CHAPTER XI
AN EVENTFUL DAY
After Esther Bright and Wathemah returned from their visit at MurphyRanch, he became a guest at the Clayton home, and there he remaineduntil his arm was well.
His sojourn with them strengthened his devotion to Esther Bright, andbrought about several changes for the better in him.
When he was allowed to run and play with the children again, hereturned to school and to Keith's saloon.
The men who had always called him the "little tough," now observed himwith amazement. One observed:
"I'll be blowed ef the Angel o' the Gila can't do anythin' she wantster. See that kid? He used ter cuss like a pirate. Do ye hear him cussnow? No, sir! For why? 'Cause he knows she don't like it. That's why.Ef she wuz ter be turned loose among the Apaches, she'd civilize 'em.An' they're the blankedest Indians there be. I don't know what it isabout her. She sort o' makes a feller want ter be somebody. I reckonGod Almighty knows more about 'er nor we do, 'n' she knows more aboutus 'n' we do ourselves. Leastways, she do about me."
Having delivered himself to this effect, he left the saloon, sober.
There is no doubt Esther Bright had sown good seed broadcast, and somehad fallen on good ground. The awakening of the cowlasses had been acontinual joy to her. She marveled that some one had not found thembefore. Each successive day the little school reached out further toenrich the life of the community.
One morning, while a class was in the midst of a recitation, therecame a knock at the schoolhouse door.
"I'm Robert Duncan," said a Scotch miner, as Esther opened the door.He held by the hand a little boy of about three years.
"This is Bobbie," he continued. "I've brought me bairn tae school."
Could the mother spare such a baby? Ah, could she?
Esther stooped and held out her arms to the child, but he hid behindhis father.
"His mither died last week, Miss," he said with a choke in his voice."I'd like tae leave him with ye."
"I'm very sorry," she replied, with quick sympathy. Then she promisedto receive Bobbie as a pupil, providing he would stay.
"Oh, he'll stay," the father hastened to say, "if ye'll just callDonald."
So Donald was called, and he succeeded in coaxing Bobbie into theschoolroom.
When the child realized that his father had gone and left him, he ranto the door, crying, "Faither! Faither!" while tears rolled down hischeeks.
Then the mother heart of Esther Bright asserted itself. She gatheredhim in her arms and soothed him, until he cuddled down contentedly andfell asleep.
Soon after, Kenneth Hastings appeared at the open door, and saw Estherat her desk with the sleeping child in her arms. He heard her speakingin a soft tone to the children as she dismissed them for the morningrecess; but Bobbie wakened frightened. At the moment Kenneth entered,Bobbie was carried out of the room by Donald, the other childrenfollowing.
"I came to see if you could go for a horseback ride this afternoon,"said Kenneth. "It's a glorious day."
"Just delighted! Nothing would please me better."
The two stood inside the open door. As Wathemah saw Kenneth talking tohis teacher, he entered the door, pushed between them, nestled closeto her, and said defiantly:
"Miss Bright _me_ teacher; _mine_!"
"Yours, eh, sonny?" said Kenneth, smiling. Then looking into Esther'sface, he said:
"I wish I could feel as sure that some day you will be mine."
A delicate flush swept over her face. When he went on his way, lifeand vigor were in every step. He seemed to walk on air.
The recess over, the children returned to their seats, and PatrickMurphy entered. The school, for the hour, was transformed into a placeof general merchandise, for the teacher had promised that to-day theywould play store, buy and sell. Business was to be done on a strictlycash basis, and accounts kept. Several children had been busy fordays, making school money. Scales for weighing, and various measureswere in evidence.
Patrick watched the play of the children, as they weighed andmeasured, bought and sold.
At the close of the exercises, he turned to Esther, saying:
"Oi wisht Oi wuz young agin mesilf. Yez larn the chilthren more in wanhour, 'n' many folks larns in a loife toime. It's thankful Oi am thatyez came ter Gila, fur the school is gittin' on."
Having delivered himself of this compliment, he withdrew, highlypleased with himself, with the teacher, with the school, and the worldgenerally. If there was one thing that met with Patrick's unqualifiedapproval, it was "to git on."
Near the close of the midday intermission, during the absence ofWathemah, Donald Carmichael said to the teacher, "Ye love Wathemahmair nor the rest o' us, don't ye?"
"Why?" asked Esther, as she smiled down at the urchin.
