by Zane Grey
Presently she plucked up spirit enough to address the stage driver.
“How far is it to Cedar Ridge?”
“Wal, some folks calkilate it’s round twenty-five miles, then there’s tothers say it’s more,” he drawled. “But I don’t agree with nary of them.”
“You would know, of course,” said Lucy appreciatingly. “How far do you call it?”
“Reckon aboot twenty miles as a crow flies an’ shinnyin’ round forty on this uphill road.”
Lucy felt rather bewildered at this reply, and did not risk incurring more confusion. She was sure of one thing, however, and it was that the road assuredly wound uphill. About the middle of the afternoon as stage reached the summit of what appeared rolling upland country, grassy in patches and brushy in others, and stretching away toward a bold black mountain level with a band of red rock shining in the sun. Lucy gazed westward across a wide depression, grey and green, to a range of ragged peaks, notched and sharp, with shaggy slopes. How wild and different they seemed to her! Farther south the desert mountains were stark and ghastly, denuded rock surfaces that glared inhospitably down upon an observer. But these mountains seemed to call in wild abandon. They stirred something buoyant and thrilling in Lucy. Gradually she lost sight of both ranges as the road began to wind down somewhat, obstructing her view. Next to interest her were clearings in the brush, fields and fences and cabins, with a few cattle and horses. Hard as she peered, however, Lucy did not see any people.
The stage driver made fast time over this rolling country, and his horses trotted swingingly along, as if home and feed were not far off. For Lucy the day had been tiring; she had exhausted herself with unusual sensation. She closed her eyes to rest them and fell into a doze. Sooner or later the stage driver awoke her.
“Say, miss, there’s Cedar Ridge, an’ thet green hill above is what gives the town its name,” he said. “It’s a good ways off yit, but I reckon we’ll pull in aboot dark.”
Lucy’s eyes opened upon a wonderful valley, just now coloured by sunset haze. A cluster of cottages and houses nestled under a magnificent sloping ridge, billowy and soft with green foliage. The valley was pastoral and beautiful. This could not be the backwoods country into which she was going. Lucy gazed long with the most pleasing of impressions. Then her gaze shifted to the ridge from which the town derived its name. Far as she could see to east and west it extended, a wild black barrier to what hid beyond. It appeared to slope higher toward the east, where on the horizon it assumed the proportions of a mountain.
To Lucy’s regret, the winding and ascending nature of the road again obscured distant views. Then the sun set; twilight appeared short; and soon darkness settled down. Lucy had never before felt mountain air, but she recognised it now. How cold and pure! Would the ride never end? She peered through the darkness, hoping to see lights of the village. At last they appeared, dim pin-points through the blackness. She heard the barking of dogs. The stage wheeled round a corner of trees, to enter a wide street, and at last to slow down before looming flap-topped houses, from which the yellow lights shone.
“Miss, anybody goin’ to meet you?” queried the driver.
“No,” replied Lucy.
“Wal, whar shall I set you down? Post office, store, or hotel?”
Lucy was about to answer his question when he enlightened her by drawling that she did not need to make any choice, because all three places mentioned were in the same house.
When the stage came to a halt Lucy saw a high porch upon which lounged the dark forms of men silhouetted against the yellow light of lamps. Despite the lights, she could scarcely see to gather up her belongings. To her relief, the stage driver reached in for her grips.
“Hyar we air — Cedar Ridge — last stop — all out,” he drawled.
Lucy stepped down hurriedly so that she could stay close to him. The darkness, and the strangeness of the place, with those silent men so close, made her heart beat a little quicker. She followed her escort up wide rickety steps, between two lines of men, some of whom leaned closer to peer at her, and into a large room, dimly lighted by a hanging lamp.
“Bill, hyar’s a party fer you,” announced the driver, setting down the baggage. “An’, miss, I’ll thank you fer ten dollars — stage fare.”
