Читать книгу The Angel of the Gila: A Tale of Arizona - Cora Marsland - Страница 10

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Early traders knew Clayton Ranch well, for it was on the old stage route from Santa Fe to the Pacific coast.

The house faced south, overlooking Gila River, and commanded a magnificent view of mountains and foothills and valleys. To the northeast, rose a distant mountain peak always streaked with snow.

The ranch house, built of blocks of adobe, was of a creamy cement color resembling the soil of the surrounding foothills. The building was long and low, in the Spanish style of a rectangle, opening on a central court at the rear. The red tile roof slanted in a shallow curve from the peak of the house, out over the veranda, which extended across the front. Around the pillars that supported the roof of the veranda, vines grew luxuriantly, and hung in profusion from the strong wire stretched high from pillar to pillar. The windows and doors were spacious, giving the place an atmosphere of generous hospitality. Northeast of the house, was a picturesque windmill, which explained the abundant water supply for the ranch, and the freshness of the vines along the irrigating ditch that bordered the veranda. The dooryard was separated from the highway by a low adobe wall the color of the house. In the yard, palms and cacti gave a semi-tropical setting to this attractive old building. Port-holes on two sides of the house bore evidence of its having been built as a place of defense. Here, women and children had fled for safety when the Apache raids filled everyone with terror. Here they had remained for days, with few to protect them, while the men of the region drove off the Indians.

Senor Matéo, the builder and first owner of the house, had been slain by the Apaches. On the foothills, just north of the house, ten lonely graves bore silent witness to that fatal day.

Up the road to Clayton Ranch, late one November afternoon, came Esther Bright with bounding step, accompanied, as usual, by a bevy of children. She heard one gallant observe to another that their teacher was "just a daisy."

Although this and similar compliments were interspersed with miners' and cowboys' slang, they were none the less respectful and hearty, and served to express the high esteem in which the new teacher was held by the little citizens of Gila.

As the company neared the door of the Clayton home, one little girl suddenly burst forth:

"My maw says she won't let her childern go ter Bible school ter be learned 'ligion by a Gentile. Me an' Mike an' Pat an' Brigham wanted ter go, but maw said, maw did, that she'd learn us Brigham Young's 'ligion, an' no sech trash as them Gentiles tells about; 'n' that the womern as doesn't have childern'll never go ter Heaven, maw says. My maw's got ten childern. My maw's Mormon."

Here little Katie Black paused for breath. She was a stocky, pug-nosed, freckle-faced little creature, with red hair, braided in four short pugnacious pigtails, tied with white rags.

"So your mother is a Mormon?" said the teacher to Katie.

"Yep."

"Suppose I come to see your mother, Katie, and tell her all about it. She might let you come. Shall I?"

Her question was overheard by one of Katie's brothers, who said heartily:

"Sure! I'll come fur yer. Maw said yer was too stuck up ter come, but I said I knowed better."

"Naw," said Brigham, "she ain't stuck up; be yer?"

"Not a bit." The teacher's answer seemed to give entire satisfaction to the company.

The children gathered about her as they reached the door of Clayton Ranch. Esther Bright placed her hand on Brigham's head. It was a loving touch, and her "Good night, laddie," sent the child on his way happy.

Within the house, all was cheer and welcome. The great living room was ablaze with light. A large open fireplace occupied the greater part of the space on one side. There, a fire of dry mesquite wood snapped and crackled, furnishing both light and heat this chill November evening.

The floor of the living room was covered with an English three-ply carpet. The oak chairs were both substantial and comfortable. On the walls, hung three oil paintings of English scenes. Here and there were bookcases, filled with standard works. On a round table near the fireplace, were strewn magazines and papers. A comfortable low couch, piled with sofa pillows, occupied one side of the room near the firelight. Here, resting from a long and fatiguing journey, was stretched John Clayton, the owner of the house.

As Esther Bright entered the room, he rose and greeted her cordially. His manner indicated the well-bred man of the world. He was tall and muscular, his face, bronzed from the Arizona sun. There was something very genial about the man that made him a delightful host.

"Late home, Miss Bright!" he said in playful reproof. "This is a rough country, you know."

"So I hear, mine host," she said, bowing low in mock gravity, "and that is why we have been scared to death at your long absence. I feared the Indians had carried you off."

"I was detained unwillingly," he responded. "But, really, Miss Bright, I am not joking. It is perilous for you to tramp these mountain roads as you do, and especially near nightfall. You are tempting Providence." He nodded his head warningly.

