THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN BALL
It was the day of the ball. Parties of mountaineers, some on horseback, some in wagons, started for Jamison Ranch.
In the early evening, a wagon load made up of the members of the Clayton household, Kenneth Hastings and some Scotch neighbors, started for the same destination.
The road skirted the foothills for some distance, then followed the canyon several miles; and then, branching off, led directly to Jamison Ranch. As the twilight deepened into night, Nature took on a solemn and mysterious beauty. The rugged outline of the mountains, the valley and river below,—were all idealized in the softening light. The New England girl sat drinking in the wonder of it all. The mountains were speaking to her good tidings of great joy.
In the midst of merry chatter, some one called out:
"Sing us a song, Miss Bright."
It was Kenneth Hastings. Hearing her name, she roused from her reverie.
"A song?"
"Yes, do sing," urged several.
"Sing 'Oft in the Stilly Night,'" suggested Mrs. Clayton.
"All sing with me," responded Esther.
Then out on the stillness floated the beautiful old Irish song. Other voices joined Esther's. Kenneth Hastings was one of the singers. His voice blended with hers and enriched it.
Song after song followed, all the company participating to some extent in the singing.
Was it the majesty of the mountain scenery that inspired Esther, that sent such a thrill of gladness into her voice? Or was it perhaps the witchery of the moonlight? Whatever may have been the cause, a new quality appeared in her voice, and stirred the hearts of all who listened to her singing; it was deep and beautiful.
What wonder if Kenneth Hastings came under the spell of the song and the singer? The New England girl was a breath of summer in the hard and wintry coldness of his life.
"Who taught you to sing?" he asked abruptly.
"The birds," she answered, in a joyous, laughing tone.
"I can well believe that," he continued, "but who were your other instructors?"
Then, in brief, she told him of her musical training.
Would she sing one of his favorite arias some day? naming the aria.
She hummed a snatch of it.
"Go on," he urged.
"Not now; some other time."
"Won't you give us an evening recital soon?" asked John Clayton.
And then and there the concert was arranged for.
"Miss Bright," said Mrs. Carmichael, "I am wondering how we ever got on without you."
Esther laughed a light-hearted, merry laugh.
"That's it," Kenneth hastened to say. "We 'got on.' We simply existed. Now we live."
All laughed at this.
"You are not complimentary to our friends. I protest," said Esther.
"You are growing chivalrous, Kenneth," said Mrs. Clayton. "I'm glad you think as we do. Miss Bright, you have certainly enriched life for all of us."
"Don't embarrass me," said Esther in a tone that betrayed she was a little disconcerted.
But now they were nearing their journey's end. The baying of hounds announced a human habitation. An instant later, the house was in sight, and the dogs came bounding down the road, greeting the party with vociferous barks and growls. Mr. Jamison followed, profuse in words of welcome.
As Kenneth assisted Esther from the wagon, he said:
"Your presence during this drive has given me real pleasure."
Her simple "Thank you" was her only response.
At the door they were met by daughters of the house, buxom lasses, who ushered them into an immense living room. This opened into two other rooms, one of which had been cleared for dancing.
Esther noted every detail,—a new rag carpet on the floor; a bright-colored log-cabin quilt on one of the beds; on the other bed, was a quilt of white, on which was appliqued a menagerie of nondescript animals of red and green calico, capering in all directions. The particular charm of this work of art was its immaculate quilting,—quilting that would have made our great-grandmothers green with envy.
Cheap yellow paper covered the walls of the room. A chromo, "Fast Asleep," framed in heavy black walnut, hung close to the ceiling. A sewing machine stood in one corner.
At first, Esther did not notice the human element in the room. Suddenly a little bundle at the foot of the bed began to grunt. She lifted it, and found a speck of humanity about three months old. In his efforts to make his wants known, and so secure his rightful attention, he puckered his mouth, doubled up his fists, grew red in the face, and let forth lusty cries.
As she stood trying to soothe the child, the mother rushed in, snatched it from the teacher's arms, and gave it a slap, saying as she did so, "The brat's allus screechin' when I wanter dance!"
She left the babe screaming vociferously, and returned to dance. Four other infants promptly entered into the vocal contest, while their respective parents danced in the adjoining room, oblivious of everything save the pleasure of the hour. Then it was that the New England girl became a self-appointed nurse, patting and soothing first one, then another babe; but it was useless. They had been brought to the party under protest; and offended humanity would not be mollified.
The teacher stepped out into the living room, which was in festive array. Its picturesqueness appealed to her. A large fire crackled on the hearth, and threw its transforming glow over the dingy adobe walls, decorated for the occasion with branches of fragrant silver spruce. Blocks of pine tree-trunks, perhaps two feet in height, stood in the corners of the room. Each of these blocks contained a dozen or more candle sockets, serving the purpose of a candelabrum. Each of the sockets bore a lighted candle, which added to the weirdness of the scene.
