The Branding Iron

  CHAPTER IV

  THE SIN-BUSTER

  In the fall, when the whole country had turned to a great cup of gold,purple-rimmed under the sky, Pierre went out into the hills after hiswinter meat. Joan was left alone. She spent her time cleaning andarranging the two-room cabin, and tidying up outdoors, and in"grubbing sagebrush," a gigantic task, for the one hundred and fiftyacres of Pierre's homestead were covered for the most part by thesturdy, spicy growth, and every bush had to be dug out and burnt toclear the way for ploughing and planting. Joan worked with thedeliberateness and intentness of a man. She enjoyed the wholesomedrudgery. She was proud every sundown of the little clearing she hadmade, and stood, tired and content, to watch the piled brush burn,sending up aromatic smoke and curious, dull flames very high into thestill air.

  She was so standing, hands folded on her rake, when, on the other sideof her conflagration, she perceived a man. He was steadily regardingher, and when her eyes fell upon him, he smiled and stepped forward--atall, broad, very fair young man in a shooting coat, khakiriding-breeches, and puttees. He had a wide brow, clear, blue eyes andan eager, sensitive, clean-shaven mouth and chin. He held out a bigwhite hand.

  "Mrs. Landis," he said, in a crisp voice of an accent and finishstrange to the girl "I wonder if you and your husband can put me upfor the night. I'm Frank Holliwell. I'm on a round of parish visits,and, as my parish is about sixty miles square, my poor old pony hasgone lame. I know you are not my parishioners, though, no doubt, youshould be, but I'm going to lay claim to your hospitality, for allthat, if I may?"

  Joan had moved her rake into the grasp of her left hand and had takenthe proffered palm into her other, all warm and fragrantly stained.

  "You're the new sin-buster, ain't you?" she asked gravely.

  The young man opened his blue and friendly eyes.

  "Oh, that's what I am, eh? That's a new one to me. Yes. I suppose Iam. It's rather a fine name to go by--sin-buster," and he laughed verylow and very amusedly.

  Joan looked him over and slowly smiled. "You look like you could bustanything you'd a mind to," she said, and led the way toward the house,her rake across her shoulder.

  "Pierre," she told him when they were in the shining, clean log house,"is off in the hills after his elk, but I can make you up a bed in thesettin'-room an' serve you a supper an' welcome."

  "Oh, thanks," he rather doubtfully accepted.

  Evidently he did not know the ways and proprieties of this new"parish" of his. But Joan seemed to take the situation with anenormous calm impersonality. He modeled his manner upon hers. They satat the table together, Joan silent, save when he forced her to speak,and entirely untroubled by her silence, Frank Holliwell eatingheartily, helping her serve, and talking a great deal. He asked her agreat many questions, which she answered with direct simplicity. Bythe end of dish-washing, he had her history and more of her opinions,probably, than any other creature she had met.

  "What do you do when Landis is away?"

  She told him.

  "But, in the evenings, I mean, after work. Have you books?"

  "No," said Joan; "it's right hard labor, readin'. Pa learned me myletters an' I can spell out bits from papers an' advertisements an'what not, but I ain't never read a book straight out. I dunno," sheadded presently, "but as I'd like to. Pierre can read," she told himproudly.

  "I'm sure you'd like to." He considered her through the smoke of hispipe. He was sitting by the hearth now, and she, just through withclearing up, stood by the corner of the mantel shelf, arranging thelogs. The firelight danced over her face, so beautiful, so unlightedfrom within.

  "How old are you, Joan Landis?" he asked suddenly, using her namewithout title for the first time.

  "Eighteen."

  "Is that all? You must read books, you know. There's so much emptyspace there back of your brows."

  She looked up smiling a little, her wide gray eyes puzzled.

  "Yes, Joan. You must read. Will you--if I lend you some books?"

  She considered. "Yes," she said. "I'd read them if you'd be lendin' mesome. In the evenings when Pierre's away, I'm right lonesome. I neverwas lonesome before, not to know it. It'll take me a long time to readone book, though," she added with an engaging mournfulness.

  "What do you like--stories, poetry, magazines?"

  "I'd like real books in stiff covers," said Joan, "an' I don't likepictures."

  This surprised the clergyman. "Why not?" said he.

  "I like to notion how the folks look myself. I like pictures of realplaces, that has got to be like they are"--Joan was talking a greatdeal and having trouble with her few simple words--"but I like folksin stories to look like I want 'em to look."

  "Not the way the writer describes them?"

  "Yes, sir. But you can make up a whole lot on what the writerdescribes. If he says 'her eyes is blue'; you can see 'em dark blue orlight blue or jest blue. An' you can see 'em shaped round or what not,the way you think about folks that you've heard of an' have nevermet."

  It was extraordinary how this effort at self-expression excited Joan.She was rarely self-conscious, but she was usually passive or stolid;now there was a brilliant flush in her face and her large eyesdeepened and glowed. "I heerd tell of you, Mr. Holliwell. Fellers comeup here to see Pierre once in a while an' one or two of 'em spoke yourname. An' I kinder figured out you was a weedy feller, awfulsolemn-like, an' of course you ain't, but it's real hard for me tonotion that there ain't two Mr. Holliwells, you an' the weedysin-buster I've ben picturin'. Like as not I'll get to thinkin' of youlike two fellers." Joan sighed. "Seems like when I onct get a notionin my head it jest sticks there some way."

  "Then the more wise notions you get the better. I'll ride up here in acouple of weeks' time with some books. You may keep them as long asyou will. All winter, if you like. When I can get up here, we can talkthem over, you and Landis and I. I'll try to choose some withoutpictures. There will be stories and some poetry, too."

  "I ain't never read but one pome," said Joan.

  "And that was?"

  She had sat down on the floor by the hearth, her head thrown back tolean against the cobbles of the chimney-piece, her knees locked in herhands. That magnificent long throat of hers ran up to the black coilsof hair which had slipped heavily down over her ears. The light edgedher round chin and her strongly modeled, regular features; the full,firm mouth so savagely pure and sensuous and self-contained. The eyeswere mysterious under their thick lashes and dark, long brows. Thisthroat and face and these strong hands were picked out in their fullvalue of line and texture from the dark cotton dress she was wearing.

  "It's a pome on a card what father had, stuck ag'in' the wall." Shebegan to recite, her eyes fixed upon him with childlike gravity. "'Hemaketh me to lie down in green pastures: He leadeth me beside thestill waters.... Yea, though I walk through the valley of shadows,thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.'"

  Holliwell had taken the pipe from between his teeth, had straightenedup. Her deep voice, the slight swinging of her body to the rhythm shehad unconsciously given to her lines, the strange glow in her eyes ...Holliwell wondered why these things, this brief, sing-song recitation,had given a light thrill to the surface of his skin, had sent atingling to his fingertips. He was the first person to wonder at thateffect of Joan's cadenced music. "The valley of the shadow--" she hadmissed a familiar phrase and added value to a too often repeated line.

  "Joan! Joan!" said the "sin-buster," an exclamation drawn from him ona deep breath, "what an extraordinary girl you are! What a marvelouswoman you are going to be!"

  Joan looked at him in a silence of pure astonishment and that was theend of their real talk.