Lucy stepped under the lamp so that she could see to find the money in her purse, and when she turned to pay the driver she espied a tall man standing by him.
“Madam, do you want supper an’ bed?” he asked.
“Yes. I am Lucy Watson of Felix, and I shall want room and board, perhaps for a day or two, until I find out where I’m to go,” replied Lucy.
He lighted a lamp and held it up so that he could see her face.
“Glad to help you any way I can,” he said. “I’m acquainted in these parts. Come this way.”
He led her into a hallway, and up a stairway, into a small room, where he placed the lamp upon a washstand. “I’ll fetch your baggage up. Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”
When he went out Lucy looked first to see if there was a key in the lock on the door. There was not, but she found a bolt, and laughed ruefully at the instant relief it afforded.
“I’m a brave welfare worker,” she whispered to herself scornfully. Then she gazed about the room. Besides the washstand before noted it contained a chair and a bed. The latter looked clean and inviting to Lucy. There would be need of the heavy roll of blankets at the foot. The cold air appeared to go right through Lucy. And the water in the pitcher was like ice. Before she had quite made herself ready to go downstairs she heard a bell ring, and then a great trampling of boots and a scraping of chairs on a bare floor.
“Those men coming in to supper!” she exclaimed. “Bee hunters and white-mule drinkers, that brakeman said!...Well, if I have to meet them I — I can stand it now, I guess.”
The hall and stairway were so dark Lucy had to feel her way down to the door. She was guided by the loud voices and laughter in the dining-room. Lucy could not help hesitating at the door. Neither her courage nor her pride could prevent the rise of unfamiliar emotions. She was a girl, alone, at the threshold of new life. Catching her breath, she opened the door.
The dining-room was now brightly lighted and full of men sitting at the tables. As Lucy entered, the hubbub of voices quieted and a sea of faces seemed to confront her. There was a small table vacant. Lucy seated herself in one of the two chairs. Her feeling of strangeness was not alleviated by the attention directed toward her. Fortunately the proprietor approached at once, asking what she would have to eat. When she had given her order Lucy casually looked up and around the room. To her surprise and relief, none of the young men now appeared to be interested in her. They had lean, hard faces and wore dark, rough clothes. Lucy rather liked their appearance, and she found herself listening to the snatches of conversation.
“Jeff’s rarin’ to plough right off,” said one. “Reckon it’ll be plumb boggy,” was the reply. And then others of them spoke. “My hoss piled me up this mawnin’,” and “Who air you goin’ to take to the dance?” and “Lefty March paid what he owed me an’ I near dropped daid,” and “Did you-all hear about Edd Denmeade makin’ up to Sadie again, after she dished him once?” and “Edd’s shore crazy fer a wife. Wants a home, I reckon.”
The talk of these young men was homely and crude. It held a dominant note of humour. Probably they were as fun-loving as the riders of the low country. Lucy had expected to be approached by some of them or at least to hear witticisms at her expense. But nothing of the kind happened. She was the only woman in the room, and she might not have been there at all, for any attention she received. Something of respect was forced from Lucy, yet, woman-like, she suffered a slight pique. Soon her supper came, and being hungry she attended to that.
After supper there was nothing for her to do but to her room. It was cold and she quickly went to bed. For a while she lay there shivering between the cold sheets, but presently she grew warm and comfortable. The darkness
appeared pitch-black. Distant voices penetrated from the lower part of the house, and through the open window came the sound of slow footsteps accompanied by clink of spurs. Then from somewhere far off sounded the bay of a hound, and it was followed by the wild bark of a coyote. Both bay and bark struck lonesomely upon her spirit.
Lucy realised that actually to experience loneliness, to be really cut off from family and friends, was vastly different from the thought of it. She had deliberately severed all ties. She was alone in the world, with her way to make. A terrible blank sense of uncertainty assailed her. Independence was wholly desirable, but in its first stage it seemed hard. Lucy was not above tears, and she indulged in a luxury long unfamiliar to her. Then she cried herself to sleep.
