with wonder and ache for this sister whom she had left a wild girl and had found a woman.