"But I am not afraid," she persisted.

"I know that. More's the pity. But you ought to be. Some day you may be captured and carried off, and no one in camp to rescue you."

"How romantic!" she answered, a smile lurking in her eyes and about her mouth.

She seated herself on a stool near the fire.

"Why didn't you ask me why I was so late? I have an excellent excuse."

"Why, prisoner at the bar?"

"Please, y'r honor, we've been making ready for Christmas." She assumed the air of a culprit, and looked so demurely funny he laughed outright.

Here Mrs. Clayton and Edith, her fifteen-year-old daughter, entered the room.

"What's the fun?" questioned Edith.

"Miss Bright is pleading guilty to working more hours than she should."

"Oh, no, I didn't, Edith," she said merrily. "I said we had been making ready for Christmas."

Edith sat on a stool at her teacher's side. She, too, was ready for a tilt.

"You're not to pronounce sentence, Mr. Judge, until you see what we have been doing. It's to be a great surprise." And Edith looked wise and mysterious.

Then Esther withdrew, returning a little later, gowned in an old-rose house dress of some soft wool stuff. She again sat near the fire.

"Papa," said Edith, "I have been telling Miss Bright about the annual Rocky Mountain ball, and that she must surely go."

John Clayton looked amused.

"I'm afraid Edith couldn't do justice to that social function. I am quite sure you never saw anything like it. It is the most primitive sort of a party, made up of a motley crowd—cowboys, cowlassies, miners and their families, and ranchmen and theirs. They come early, have a hearty supper, and dance all night; and as many of them imbibe pretty freely, they sometimes come to blows."

He seemed amused at the consternation in Esther's face.

"You don't mean that I shall be expected to go to such a party?" she protested.

"Why not?" he asked, smiling.

"It seems dreadful," she hastened to say, "and besides that, I never go to dances. I do not dance."

"It's not as bad as it sounds," explained John Clayton. "You see these people are human. Their solitary lives are barren of pleasure. They crave intercourse with their kind; and so this annual party offers this opportunity."

"And is this the extent of their social life? Have they nothing better?"

"Nothing better," he said seriously, "but some things much worse."

"I don't see how anything could be worse."

"Oh, yes," he said, "it could be worse. But to return to the ball. It is unquestionably a company of publicans and sinners. If you wish to do settlement work here, to study these people in their native haunts, here they are. You will have an opportunity to meet some poor creatures you would not otherwise meet. Besides, this party is given for the benefit of the school. The proceeds of the supper help support the school."

"Then I must attend?"

"I believe so. With your desire to help these people, I believe it wise for you to go with us to the ball. You remember how a great Teacher long ago ate with publicans and sinners."

"Yes, I was just thinking of it. Christ studied people as he found them; helped them where he found them." She sat with bent head, thoughtful.

"Yes," John Clayton spoke gently, "Christ studied them as he found them, helped them where he found them."

He sometimes smiled at her girlish eagerness, while more and more he marveled at her wisdom and ability. She had set him to thinking; and as he thought, he saw new duties shaping before him.

It may have been an hour later, as they were reading aloud from a new book, they heard a firm, quick step on the veranda, followed by a light knock.

"It's Kenneth," exclaimed John Clayton in a brisk, cheery tone, as he hastened to open the door. The newcomer was evidently a valued friend. Esther recognized in the distinguished looking visitor one of the men who had protected her the day of the organization of the Bible school.

John Clayton rallied him on his prolonged absence. Mrs. Clayton told him how they had missed him, and Edith chattered merrily of what had happened since his last visit.

When he was presented to Esther Bright, she rose, and at that moment, a flame leaped from the burning mesquite, and lighted up her face and form. She was lovely. The heat of the fire had brought a slight color to her cheeks, and this was accentuated by her rose-colored gown. Kenneth Hastings bowed low, lower than his wont to women. For a moment his eyes met hers. His glance was keen and searching. She met it calmly, frankly. Then her lashes swept her cheeks, and her color deepened.

They gathered about the hearth. Fresh sticks of grease woods, and pine cones, thrown on the fire, sent red and yellow and violet flames leaping up the chimney. The fire grew hotter, and they were obliged to widen their circle.

What better than an open fire to unlock the treasures of the mind and heart, when friend converses with friend? The glow of the embers seems to kindle the imagination, until the tongue forgets the commonplaces of daily life and grows eloquent with the thoughts that lie hidden in the deeps of the soul.