When she awoke the sun was shining in upon her. The air was crisp and cold and bore a fragrance wild and sweet, new to Lucy. With the bright daylight all her courage returned, even to the point of exhilaration. She put on a woollen dress and heavier shoes. The cold air and water had greatly accelerated her toilet. When had her cheeks glowed as rosily as now? And for that matter, when had her hair been as rebellious? But she had no time now to brush it properly, even if her hands had not been numb. She hurried down to the dining-room. A wood fire blazed and cracked in the stove, to Lucy’s great satisfaction. The dining-room was empty. Presently the kitchen door opened and a stout woman entered with a pleasant greeting.
“Miss Watson, my husband said we might find somethin’ we could do for you,” she said kindly.
“Yes, indeed, you may be able to give me information I need,” replied Lucy.
“I’ll fetch your breakfast an’ then you can tell me what you want to know.”
The proprietor’s wife introduced herself as Mrs. Lynn, and appeared to be a motherly person, kindly and full of curiosity. Lucy frankly explained the nature of the work she was about to undertake.
“I think it’s a fine idea,” responded Mrs. Lynn emphatically. “If only the Denmeades an’ the rest of them will have it.”
“Will they be too proud or — or anything to give me a chance?” asked Lucy anxiously.
“We’re all plain folks up here, an’ the backwoods families keep to themselves,” she replied. “I don’t know as I’d call them proud. They’re ignorant enough, Lord knows. But they’re just backwoods. Like ground-hogs, they stay in their holes.”
On the moment the woman’s husband came in from the street. He appeared to be a gaunt man, pallid, and evidently suffered from a lung complaint, for he had a hoarse cough.
“Bill, come here,” called his wife. “Miss Watson has what I think a wonderful mission. If it will only work!...She’s been hired by the state government to go among our people up here in the backwoods an’ teach them things. She has explained to me a lot of things she will do. But in few words it means better homes for those poor people. What do you think about it?”
“Wal, first off I’d say she is a plucky an’ fine little girl to take such a job,” replied Mr. Lynn. “Then I’d say it’s good of the state. But when it comes to what the Denmeades an’ the Claypools will think about it I’m up a stump.”
“Bill, it’s such a splendid idea,” said his wife earnestly. “She can do much for the mothers an’ children up there. We must help her to get a start.”
“I reckon. Now let’s see,” returned her husband, ponderingly. “If our backwoods neighbours are only approached right they’re fine an’ hospitable. The women would welcome anyone who could help them. But the men ain’t so easy. Miss Watson, though, bein’ young an’ nice-lookin’, may be able to make a go of it...If she can keep Edd Denmeade or one of them bee hunters from marryin’ her!”
Here Lynn laughed good-humouredly and smiled knowingly at Lucy. Mrs. Lynn took the question more seriously.
“I was goin’ to tell her that myself,” she said. “But we mustn’t give her the wrong impression about our neighbours. These backwoodsmen are not Bluebeards or Mormons, though they are strong on gettin’ wives. They are a clean, hardy, pioneer people. Edd Denmeade, for instance, now — he’s a young man the like of which you won’t see often. He’s a queer fellow — a bee hunter, wonderful good to look at, wild like them woods he lives in, but a cleaner, finer boy I never knew. He loves his sisters. He gives his mother every dollar he earns, which, Lord knows, isn’t many...Now, Miss Lucy, Edd like as not will grab you right up an’ pack you off an’ marry you. That would settle your welfare work.”
“But, Mrs. Lynn,” protested Lucy, laughing, “it takes two to make a bargain. I did not come up here to marry anyone. With all due respect to Mister Edd’s manner of courting, I feel perfectly capable of taking care of myself. We can dismiss that.”