"Oh," hanging his head, "ye say 'Wathemah' as though ye likit him mairnor anybody else."
"As though I loved him?"
"Yep."
"Well," she acknowledged, "I do love Wathemah. I love all the otherchildren, too. Don't you think I ought to love Wathemah a littlebetter because he has no father or mother, as you have, to love him?"
Donald thought not.
"You have no idea," said Carla, who now attended school, "what brutaltreatment Wathemah used to receive at the saloon. I have seen himteased and trounced and knocked around till he was frantic. And themen took delight in teaching him all the badness they knew. I used tohear them while I was helping Mrs. Keith." Carla's eyes suddenlyfilled.
"Poor little fellow!" said Esther, in response.
"I shall never forget his happiness," continued Carla, "the first dayhe went to school. He came to me and said he liked his teacher andwanted to go live with her."
"Did he? Bless his heart!"
"After that," Carla went on to say, "he came to me every morning tosee if he was clean enough to go to school."
"So _you_ were the good fairy, Carla, who wrought the transformationin him. He certainly was a very dirty little boy the first morning hecame to school, but he has been pretty clean ever since."
Donald, who had been listening, now spoke up again.
"Oh, Wathemah's all right, only I thocht ye likit him mair nor therest o' us."
"No, she don't, neither," stoutly maintained Brigham. "I guess I know.She's always fair."
At this moment, Wathemah himself drew near. He had been to the timberfor mistletoe, and returned with his arms full of sprays of green,covered with white waxen berries. He walked proudly to his Beloved,and gave her his offering. Then he stepped back and surveyed her.
"Wathemah love he teacher," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction.
"She ain't yourn, ye Apache savage," cried Donald. "She don't love ye;she said so," added the child, maliciously.
Like a flash, Wathemah was upon him, beating him with all hisstrength. He took the law into his own hands, settled his score, andlaid his opponent out before Esther could interfere. When she graspedWathemah's arm, he turned upon her like a tiger.
"Donald lie!" he cried.
"Yes, Donald did lie," she conceded, "but _you_ should not punishhim."
"Donald call savage. Wathemah kill he!"
The teacher continued to hold him firmly. She tried to reason withhim, but her words made no impression.
The child stood resolute. He lifted a scornful finger toward Donald,and said in a tone of contempt:
"Donald lie. Wathemah no lie."
The teacher released him, and told him to see her after school. Thenthe afternoon session began. But Wathemah's place was vacant.
As the hours passed, it became evident that Donald was not as happy asusual. He was in disgrace. At last his class was called. He hung hishead in shame. Esther did not press him to recite.
The hour for dismissal came. The little culprit sat alone in thefarther corner of the room. Carla started out to find Wathemah.
The loud accusing tick of the clock beat upon Donald's ear. Theteacher was busy, and at first paid no attention to him.
She heard asniffling in the corner. Still no attention. At last she sat down bythe lad, and said very gently:
"Tell me about it, Donald."
No answer. He averted his face, and rubbed his dirty fists into hiseyes.
"Tell me why you lied to Wathemah, Donald."
Still no answer.
"How could you hurt his feelings so?"
No answer.
Then Esther talked to him till he buried his face in his arms andsobbed. She probed down into his heart. At last she asked him what hethought he should do. Still silence. She waited. The clock tickedlouder and louder in the ears of the child: "Say it! Say it! Say it!"
At last he spoke.
"I ought tae tell Wathemah I lied; but I dinna want tae tell him aforethe lads."
"Ah!" she said, "but you said your untruthful words before them; andunless you are a coward, your apology ought to be before them."
"I am nae coward," he said, lifting his head.
"Then you must apologize to Wathemah before the children to-morrow."
"Yes, mum."
Then she dismissed him, telling him to remember what he had done, whenhe prayed to God that night.
"Did God hear me lie?" he asked.
"I think so, Donald."
The child looked troubled.
"I didna think o' that. I'll tell Him I'm sorry," he said as he leftthe schoolroom.
He began to search for Wathemah, that he might make peace with him.
At first Carla's search was fruitless. Then she sought him in a placeshe knew he loved, away up the canyon. There, sure enough, she foundhim. He sat on a bowlder near a cascade with his back toward her.Beyond him, on the other side of the stream, rose the overhangingcliffs. He did not hear her step as he listened to the music of thewaters.