Such converse as this held this group of friends in thrall. Kenneth Hastings talked well, exceedingly well. All the best stops in his nature were out. Esther listened, at first taking little part in the conversation. She was a good listener, an appreciative listener, and therein lay some of her charm. When he addressed a remark to her, she noticed that he had fine eyes, wonderful eyes, such eyes as belonged to Lincoln and Webster.

One would have guessed Kenneth Hastings' age to be about thirty. He was tall, rather slender and sinewy, with broad, strong shoulders. He had a fine head, proudly poised, and an intelligent, though stern face. He was not a handsome man; there was, however, an air of distinction about him, and he had a voice of rare quality, rich and musical. Esther Bright had noticed this.

The visitor began to talk to her. His power to draw other people out and make them shine was a fine art with him. His words were like a spark to tinder. Esther's mind kindled. She grew brilliant, and said things with a freshness and sparkle that fascinated everyone. And Kenneth Hastings listened with deepening interest.

His call had been prolonged beyond his usual hour for leave-taking, when John Clayton brought Esther's guitar, that happened to be in the room, and begged her for a song. She blushed and hesitated.

"Do sing," urged the guest.

"I am not a trained musician," she protested.

But her host assured his friend that she surely could sing. Then all clamored for a song.

Esther sat thrumming the strings.

"What shall I sing?"

"'Who is Sylvia,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton.

This she sang in a full, sweet voice. Her tone was true.

"More, more," they insisted, clapping their hands.

"Just one more song," pleaded Edith.

"Do you sing, 'Drink to me only with thine eyes'?" asked Kenneth. For answer, she struck the chords, and sang; then she laid down the guitar.

"Please sing one of your American ballads. Sing 'Home, Sweet Home,'" he suggested.

She had been homesick all day, so there was a home-sigh in her voice as she sang. Kenneth moved his chair into the shadow, and watched her.

At last he rose to go; and with promises of an early return, he withdrew.

Not to the saloon did he go that night, as had been his custom since coming to the mining camp. He walked on and on, out into the vast aloneness of the mountains. Once in a while he stopped, and looked down towards Clayton Ranch. At intervals he whistled softly.—The strain was "Home, Sweet Home."

John Clayton and his wife sat long before the fire after Esther and Edith had retired. Mary Clayton was a gentle being, with a fair, sweet English face. And she adored her husband. They had been talking earnestly.

"Any way, Mary," John Clayton was saying, "I believe Miss Bright could make an unusually fine man of Kenneth. I believe she could make him a better man, too."

"That might be, John," she responded, "but you wouldn't want so rare a soul as she is to marry him to reform him, would you? She's like a snow-drop."

"No, like a rose," he suggested, "all sweet at the heart. I'd really like to see her marry Kenneth. In fact, I'd like to help along a little."

"Oh, my dear! How could you?" And she looked at him reproachfully.

"Why not?" he asked. "Tell me honestly." He lifted her face and looked into it with lover-like tenderness. "You like Kenneth, don't you? And we are always glad to welcome him in our home."

"Y-e-s," she responded hesitatingly, "but—"

"But what?"

"I fear he frequents the saloons, and is sometimes in company totally unworthy of him. In fact, I fear he isn't good enough for Miss Bright. I can't bear to think of her marrying any man less pure and noble than she is herself."

He took his wife's hand in both of his.

"You forget, Mary," he said, "that Miss Bright is a very unusual woman. There are few men, possibly, who are her peers. Don't condemn Kenneth because he isn't exactly like her. He's not perfect, I admit, any more than the rest of us. But he's a fine, manly fellow, with a good mind and noble traits of character. If the right woman gets hold of him, she'll make him a good man, and possibly a great one."

"That may be," she said, "but I don't want Miss Bright to be that woman."

"Suppose he were your son, would you feel he was so unworthy of her?"

"Probably not," came her hesitating answer.

"Mary, dear," he said, "I fear you are too severe in your judgment of men. I wish you had more compassion. You see, it is this way: many who seem evil have gone astray because they have not had the influence of a good mother or sister or wife." He bent his head and kissed her.

A moment later, he leaned back and burst into a hearty laugh.

"Why, what's the matter?" she asked. "I don't think it's a laughing matter."

"It's so ridiculous, Mary. Here we've been concerning ourselves about the possible marriage of Kenneth and Miss Bright, when they have only just met, and it isn't likely they'll ever care for each other, anyway. Let's leave them alone."

And the curtain went down on a vital introductory scene in the drama of life.