“Don’t you be too sure!” ejaculated Mrs. Lynn bluntly “It’s better to be safe than sorry!...I ain’t above tellin’ you, though — if Edd Denmeade really fell in love with you — that’d be different. Edd has been tryin’ to marry every single girl in the country. An’ I don’t believe he’s been in love with any one of them. He’s just woman hungry, as sometimes these backwoodsmen get. That speaks well for him bein’ too clean an’ fine to be like many others. An’ as to that, Edd is only one of a lot of good boys.”
“Thanks for telling me,” replied Lucy simply. “Of course I want to know all I can find out about these people. But just now what I need to know is how to get among them.”
“Mary, I’ve been thinkin’,” spoke up Mr. Lynn, “an’ I’ve an idea. Suppose I call in the Rim Cabin school-teacher. He’s in the post office now — just rode in. I reckon he’s the one to help Miss Watson.”
“Fetch him in pronto,” replied Mrs. Lynn with alacrity; and as her husband went out she continued: “It’s Mr. Jenks, the school-teacher. First man teacher ever here. You see, the youngsters at Rim Cabin school never got much teachin’, because whenever a schoolmarm did come one of the boys would up an’ marry her. So they’re tryin’ a man. It’s workin’ out fine, I hear. Mr. Jenks is in this high, dry country for his health, same as my husband. I reckon he wasn’t always a school-teacher. Anyway, he’s a good Christian man, not young enough to have the girls makin’ sheep eyes at him.”
At this juncture Mr. Lynn returned with a slight, stoop-shouldered man whose thin, serious face showed both suffering and benevolence. He was introduced to Lucy, who again, somewhat more elaborately, explained the reason for her presence in Cedar Ridge.
He made her a very gallant bow, and seated himself at the table, to bend keen, kind blue eyes upon her.
“You are a courageous young woman,” he said, “and if you are sincere these people will take you into their homes.”
“No one could be more sincere,” replied Lucy, with spirit. “I have absolutely no motive but to do good. I chose this out of a number of positions offered me. I wanted something different — and not easy.”
“You have found it,” he said. “The opportunity is here and it is big. There are a score or more of children who might as well belong to savages for all the civilisation they get. No doctor when they are sick, no church, no amusement, no pretty things common to children, no books or toys — nothing except what little schooling I can give them. They have no school in winter, on account of weather. I’ve been here a month. There are twenty-seven pupils in my school, the eldest a boy of nineteen — a man, really — and the youngest a girl of four. They are like a lot of wild Hottentots. But I really think more of them than any children I ever taught. The problem is to win them.”
“It must be a problem for an outsider,” replied Lucy seriously.
“I believe they will take more quickly to a girl,” he went on. “At least the children and boys will. Your problem will be a different one from mine. I’ll not dwell on it, lest I discourage you. What’s more to the point, I can say as their teacher I’ve learned a good deal about their lives. At first this seemed a tragedy to me, but I am learning that a good many of our necessities are not really necessary, after all. These children and young people are really happy. They have fe
w wants because they do not know what more civilised people have in their lives. It is not through sophistication that you will benefit them. To brighten their surroundings, change the primitive squalor, teach the children useful things — therein lies your opportunity.”
“Can you advise me how to start — whom to approach first?” asked Lucy.
“Come with me,” replied Mr. Jenks earnestly. “I’m driving back to-day. I live at Johnson’s — five miles down from the Rim Cabin, which, by the way, is the name of my school. I’ll take you up to see Lee Denmeade. He lives some miles farther on, up in the woods under the Rim Rock. He’s probably the most influential man among these backwoodsmen. I rather incline to the opinion that he will like your proposition.”
“It’s very good of you. Thank you,” replied Lucy gratefully. “I am ready now to go with you.”
“I’ll call for you in an hour,” said Mr. Jenks, rising.
After he had gone out Lucy returned to Mrs. Lynn to ask: “I wonder — when he hinted about my problem and said he didn’t want to discourage me — did he mean this — this marrying propensity you spoke of?”