"Wathemah!" she called. He started, then turned toward her. She sawthat he had been crying. She climbed up on the bowlder and sat downbeside him.
"Donald lie!" he said, angrily.
"Yes, Wathemah, but he is sorry for it, and I am sure will tell youso."
She saw tears roll down the dirty little face. She had the wisdom toleave him alone; and walking a short distance up the canyon, sentpebbles skipping the water. After a while this drew him to her.
"Shall we go up stream?" she asked.
He nodded. They jumped from bowlder to bowlder, and at last stoppedwhere the waters go softly, making a soothing music for the ear.
"Carla!"
"Yes, Wathemah."
"Jesus forgive?"
"Yes, dear, He does." Then Carla's self-control gave way, and shesobbed out her long-suppressed grief. Instantly the child's arms werearound her neck.
"No cry, Carla!" he said. "No cry, Carla!" patting her cheek.
Then, putting his tear-stained cheek close to hers, he said:
"Jesus love Carla."
She gathered the little comforter in her arms; and though her tearsfell fast, they brought relief to her heart.
At last she persuaded him to return to school the following day, andto do all he could to atone for leaving it without permission.
On their return, they sought the teacher in the schoolhouse, but shewas gone, and the door was locked; neither was she to be found at theClayton ranch. The little penitent lingered a long time, but hisBeloved did not come. At last he walked reluctantly in to camp.
Away up the mountain road, Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings drewrein. The Englishman sat his horse well; but it was evident hiscompanion was not a horsewoman. She might shine in a drawing-room orin a home, but not on a horse's back. If she had not been riding oneof the finest saddle horses in the country, she would have appeared togreater disadvantage.
The canter up the mountain road had brought the color to her cheeks.It had also shaken out her hairpins; and now her wavy brown hair,with its glint of gold, tumbled about her shoulders.
"You look like a gypsy," Kenneth was saying.
She laughed.
"The last gypsies I ever saw," she said merrily, "were encamped alongthe road through Beekman's Woods, as you approach Tarrytown-on-Hudsonfrom the north. The gypsy group was picturesque, but the individualslooked villainous. I hope I do not strongly resemble them," she saidstill laughing; then added, "They wanted to tell our fortunes."
"Did you let them tell yours?"
"Yes, just for fun."
"What did they tell you?"
"Oh, just foolishness."
"Come, tell _me_ just for fun."
"Well,"--here she blushed--"the old gypsy told me that an Englishmanwould woo me, that I'd not know my own mind, and that I would rejecthim."
"Interesting! Go on."
"That something dreadful would happen to the suitor; that I'd helptake care of him, and after that, all was cloudland."
"Really, this grows more interesting. The fortune teller realized howhard-hearted you were. Didn't she ask you to join their caravan? You'dmake an ideal gypsy princess."
Esther touched her horse with her whip. He gave a sudden lunge, andsped onward like mad. It was all she could do to sit her horse. Beforeher, to her dismay, yawned a deep gulch. She could not stop her horsenow, of that she was sure. She tightened her grip, and waited. Sheheard the sound of hoofs behind her, and Kenneth's voice shouting"Whoa!" As well shriek at a tornado to stop. She seemed to catch thespirit of the horse. The pupils of her eyes dilated. She felt thequivering of the beast when, for a moment, he reared on his haunches.Then she felt herself borne through the air, as the animal took thegulch; then she knew that he was struggling up the bank. In a momentthe beast stopped, quivering all through his frame; his nostrils weredilated, and his breath came hard.
In a few minutes Kenneth Hastings overtook her. It was evident he hadbeen alarmed.
"You have done a perilous thing for an inexperienced rider," he said."It is dumb luck that you have escaped unhurt. I expected to find youinjured or dead."
"I was dreadfully scared when we came to the gulch. I didn't knowabout it, you know; but I couldn't stop the horse then."
"Of course not. What made the animal run? Did you cut him with thewhip?"
"Yes. I thought it'd be such fun to run away from you for calling me agypsy."
He laughed. Then he looked grave.
Suddenly Esther Bright grew as cold as ice, and swayed in the saddle.At last she was forced to say she was ill. Her companion dismountedand lifted her from the saddle.
"Why, how you tremble!" he was saying. "How cold you are!"
"Just fright," she replied, making an effort to rally. "I am ashamedof being scared. The fright has made me deathly sick." Even her lipswere white. He seemed deeply concerned.
