Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “Mary, reckon I have somethin’ for you in my pack,” he said. “Wait till I warm my hands. I’m near froze.”

  With that he strode to the fire and knelt before it, one knee on the floor, in a posture Lucy had descried as characteristic of his father. Edd extended big, strong, capable-looking hands to the blaze. They were actually stiff and blue. Seen nearer, his face, with the firelight shining directly upon it, was an open one, lean, smooth, with prominent nose and large firm-lipped mouth and square chin. His eyes were larger than those of the other Denmeades, light in colour, intent in gaze. Still, Lucy could not be certain she liked his face. It looked bruised, pinched, blackened. His hands, too, were grimy. Water dripped from him and ran in little streams over the hearth to sizzle on the hot ashes. He seemed to bring with him the breath of the open, cold and damp, the smell of the pines and burros, odorous, rank.

  Gasps of delight emanated from those surrounding Mertie as she held up a white beribboned dress, and many were the mingled exclamations that followed. It was the mother who first recovered from the spell. Peering into the shadow, she at last espied Lucy.

  “There you are,” she said. “I was wonderin’ if you was seein’ the circus...This is my oldest boy. Edd, meet Miss Lucy Watson from Felix. She’s our home-teacher, come to live with us for a spell.”

  Lucy spoke from the shadow. Edd peered out of the firelight, as if locating her with difficulty. She did not see the slightest indication that he was surprised or interested. What had she expected from this much-talked-of wild-bee hunter?

  “Can’t see you, but hod-do just the same,” he drawled.

  Then Denmeade advanced to lean his tall form Against the mantel.

  “Dave rode down early — said he’d seen you, an’ figgered you’d hit the Rim trail before the storm busted.”

  “Wind held us back all afternoon,” replied the son. “An’ some of the packs slipped. Reckon I’d made it shore but for that. The storm hit us just back from the Rim. I’ll be dog-goned if I didn’t think we’d never get to where the trail starts down. Hard wind an’ snow right in our faces. Shore was lucky to hit the trail down before it got plumb dark. I led my hoss an’ held on to Jennie’s tail. Honest I couldn’t see an inch in front of my nose. I couldn’t hear the bells. For a while I wasn’t shore of anythin’. But when we got down out of the snow I reckoned we might get home. All the burros but Baldy made it. I didn’t miss him till we got here. He mighty have slipped over the cliff on that narrow place. It shore was wet. Reckon, though, he’ll come in. He was packin’ my camp outfit.”

  “Edd, come an’ eat, if you’re hungry,” called his mother from the kitchen.

  “Nary a bite since sun-up. An’ I’m a-rarin’ to feed,” he replied, and gathering up his smoking coat, scarf, and sombrero, he rose.

  “Boy, did Blake buy yore honey?” queried his father, accompanying him toward the door.

  “I reckon. Every bucket, an’ I whooped it up to a dollar a gallon.”

  “Whew! Dog-gone me! Why, Edd, you’ll make a bizness of your bee huntin’!” ejaculated Denmeade.

  “Shore I will. I always meant to,” asserted the son. “Pa, if I can find an’ raise as much as five hundred gallons this summer, I’ll sell every pint of it.”

  “No!” Denmeade’s exclamation was one of mingled doubt, amaze, and wondering appreciation of a fortune. They crossed the porch into the kitchen, from which Lucy heard them but indistinctly. Then Mrs. Denmeade appeared at the farther door.

  “Lucy, take the candy away from the children an’ put it where they can’t reach it,” she called. “Else they’ll gorge themselves an’ be sick.”

  Lucy approached this dubious task with infinite tact, kindliness, and persuasion. Liz and Lize were presently prevailed upon, but Dan was a different proposition. He would not listen to reason. When he found Lucy was firm he attempted to compromise, and failing of that, he gave in ungraciously. Flouncing down on his sheepskin rug, he pulled the rag coverlet over him. Lucy could see his eyes glaring in the firelight.

  “Danny, don’t you undress when you go to bed?” asked Lucy gently.

  “Naw!” he growled.

  “Don’t you ever?” she went on.

  “Not any more. The kids do, but not me.”

  “Why not you?” demanded Lucy. “It’s not healthy to sleep in your clothes. Tell me, Danny. I’m your home-teacher, you know.”

