by Grey, Zane
"We can meet them with fire. That'll do the trick, but..." Abe broke off with a sombre shake of his dark sleek head.
"Not to be thought of!" boomed Huett. "We'd set the forest afire, burn all the timber and grass in the country... But let's think of some other way."
"Dad, just wait till you see the air full of buzzing grasshoppers and the ground yellow with them--then you'll savvy we can't do a thing," averred Abe, tragically.
"Well, I won't see it till I have to," averred Logan, gruffly, as he got up. "But no Huett ever showed yellow. And we won't, even with a yellow plague upon us!--Come, sons, we'll cut the alfalfa."
George and Grant followed him to the barn to get scythes and rakes. But Abe sat looking at Barbara. Presently he mounted his horse and rode up the canyon. Huett went ploddingly at the labour, his sombre gaze bent upon the rich green hay that he was mowing.
"Say!" called Grant, suddenly. "What'n hell can be chasing Abe?"
"Dad--look!" shouted George.
Then Logan looked up to see Abe riding swiftly by the cabin. He waved and shouted to Barbara as he passed. He headed his lean mustang across the gardens and came tearing up to Logan, scattering dust all over him.
"Dad--we're saved!" he panted hoarsely, his dark face alight, his eyes piercingly bright. "What you--think?... You'd never guess--in a thousand years."
"I reckon not--if you come ararin' at me like this. What ails you, son?"
"He's loco, sure as our rotten luck!" declared George, which assertion corroborated Logan's. Abe was not the kind to show excitement in any event, let alone the intensity which radiated from him now.
"We haven't got rotten luck," he cried. "But the most--marvellous luck--in the world... We're not going to be cleaned out... I tell you--we're saved!"
"Son, I heard you the first time," replied Huett, soberly, not daring to accept Abe's strange, excited statements. "If you're not crazy--tell me how we're saved."
"By God, you'll never believe me," declared Abe, with a deep laugh. "I couldn't believe my own eyes. But dang it--come and see... Dad, I hope to die if I didn't see thousands of wild turkeys come flapping, sailing, running down out of the woods upon that swarm of grasshoppers."
"Wild turkeys!" burst out Huett, suddenly dazzled.
"Sure as you're alive," replied Abe, eagerly. "The regular fall round-up, you know, when the turks band together to come up-country for the pine nuts and acorns."
"Of all the miracles!" exclaimed George, beamingly. "Dad, one big gobbler fan eat a bushel of hoppers!"
"I reckon I was wrong to say God had deserted me," declared Huett, in august self-reproach.
"Sight of my life," declared Abe. "Come on. You've got to see it. Maw and Bab, too... But we must walk--slip along under the trees--so those turks won't catch a glimpse of us. I reckon, though, that wouldn't make no difference to-day... Come, we'll take a short cut."
Soon all the Huetts were following Abe through the woods. Barbara slipped her hand into Logan's and ran to keep up with him. Abe hushed their exuberant talk. They crossed the timbered slope above the cabin, keeping to the left, climbing the rocky, vine-covered ledges above the falls, and went rapidly through the thick belt of timber beyond. Abe led across the brook. Soon Logan saw through the scattering trees the brown open canyon again. Perhaps half a mile beyond Abe halted.
"Listen! Did you ever hear the like of that?" he queried.
A strange sound filled Logan's ears. Indeed, he could not compare it to anything he had ever heard. It was a loud, buzzing, seething hum mixed with a thumping, flapping roar.
"I'll be doggoned!" ejaculated Logan. "Hear it, Barbara?"
"Do I? Oh, what music! Come, let's hurry, Abe, so we can see!"
Abe led them to the edge of the woods. Out there in the grassy open of the canyon, under a dust-cloud, was being enacted a one-sided war--a massacre--a carnage. Clear across the flat stretched a wide, shifting, bronze, white, and black belt of wild turkeys in swift and ruthless action. Logan made no estimate of that huge flock. But in that country of wild turkeys, where he had seen large flocks for twenty years, this one surpassed all. Beyond the dust-cloud, up the canyon, moved a yellow, glassy mass in the air. It waved up and down. Behind it under the dust thumped and picked and darted the army of huge, gay-plumaged birds. They moved forward in a stretched formation, yet dozens of great gobblers left the line to run back after grasshoppers that tried to escape to the rear.