After a while her color returned, and she assured him that she wasable to go on.
"But are you sure?" he asked, showing the deepest concern.
"Quite sure," she said, positively. "Come, let us go. I have given youenough trouble already."
"No trouble, I assure you."
He did not add that the very fact that she had needed a service fromhim was sufficient recompense.
Then they walked their horses homeward, talking of many things ofcommon interest to them.
Down in the valley, the soft gray of the dead gramma grass wasrelieved by the great beds of evergreen cacti, yucca, and the greeneryof the sage and mesquite. The late afterglow in the sky mingled withthe purple haze that hung like an ethereal veil over the landscape.
They stopped their horses at a turn of the road commanding a fine viewof the mountains.
"How beautiful the world is everywhere!" Esther said, half to herself.
"Especially in Arizona," said Kenneth, as he drew a deep invigoratingbreath.
Silence again.
"Miss Bright," he hesitated. "I believe the world would be beautifulto me anywhere, if you were there."
"You flatter," she said, lifting her hand as if to ward off what mightfollow.
"No flattery. Since you came, the whole world has seemed beautiful tome."
"I am glad
if my coming has improved your vision," she said merrily."Come, we must hasten, or we'll be late for dinner. You are to dinewith us to-night, I believe."
"Yes, Mrs. Clayton was so kind as to invite me."
Again her horse took the lead. Kenneth touched his with the whip, andovertook her. For some distance, the horses were neck and neck. Asthey came to a steep ascent, they slackened their pace.
Her eyes were sparkling, and she was in excellent spirits.
"If I were a better horsewoman," she said gayly, "I'd challenge you toa race."
"Why not, anyway?" he suggested. "There are no more gulches."
"I might not be able to stick on."
"We'll try it," he responded, encouragingly, "over the next levelstretch."
So try it they did. They flew like the wind. The cool evening air, theexcitement of the race, the rich afterglow in the heavens,--all wereexhilarating. On they sped, on and on, till they turned into thecanyon road. Again Esther's horse led, but Kenneth soon overtook her,and then their horses walked slowly on together the rest of the way.
"I wonder if you are as happy as I am," he said, as he assisted herfrom the saddle.
"I am in the positive degree of happiness," she said, cheerily. "I amalways happy except when shadowed by someone else's sorrow."
He said something to her about bearing all her future sorrows for her,adding:
"That is becoming the dearest wish of my heart."
"All must meet sorrow sometime," she responded gravely. "I hope tomeet mine with fortitude when it comes."
She stood stroking the horse's neck.
"I wish I might help you to bear it when it comes. Oh, Miss Bright,"he said, earnestly, "I wish I could make you realize how I honoryou--and dare I say it?--how I love you! I wish you would try tounderstand me. I am not trifling. I am in earnest." He looked at herdowncast face.
"I will try," she said, looking up frankly, with no trace of coquetryin her voice or manner.
There had been moments when Kenneth's love for Esther had led him tospeak dearer words to her than her apparent interest in him wouldwarrant. At such times she would retire within herself, surrounded byan impenetrable reserve. Kenneth Hastings was the only one she evertreated icily. One day he would be transported to the seventh heaven;another, he would sink to the deeps of gloom.
It was several days after this ride that he chanced to meet Esther inthe path along the river road. He stopped her, and asked abruptly:
"Why do you treat me so frigidly sometimes?"
"Do I?" she asked in surprise.
He remained silent.
"Do I?" she said, repeating her question.
"Yes, you do. Why do you treat me so?"
She looked distressed.
"I didn't realize I had treated you discourteously, Mr. Hastings. If Idid, it was because I am afraid of you."
"Preposterous! Afraid of me!" Now he was smiling.
"Perhaps--" As she hesitated, she looked up at him in an appealingmanner.
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps it is because you have given me a glimpse of your own heart,and have--"
"Have what?"
"--asked me to reveal mine to you. I can't."
"In other words, you do not love me?"
"I honor you as I do several people I know. Nothing more."
There was a long pause. Kenneth was the first to speak.
"Your friendship! Am I to be deprived of that, too?"
"My friendship is already yours," she said. "You know that."
"I thank you. I need hardly tell you that your friendship is thedearest thing I know."
Then Kenneth left her, and she walked on alone. But still those wordskept repeating themselves in her mind like a haunting melody, "Yourfriendship is the dearest thing I know!" and, like Banquo's ghost,they would not down.