  “Nobody ever said nuthin’ to me,” retorted the lad. “Pa an’ Joe an’ Dick sleep in their clothes. An’ Edd — why, I’ve sleeped with him up in the loft when he never took off nuthin’. Went to bed right in his boots an’ spurs.”

  “Oh, indeed!” murmured Lucy constrainedly, somewhat taken aback. “Well, Danny, all the same it’s not a healthy thing to do, and I shall teach you not to.”

  “Teacher, you’d make me sleep naked?” he protested. “Aw, it’d be cold in winter, an’ I never have enough covers nohow.”

  “Danny, I shall make you night-clothes to sleep in. Nice soft warm woolly stuff.”

  “No long white thing like Mertie sleeps in,” he asserted belligerently.

  “Any way you want. Shirt and pants, if you like,” said Lucy.

  “Then I can wear them all day, too,” he rejoined with interest, and lay down.

  Lucy turned her attention to the twins, very pleased to find them growing less shy with her.

  “Can we have some, too?” asked Lize timidly.

  “Have what, my dear?” queried Lucy, as she drew the children to her.

  “Them Danny’ll have to sleep in.”

  “Indeed you shall! Long white nightgowns, like the little princess in the fairy story.”

  The twins had never heard of princesses or fairies but they manifested the most human trait of children — love of stories. Lucy held them entranced while she undressed them and put them to bed. She was quick to realise her power over them. Her victory was assured.

  Then Denmeade entered, carrying some sticks of wood.

  “Reckon you can put them on, if you want to keep up the fire,” he said. “Wal, you’ve put the kids to bed. Now, Miss Lucy, shore that will please ma.”

  When Mrs. Denmeade came in with towel and basin she appeared astounded to find the children undressed and in bed.

  “You rascals never did it all by your lonesome,” she averred. “Teacher has been takin’ you in hand. But she forgot your dirty faces an’ hands.”

  “Teacher telled us stories,” whispered Liz rapturously.

  “Candy an’ stories all at once!” exclaimed the mother as she wielded the towel. “Reckon that’ll make bad dreams...Stop wigglin’. Don’t you ever want a clean face?...An’ your teacher is tired an’ needs sleep, too.”

  After Mrs. Denmeade had gone Lucy closed the door, catching as she did so a glimpse into the dimly lighted kitchen with its dark faces, and she dropped the bar in place quite instinctively. The action made her wonder why she did it, for last night she had left the door unbarred. But to-night she had found the Denmeades walking in and out, as if she were not domiciled there. She did not put it beyond any one of them to burst unbidden in upon her at any hour. And she wished for the tent Mr. Jenks had offered. Yet, suppose she had been in a tent to-night, out there alone in the blackness, with a flimsy shelter overhead and a scant flooring under her feet! It actually gave her a tremor.

  Lucy made no effort to hurry to bed. Drawing the chair closer to the dying fire, she toasted her hands and feet and legs that had felt like ice all evening. Outside, the wind moaned under the eaves, and from high on the Rim came that thrilling roar. Rain was pattering steadily on the roof, a most pleasant sound to desert ears. Heat Lucy knew in all its prolonged variations; but cold and rain and snow were strangers. She imagined she was going to love them.

  Gradually as the fire died down to a pale red glow the room darkened. It seemed full of deep warm shadows, comforting Lucy, easing the strain under which she had unconsciously laboured.

  The event that had hung over t
he Denmeade home ever since she reached it had been consummated — the bee hunter had returned. Lucy had no idea what she had expected, but whatever it had been, it had not been realised. An agreeable disappointment dawned upon her. Edd Denmeade had not struck her as bold, or as a bully or a backwoods lout, foolish over girls. His indifference to her presence or appearance had struck her singularly. Her relief held a hint of pique.

  “I think I had a poor opinion of him because everybody talked of him,” she mused. “He fooled me.”

  But that could not account for her sensations now. Never before in her life had Lucy welcomed the firelit shadows, the seclusion of her room, to think about any young man. During school, too, she had imagined she had been falling in love. This feeling which grew strangely upon her now was vastly dissimilar from that mawkish sentiment. She could analyse nothing clearly. Edd Denmeade had impressed her profoundly, how or why or just what moment she could not tell. Had she been repelled or attracted? She fancied it was the former. She could be repelled by his raw, uncouth, barbarian presence, yet be fascinated by the man of him. That hurried return through the storm, down over the fearful trail, in a Stygian blackness — a feat none the less heroic because it had been performed to please a shallow little peacock of a sister — that called to something deep in Lucy. She thought of her sister Clara, selfish, unloving, thoughtless of others. Lucy felt that she and Edd Denmeade had something in common — a sister going the wrong way!