They were big, fat, slow grasshoppers and they could not fly far. Not one escaped to the rear.
"Oh, Dad, isn't it grand?" cried Barbara, excitedly as she clung to him and they hurried along at the edge of the timber to keep up with the moving spectacle.
Manifestly Huett was entranced, enraptured by the scene. This was, if anything, the strange miracle of destiny prophesying his success. Nothing could halt him now.
"Wonderful, Barbara! I never saw the like," he said with a voice that shook. "Abe was right... We're saved. And never so long as I live will I kill another turkey."
"Dad, it's all day with that bunch of grasshoppers," said George. "The turkeys will stick to them until they've gobbled every darned one. You know a gobbler likes a fat juicy hopper about the same as Abe does apple pie."
"In that case, good-bye to the hoppers!" laughed Barbara. They came to where a point of the forest-land projected out into the open. Abe halted, there.
"I reckon this is far enough," he said, as they joined him. "Some of those wary old gobblers have begun to look back. It won't do to scare that bunch... Isn't it a mess, Paw? Aren't those turks doing a great job for us?"
"So great, son, that I'll hang here a while longer," replied Huett, fervently. "Go back, all of you. Mother looks tired. We've come a couple, of miles. All to watch a flock of wild turkeys!"
"Logan, nothing is ever as terrible as it seems--at first," returned Lucinda, and giving him a sweet smile she started back with Barbara, followed by the boys.
Abe halted and turned with one of his rare smiles: "Paw, would you like turkey for supper?"
Logan waved him on. Soon they passed out of sight under the pines. Then Logan once more turned his attention to the massacre of the grasshoppers.
The action did not change. The cloud of insects kept flying and hopping up the canyon, while the turkeys ran, thumping up the dust, pouncing and picking as before. But the sight grew somehow magnificent to Logan. It was nothing in raw nature but an incident. But to Logan it had vast significance.
The dust-cloud moved along behind the yellow stream. And the coloured throng of turkeys, their bronze backs bent, or their red heads high, with chequered wings flapping and feet pounding, kept surging, massing, disintegrating, running up the canyon. The loud seethe and buzz, with the roar of the feathered jackals, gradually diminished to a hum.
Logan watched them out of sight and sound. And then he lingered there in the dreaming, silent forest. This unexpected and unparalleled accident that meant so much to him seemed inexplicable as a mere happening on the cattle range. Logan's pondering thought was not equal to the subtle intimations. What was his long toil, his ceaseless energy, reserved for?
Had not Lucinda meant that this should be a lesson to him--that he had been too self-centred, too grimly fettered to his one task, too prone to doubt and fear? Something nameless and inevitable waited upon his years.
A mournful stir in the great forest, a breath of the soul of that wilderness, had a counterpart in his emotion, a whisper, the meaning of which eluded him.
Chapter ELEVEN.
Lucinda allowed herself to be persuaded again by Barbara and Grant to attend a dance at Pine.
These occasions had been few and far between as the years flew by. In that country they were the only social gatherings of any kind, and were attended by all the scant populace for fifty miles around, irrespective of character.
Whatever Lucinda's qualities--which Logan so often maintained, with solid pride, were perfect for a pioneer's wife--she had never favoured these country af
fairs until the children, grew far beyond the age of the other young people who gave themselves so avidly to this one pleasure. Dances were the only means by which the older folk got acquainted and the youngsters had a chance to court each other. The drawbacks, from Lucinda's point of view, were the invariable and often serious fights among the young backwoodsmen, and the cowboys, not to mention the men of doubtful prestige.
So the time had come when Lucinda was reluctantly compelled to attend an occasional one of these functions. Logan enjoyed them immensely. He talked cattle to the other ranchers, and watched the young folk dance. It did not seem to worry him that the young bucks fought over Barbara. She was the prettiest and most popular girl between Flagg and the Matazels.
Logan took vast pride in that. Nevertheless he did not encourage young men to call at Sycamore Canyon. He still clung jealously to the secret and the dream of his isolated range.