The room was a unique background for the men and women gathered there. At least twenty of the mountaineers had already assembled. They had come at late twilight, and would stay till dawn, for their journey lay over rough mountain roads and through dangerous passes.
The guests gathered rapidly, laughing and talking as they came.
It was a motley crowd,—cowboys, in corduroy, high boots, spurs, slouch hats, and knives at belt, brawny specimens of human kind; cowlasses, who for the time, had discarded their masculine attire of short skirts, blouse, belt and gun, for feminine finery; Scotchmen in Highland costume; Mexicans in picturesque dress; English folk, clad in modest apparel; and Irishmen and Americans resplendent in colors galore.
For a moment, Esther stood studying the novel scene. Mr. Clayton, observing her, presented her to the individuals already assembled. The last introduction was to a shambling, awkward young miner. After shaking the hand of the teacher, which he did with a vigor quite commensurate to his elephantine strength, he blurted out, "Will yez dance a polky wid me?"
She asked to be excused, saying she did not dance.
"Oh, but I can learn yez," he said eagerly. "Yez put one fut so, and the other so," illustrating the step with bovine grace as he spoke.
His efforts were unavailing, so he found a partner among the cowlasses.
Again Esther was alone. She seated herself near one of the improvised pine candelabra, and continued to study the people before her. Here she found primitive life indeed, life close to the soil. How to get at these people, how to learn their natures, how to understand their needs, how to help them,—all these questions pressed upon her. Of this she was sure:—she must come in touch with them to help them. Men and women older and more experienced than she might well have knit their brows over the problem.
She was roused to a consciousness of present need by a piercing cry from one of the infants in the adjoining room. The helpless cry of a child could never appeal in vain to such a woman as Esther Bright. She returned to the bedroom, lifted the wailing bundle in her arms, seated herself in a rocker, and proceeded to quiet it. Kenneth Hastings stood watching her, while an occasional smile flitted across his face. As John Clayton joined him, the former said in a low tone:
"Do you see Miss Bright's new occupation, John?"
"Yes, by George! What will that girl do next? Who but Miss Bright would bother about other people's crying infants? But it's just like her! She is true woman to the heart. I wish there were more like her."
"So do I, John. I wish I were more like her myself in unselfish interest in people."
"She has done you great good already, Kenneth."
"Yes, I know."
Then a shadow darkened Kenneth's face. He moved toward the outer door that stood open, and looked out into the night.
At last Esther's task was accomplished, the babe was asleep, and she returned to the scene of the dancing. Kenneth sought her and asked her to dance the next waltz with him. She assured him, also, that she did not dance.
"Let me teach you," he urged. But she shook her head.
"You do not approve of dancing?" he asked, lifting his brows.
"I did not say I do not approve of dancing; I said I do not dance. By the way," she said, changing the subject of the conversation, "my lessons in riding are to begin to-morrow, are they not?"
"To-morrow, if I may have the pleasure. Do you think riding wicked, too?"
This he said with a sly twinkle in his eye.
"Wicked, too?" she echoed. "What's the 'too' mean?"
"Dancing, of course."
"But I didn't say I thought dancing wicked. I said I do not dance."
"Oh, well, you think it wicked, or you would dance."
She looked amused.
"What would you say if I should tell you I learned to dance years ago?"
"That you are strait-laced obstinacy personified. Why not dance? It could do you no harm."
"It is not expedient, that is all. Let me tell you I really did learn. I am not an accomplished dancer, though. I was taught to dance in a school I attended. But I have never danced in social life."
"Why not put aside your scruples for once," he urged, "and dance the next waltz with me? You don't know what pleasure it would give me."
But she still refused. He saw that to pursue the matter further would be useless. The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of cowboys and cowlasses, who, as they filed past, were presented to her by Kenneth Hastings.
"How are ye?" asked one husky fellow, gripping Esther's hand like a vise.
"Happy ter know yer acquaintance," said another.
The girls snickered and looked foolish, keeping time to the music with the tapping of their feet.
"You like to dance, I see," said Esther to one girl.
"You bet I do!"
The girl's jaws kept time to the music as she vigorously chewed gum.
"Come, Jim," said another loud-voiced cowlass, "that's our set."
And away they went, hand in hand, edging their way through the crowded rooms. Soon they were in the midst of the boisterous dancers.
Kenneth joined the human fringe around the dance room. He stood watching as though what he saw amused him.
"Swing y'r pardners," shouted the fiddler, above the din of voices. Down came the bow across the strings, that responded in shrill, piercing notes. Around flew the dancers, their cheeks growing redder and redder. The clatter of the cowboys' spurs, and the tapping of the fiddler's foot kept time to the music.
While watching the dancers, Kenneth discovered Jessie Roth, a young Scotch girl, in from the range. As soon as he could do so, he presented her to Esther Bright. Jessie responded to the introduction awkwardly and shyly; but as she looked into Esther's face, she seemed to gain confidence. It was such a kindly, such a sympathetic face.