  She recalled his look as Mertie had frantically torn at the package. Serene, strong, somehow understanding! It flashed over Lucy, intuitively as much as from deduction, that Edd Denmeade knew his sister’s weakness and loved her perhaps all the more because of it. That thrilled her, warmed her heart, as did her memory of his smile at the twins, Liz and Lize.

  But all the rest was incomprehensible. Her pride, not of family, but of personal attainments and consciousness of her power to rise above her station, precluded any romantic thought of Edd Denmeade. He was a backwoodsman. She had come there to teach his people and their relatives and neighbours how to alleviate the squalor of their homes. The distance between her and them could not be bridged. So her interest and admiration must have been impersonal: it was the strange resentment which grew on her, the sense of being repelled by a hunter of the woods, that was personal and intimate.

  Lucy crouched there before the fire till the red embers faded. The rain pattered steadily, the wind mourned, the wild night wore on. Forced thoughts, trying to solve riddles of her mind and heart, did not bring her tranquillity. At night her imagination and emotion were always more active. Lucy did not trust them. She fought the insidious drifting towards dreams, repelled it, and went to bed sure of herself.

  Chapter V

  ON MERTIE DENMEADE’S birthday several of her girl schoolmates rode up from the school with her. They were to stay overnight and go back to school next morning. Lucy could not help wondering where they were going to sleep.

  Among these girls was Sadie Purdue, whom Lucy observed with attention. Sadie possessed but little charm, so far as Lucy could see. Her face and figure were commonplace, not to be compared with Mertie’s, and her complexion was pitted and coarse fibred, well suited to her bold eyes and smug expression. Her shoulders were plump, her hands large, her feet clumsy. Lucy could not but wonder what Edd Denmeade saw in this girl. She reflected then that it was absurd for her to have assumptions or opinions, until she knew more of these people. Every one of these Jacks had their Jills. It seemed inconceivable for Lucy to pass critical judgment on this Sadie Purdue and not include her companions. Lucy found them colourless, civil, hardy girls, somewhat like Allie Denmeade. She was gravely astonished to find that she had an inexplicable antagonism toward Sadie. For that reason she went out of her way to engage Sadie in conversation.

  The girl, as well as her companions, was exceedingly curious about Lucy’s work. She asked numerous questions, the gist of which appeared to be a greedy interest in what they all were going to gain through Lucy’s presence.

  “We live ‘way down near Cedar Ridge,” she informed Lucy. “I stay with my cousin, Amy Claypool, while I’m goin’ to school. This’s my last term, thank goodness.”

  “What will you do then?” inquired Lucy. “Teach school?”

  “Me teach? Laws no! couldn’t teach. Reckon a girl in this country has nothin’ to do but marry when she leaves school. I’ve had offers, but I’m in no hurry.”

  “Do girls up here marry so young?” asked Lucy.

  “From fifteen up. I’m sixteen, same as Mertie.”

  Lucy encouraged the girl to talk, which seemed to be very easy to do. Sadie was impressed by Lucy’s interest, and besides that manifestly had motive of her own for establishing a repute. Lucy gathered that neither Sadie nor Mertie wanted to marry one of these bee-hunting, corn-raising, wood-chopping “jacks.” They aspired to homes in Winbrook, or at least Cedar Ridge. But they were not averse to being courted and taken to dances.

  “Trouble is, when a fellow keeps company with you, he ain’t long satisfied with just Courtin’,” confided Sadie, giggling. “He wants to marry — wants a woman. Here’s Edd, Mertie’s brother. He took me to one dance an’ spent a Sunday callin’ on me. Asked me to marry him!...When he’d never even kissed me or put his arm round me! — The big boob! I told him he hadn’t learned much from his honey-bee huntin’.”

  Lucy found that remark a difficult one to answer, and she was at some pains to conceal her own reaction. Fortunately Sadie was rushed off by her several friends for the purpose of a joint attack upon Mertie, to make her display the birthday dress. It amused Lucy to see how Mertie refused and affected modesty, when underneath she was burning to reveal herself in the new dress. At last she allowed herself to be persuaded. “All right, but only you girls can see me.”

