by B. M. Bower
PART SIX
Late that night Weary, his belongings stuffed hurriedly into thesuit-case he called his "war-bag," started home; so impatient he had achildish desire to ride upon the engine so that he might arrive thesooner, and failing that he spent much of his time lurching betweensmoking car and tourist sleeper, unable to sit quietly in any place forlonger than ten minutes or so. In his coat pocket, where his fingerstouched it often, was a crumpled bit of sage-brush. Dry it was, and thegray leaves were crumbling under the touch of his homesick fingers, butthe smell of it, aromatic and fresh and strong, breathed of the plains heloved.
At Kalispell he went out on the platform and filled his lungs again andagain with Montana air, that was clean of fog and had a nip to it. Thesun shone, the sky was blue and the clouds reminded him of a band ofnew-washed sheep scattered and feeding quietly. The wind blew keen inhis face and set his blood a-dance, his blood, which for long months hadmoved sluggishly in his veins.
At Shelby, a half-dozen cowboys galloped briefly into view as the trainwhizzed by down the valley, and Weary raised the car window and leanedfar out to gaze after them with hungry eyes. He wanted to swing his hatand give a whoop that would get the last wisps of fog and gray murk outof his system--but there were other passengers already shivering andeyeing him in unfriendly fashion because of the open window. He wantedto get out and run and run bareheaded, over the bleak, brown hills; buthe closed the window and behaved as well as he could.
The stars came out and winked at him just as they used to do when he saton Meeker's front porch and listened to the schoolma'am singing softly inthe hammock, her guitar tinkling a mellow undertone. It was too earlynow for the hammock to be swinging in the porch. School must be startedagain, though, and seeing the schoolma'am lived right there with her auntMeeker, they weren't likely to hire another teacher.
He hoped Myrt Forsyth had gone back to Chadville where she belonged. Hewished now that he had written to some of the boys and kept posted onwhat was happening. He had never sent back so much as a picture postal,and he had consequently not heard a word. But Weary's nature was everhopeful except when he was extremely angry, and then he did not care muchabout anything. So now, he took it for granted things had gone alongsmoothly and that nothing would be changed.
* * * * *
Miss Satterly had just finished listlessly hearing the last spellingclass recite, when she glanced through the window and saw Glory, bearinga familiar figure, race down the hill and whip into the school-housepath. Her heart gave a flop, so that she caught at the desk to steadyher and she felt the color go out of her face. Then her presence of mindreturned so that she said "School's dismissed"--without going through theform of "Attention, turn, stand, pass."
The children eyed her curiously, hesitated and then rushed noisily out,and she sank down upon a bench and covered her face with her hands. Itwas queer that she could not seem to get hold of herself and be calm; itwas disgraceful that she should tremble so. Outside she could hear themshouting, "Hello, Weary!" in a dozen different keys, and each time herblood jumped. Her eyes had not tricked her, then--though it was not thefirst time she had trembled to see a sorrel horse gallop down that hill,and then turned numb when came disillusionment. Would those childrennever start home? By degrees their shrill voices sounded further away,and the place grew still. But the schoolma'am kept her face covered.
Spurred heels clanked on the threshold, stopped there, and the door shutwith a slam. But she did not look up; she did not dare.
Steps came down the room toward her--long, hurrying steps, determinedsteps. Close beside her they stopped, and for a space that seemed to herlong minutes there was no sound.
"Say hello to me--won't you, Girlie?" said a wistful voice that thrilledto the tips of the schoolma'am's shaking fingers. She dropped her handsthen, reluctantly. Her lips quivered as Weary had never before seen themdo.
"Hello," she obeyed, faintly.
He stood for a moment, studying her face.
"Look up here, Schoolma'am," he commanded at last. "I hate to have myfeet get so much attention. I've come back to fight it out--to a finish,this time. Yuh can't stampede me again--look up here. I've been plumbsick for a sight of those big eyes of yours."
Miss Satterly persisted in gazing at the boots of Weary.
"Well, are yuh going to?" There was a new, masterful note in Weary'svoice, that the schoolma'am felt but did not quite understand--then. Shedid not, perhaps, realize how plainly her whole attitude spoke surrender.
Weary waited what seemed to him a reasonable time, but her lashes droopedlower, if anything. Then he made one of the quick, unlooked-for moveswhich made him a master of horses. Before she quite knew what wasoccurring, the schoolma'am was upon her feet and snuggled close inWeary's eager arms. More, he had a hand under her chin, her face wastilted back and he was smiling down into her wide, startled eyes.
"I didn't burn a streak a thousand miles long in the atmosphere, gettingback here, to be scared out now by a little woman like you," he remarked,and tucked a stray, brown lock solicitously behind her ear. Then he bentand kissed her deliberately upon the mouth.
"Now, say you're my little schoolma'am. Quick, before I do it again." Hethreatened with his lips, and he looked as if he were quite anxious tocarry out his threat.
"I'm your--" the schoolma'am hid her face from him. "Oh, Will! Whatevermade you go off like that, and I--I nearly died wanting to see you--"
Weary laid his cheek very tenderly against hers, and held her close. Nowords came to either, just then.
"What if I'd kept on being a fool--and hadn't come back at all, Girlie?"he asked softly, after a while.
The schoolma'am shuddered eloquently in his arms.
"It was sure lonesome--it was _hell_ out there alone," he observed,reminiscently.
"It was sure--h-hell back here alone, too," murmured a smothered voicewhich did not sound much like the clear, self-assertive tones of MissSatterly.
"Well, it come near serving you right," Weary told her, relishfullygrinning over the word she used.
"What made yuh chase me off?"
"I--don't know; I--"
"I guess yuh don't, all right," agreed Weary, giving a little squeeze byway of making quite sure he had her there. "Say, what was that yarn MyrtForsyth told yuh about me?"
"I--I don't know. She--she hinted a lot--"
"I expect she did--that's Myrt, every rattle uh the box," Weary cut indryly.
"And she--she said you had to leave home--in the night--"
"Oh, she did, eh? Well, Girlie, if the time-table hasn't changed, MissMyrt Forsyth sneaked off the same way. The train west leaves--or didleave--Chadville along about midnight, so--Say, it feels good to be back,little schoolma'am. You don't know how good--"
"I guess I do," cried the schoolma'am very emphatically. "I just guess Iknow something about that, myself. Oh you dear, great, tall--"
Something happened just then to the schoolma'am's lips, so that she couldnot finish the sentence.