But Lucinda saw things differently. She had forestalled the courting of Barbara until the girl was older than most young mothers of that region.
She would have put it off altogether, or indefinitely, if either had been possible.
A very beautiful relationship existed between Barbara and Abe. If they thought about it at all they probably regarded it as sister and brother love, but Lucinda believed their worship was deeper than they had conceived. Abe had paid little attention to other girls, while Barbara would have been content always to dance, ride, work, and talk with Abe.
The respect and devotion Grant held for Barbara were a joy to Lucinda, although they were purely of a brotherly nature. Grant held no favourite among the country belles, although he interested himself in many of them.
George, however, was different. He made no secret of his affection for Barbara, but his interest in other women was more violent and possessive than either of his brothers'.
Lucinda pondered over these things all morning of the November day when the Huetts were preparing to drive to Pine for the Thanksgiving turkey shoot and dance. Logan was intent on loading more produce to sell in Pine than one wagon would contain. Barbara laboured between ecstasy and despair over the white gown Lucinda had given her. Grant and George decked themselves out in all the cowboy finery they possessed. Abe came in dressed in buckskin, carrying his rifle.
"Abe Huett!" exclaimed Barbara. "You're not going to this dance in buckskin?"
"Bab, I'm going to a turkey shoot," replied Abe, mildly. "But you promised to come to the dance... Abe, I won't have any fun without you."
"Sure I'll come. You don't think I'd leave you to that pack of hombres, do you?... But I don't want to wear pants and boots when I can be comfortable in buckskin. Barbara, I'm going to win that turkey shoot."
"Win! Of course you'll win. But, Abe, please dress up, and look like--like somebody. You can't dance in moccasins."
"I can't dance in boots or shoes either."
"You can too."
"I never get much chance to dance with you, anyway."
"You shall to-night. I promise. Please, Abe."
"Say, you don't have to coax me. I'm tickled to death. But, darn it, Barbara, I'm no good as a dancer."
"You're not so bad, Abe. Sure, you're no dancing dude him George."
George took the sly dig as a compliment. Lucinda divined something untoward was brewing here. Barbara was not jealous of George's attentions to his other friends, but she took exception to a great many of them.
Lucinda thought this an opportune moment to bring matters to a head.
"George, you're not going to take that Mil Campbell to this dance?" hazarded Lucinda, with pretended assurance.
"Why, yes, Maw--I'd thought of it," drawled George, as he carefully adjusted his scarf.
"No!... Not really?"
"Yes, really," retorted George, the red leaping to his cheek. "Mil can dance rings round that outfit. It's a mixed crowd, you know... And why shouldn't I?"
"I shouldn't think you'd need to be told," returned Lucinda, coldly.
"Now, Ma!"
"Brother, the reason you shouldn't take that hussy is because Ma and I will be there," spoke up Barbara, her eyes blazing.
"Aw, I don't see it!" ejaculated George. But he was aware of it, and he was angry.
Abe eyed him 'penetratingly. "Say, don't look for me to help you fight that Campbell outfit again."
"You can all go to the devil," shouted George, furiously.
"If we did we'd meet you there, George Washington Huett," said Barbara, cuttingly. "But don't misunderstand me... George, it's really none of my business whom you take--or what you do. Only I've blinded myself to your actions. Mil Campbell is handsome, and I'll bet she's lots of fun. She certainly can start fights among her beaux. But, you know, she's hardly a--a person to flaunt in front of Mother and me... Don't expect me to speak to you, let alone dance with you."
George's tanned face turned white and his eyes held a passionate reproach. But he strode out silently, his head up.
"Aw, Bab, you raked him over pretty hard," said Grant. "After all, blood is thicker than water."
"Served the lady-killer just right," added Abe. "George has got some sense, but he doesn't use it until he's waked up by a jar... And, Bab, don't you feel sorry. That Campbell outfit hate George because Mil is crazy about him. There'll be a fight. And George will come sloping home sure ashamed of himself and probably licked bad."
Lucinda reproached herself for this issue, yet could not but feel that good would come of it. No doubt George was more deeply involved with the Campbell girl than they had suspected.