  They were in the room Lucy occupied. Mertie barred the door, saying: “I don’ mind you, teacher. But you mustn’t tell.”

  Whereupon, with utter lack of modesty, and obsessed by a strange frenzy, Mertie donned the dress, to create consternation and rapture among her friends. By a lucky chance, which Lucy appreciated more than the others, the dress actually fitted the girl, and changed her wondrously. Many were the exclamations uttered, and one found lodgment in Lucy’s memory. “Mertie,” said Amy Claypool soberly, “you an’ Sadie call Edd a big boob. But I think he’s grand.”

  Late in the afternoon Mrs. Denmeade and Allie began to spread the porch table with a birthday dinner for Mertie and her visitors. Several young men had ridden in, foremost of whom Lucy recognised as Sam Johnson. These young people arranged themselves around the porch and began what seemed to Lucy a remarkable exhibition of banter and absurdity.

  The children dragged Lucy out on the porch, where Sam Johnson performed the office of introduction that Mertie neglected or omitted by choice. Gerd Claypool was a blue-eyed young giant with tawny hair, and Hal Miller was a lean, rangy cowboy type, solemn of face, droll of speech. These new visitors manifested enough interest in Lucy to convince her that it was not pleasing to Mertie and Sadie, so Lucy made excuses and left them to their peculiar fun. She played with the children, helped Mrs. Denmeade, and then sat in her room, the door and window of which were open. Part of the time Lucy was aware of the banter going on, but she did not become acutely interested until the Denmeade boys came on the scene.

  “Wal, if here ain’t the ole bee hunter, home early an’ all shaved nice an’ clean,” drawled Sam Johnson.

  “Mertie’s birthday, Sam,” replied Edd. “How are you all?”

  “Jest a-rarin’ to go,” said Gerd Claypool.

  “Edd, I reckon we’d like a lick of that honey pot of yours,” added Hal Miller.

  “I gave ma the last half-gallon for Mertie’s party,” replied Edd. “You might get some, if you don’t back on your halter too long.”

  “What’s become of all your honey?” queried Sam with interest. “I remember you had a lot.”

  “Sold. An’ I’m offered a dollar a ga
llon for all I can fetch to Winbrook.”

  Sam whistled. “Say, you ain’t such a dog-gone fool as we thought, chasin’ bees all the time.”

  “I’ll make it a business,” said Edd.

  “Edd, it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to save some of your honey,” interposed Sadie Purdue slyly.

  “What you mean?” asked Edd bluntly.

  “Girls like honey,” she answered, in a tormenting tone no one could mistake.

  “Reckon I savvy,” returned Edd with good humour. “But honey words an’ honey ways with girls don’t come natural to me, like with Sam.”

  His reply raised a howl of laughter at Sam’s expense.

  “Wal, I ain’t noticin’ that I ever go to any dances alone,” rejoined Sam sarcastically.

  Lucy could see from the shadow of her room through the door most of the group of young people on the porch. Sam leaned behind Sadie, who sat by the porch rail. Gerd and Hal occupied seats on the canvas packs. The other girls sat on a bench. Dick was the only one of the Denmeade boys in sight. He appeared rather out of it, and stood in the background, silent, listening, with a rather pleasant smile on his keen face.

  It was most interesting and instructive for Lucy to observe and hear these young people. What struck her most was the simple, unrestrained expression of what she divined as a primitive pleasure in tormenting. At the bottom of it was the unconscious satisfaction at another’s pain. Sadie’s expression was a teasing, joyful malignance. Manifestly she was revelling in the fun at the boys’ expense. Mertie wore a bored look of superiority, as if she were tolerating the attentions of these young men for the moment. Amy Claypool’s face, honest and comely, was wreathed in smiles. The boys near them wore lazy, bantering expressions, without selfish or unfriendly hint. But to the sensitive Lucy, used to the better educated, their talk seemed crude, almost brutal.

  For a while the sole topic of conversation was the dance on Friday night. It expressed the wholesome and happy regard these youths and maidens held in the only recreation and social function that fell to their lot. Personalities and banterings were forgotten for the moment and other wonderful dances were remembered; conjectures as to attendance, music, ice cream, were indulged in. Presently, however, when they had exhausted the more wholesome reactions to this dance subject they reverted to the inevitable banter.