"Say, the stuck-up hombre rode off by himself," said Abe, from the door.
"Maw, I'll put my good clothes in the wagon and change down there... Bab, I'll bet you'll just dazzle them to-night... Sorry you won't be there in time to see me win that turkey shoot."
"Abe, you couldn't lose."
"All the crack shots of the Tonto will be there," he rejoined dubiously.
"I'll have to do some tall shooting."
"Here," flashed Barbara, leaping up from her box of finery to tie a bit of bright ribbon upon his buckskin coat. "There, Abe Huett, you dare to lose now."
"Thanks, Bab... I reckon It'd be kinda bad for some hombre if I was shooting at him."
Barbara watched them ride away up the canyon road.
"Ma, if I could only meet some fellow like Abe!" murmured Barbara.
"Abe is a real man, Barbara," replied Lucinda pridefully. At that moment the impulse welled up within her to reveal the truth about Barbara's past to the girl, but another more disturbing emotion thrust it back.
Eventually Barbara must know the fact of her adoption, but Lucinda still dreaded the time when she would have to tell her.
"Well, I'll never marry till I do find someone like him," said Barbara, as if to herself.
Logan rushed them in order to be ready for the drive down to Pine before noonday. It was quite far, but downhill all the way, and they accomplished the journey by sunset. Logan let them out at the log schoolhouse in the woods just on the edge of the little hamlet.
Already a number of families had arrived. Children were making merry around a big fire, while women were carrying utensils and packs from the wagons. Lucinda and Barbara deposited their heavy donations on the rough clapboard table that looked as if it had done duty for many years of weathering. Then while Lucinda made herself agreeable to old and new acquaintances, Barbara, with her precious box, ran into the cabin to change, along with other young women who had journeyed far for this night's pleasure.
While the sun set and dusk gathered, one by one horsemen arrived, singly and in couples and groups, buckboards and wagons. The Holberts and Colliers had travelled sixty and seventy miles to attend this dance.
Lucinda met several new families, now calling themselves neighbours, who had homesteaded between Mormon Lake and Sycamore Canyon. All of Pine and most of Payson were represented, and many from the Verdi and Tonto.
They thronged around the fires and tables, eating and talk
ing and laughing, until the fiddler arrived. He was a lean old man who had played one tune on his instrument for thirty years. The only other variation in music the dancers received were the tones struck from another violin by the accompanist who beat rhythmically and monotonously on it with little pine sticks while the fiddler sawed with his squeaky bow.
Lamps at each end of the schoolroom shed a yellow glare upon the circling dancers. As before, Lucinda looked on curiously, wonderingly, not quite understandingly. How seriously these young people took their dancing! It might almost have been a solemn occasion. No smiles, no whispers, no coquettish glances nor lover-like embraces! There were pretty girls there, as well-dressed as Barbara, but none of them could equal her grace. She danced first with Grant, while Lucinda kept her eyes fastened upon them.
After a dance the young people would stream Gut into the firelight, some to slip off into the woods, the majority crowding first around the tables, then the fixes. The big blazes Were kept roaring by attendants.
The November night was still, clear, cold. Between dances the older folk sauntered through the schoolroom, gossiping and meeting neighbours they had not seen for months. The children romped here, there, and everywhere until they fell of sheer exhaustion and were put to bed behind the stove, where a generous space was allotted them. Thus the young people grew up in celebration.
Presently Abe approached Lucinda. She hardly knew his lithe, powerful figure in the unaccustomed garb. How handsome he was! Lucinda thrilled at his clear, fine, tanned face, dark almost as an Indian's, at his shining eyes. He put his arm around her.
"Maw, I won the turkey shoot," he announced, proudly. "Best shooting I ever did. But I sure had to."
"I'm glad, Abe. What'd you win?"
"All three shoots, Three gobblers and fifty-odd dollars."
"So much!--Have you told Dad?"
"Yes, he's bragging around. But I haven't told Barbara. She's been so corralled I couldn't even see her... Awl there she comes. She saw me... Maw, she's just too lovely."
Barbara came running, her dark eyes beaming upon Abe.
"Oh Abe! I heard. It's just wonderful. But I knew you'd win," she cried, and embraced him shyly.