Jessie was a girl Esther had long been wishing to meet, and to interest in better things. She was at heart good, and if wisely directed would undoubtedly exercise a wholesome influence over other girls. As the teacher expressed her interest in her, and what they might do together, Jessie's face beamed.
"Mr. Hastings telt me aboot y'r Bible school, an' how ye wantit me tae come. Did ye?"
"Indeed I did."
"Dae ye want mony mair tae come?"
"Yes, as many as you can bring, Jessie."
Then the two took seats in the corner of the room, and Esther gave her an enthusiastic account of her plans for the Gila girls. The Scotch girl listened, with an occasional comment.
"Do you like the life on the range, Jessie?"
"Rael weel! Y're as free as the air!"
Here the girl gave her body and arms a swing, as though ready to leap to the back of a running horse. She seemed all muscle.
"My mustang's the best friend I hev. I broke 'er mysel'. My! She can gae like the wind!"
"You!" said the astonished teacher. "Can you break a horse?"
"Can I?" she repeated in amusement. "I'd like tae show ye. I wad like tae tak ye oot on the range wi' me. My, but ye'd like it!"
"No doubt. What do you do out on the range?"
"Oh, we rides an' rides an' looks after the cattle; we cooks, an' plays cards, an' joshes the boys."
Here Jessie laughed.
"What a dreary life this must be," thought Esther. She said aloud, "You must find the life monotonous and lonely."
"Never lonely, schoolma'am. It's full o' excitement. There's somethin' doin' all the time. Sometime ye sees herds o' antelope, or ye meets a grizzly. It's better'n a dance tae bring down a grizzly."
"A bear?" the teacher exclaimed in astonishment. "You don't mean to say you ever killed a bear?"
The cowlass's eyes sparkled as she said proudly:
"I've shot several, an' other big game too. But the greatest thing on the range is tae see a stampede o' cattle. It's as much as y'r life's worth tae be in their way."
The girl, though rough, had a vitality and picturesqueness attractive to the polished New Englander.
It was equally certain that Esther was attractive to the cowlass. Jessie left her for a moment, but soon returned, bringing three others with her. After presenting them, she said:
"Tell 'em, schoolma'am, what ye telt me."
"Tell what, Jessie?"
"Oh, aboot the Bible school an' the parties, an' how ye wants tae dae somethin' fer the lasses."
Then Esther briefly outlined her plans, during which they occasionally interrupted her by questions or comments.
"Do you mean, schoolma'am, that y're willin' to learn us outside o' school hours?"
"Yes."
"Y're mighty good. I love ye already," said one lass.
"But we're sae auld," said Jessie.
"No, you're not. You're not old,—not too old to study."
"Yes, schoolma'am, that's what mother used tae say," said Jessie in a softer tone. She turned her face aside. Another girl whispered to Esther, "Her father killed her mother when he was drunk."
Esther slipped her arm around Jessie's waist, and continued to speak her plans, and how much their co-operation would mean to her.
"Git y'r pardners!" shouted the fiddler.
Soon the lasses were led away to the dance; and for the time, nothing more was said of their plans; but Esther Bright knew that of all the days' work she had done in Gila, this would probably count the most.
The rooms were now crowded with people. The huge candles burned lower; the air grew more stifling; the noise more tiring.
As she looked up, she met the gaze of a young English girl, who flushed and turned her eyes away. An instant later, Kenneth Hastings seated himself by Esther and began speaking.
"I was glad to see you talking with the cowlasses, for they need the gentle, refining influence that you can bring them." He was evidently deeply in earnest. "You have no idea how full of peril their life is. You see there is something in this bold, free life of exposure that almost unsexes a woman. Some of the cowlasses are good-hearted, honest girls, but many are a hard lot. Your womanly influence would help them."
As he spoke, he caught sight of the girl who, a moment before, had attracted Esther's attention.
"Do you see that girl with the cameo-like face?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I have been hoping you could save that child. She can't be more than seventeen, if she is that. What her previous history is I do not know; but it is evident she has had gentle breeding."
"What a sweet face she has!"
"Yes. Lovely, isn't it? Like a flower."
"What is her name?" Esther looked sympathetically at the girlish figure.
"Earle—Carla Earle. She lives at Keith's. I see her often with Mark Clifton, a young Englishman here. He is a wild fellow. She is shy of everyone else."
"Poor child!" said Esther, glancing toward her.
"I made bold to speak to her one day, and invited her to come to your Bible school. I believe if you could meet her you would be her salvation."
Esther looked up with a grave question in her eyes.
"Well?" he asked.
"You invite her to come to the Bible school, but do not come yourself, do not offer to help."
"It does seem inconsistent, doesn't it? I will try to explain."
He studied the cracks in the floor.
"You see, I have felt that I would be a hypocrite if I came. I know nothing about religion; at least, I knew nothing about it until I began to find it in you."
"And yet religion is the great question of life. I wonder that, with your habit of thought, you have not been attracted to the study of philosophy and religion."
"Some of the most materialistic men I have known," he replied, "have been students of philosophy and religion. They seemed anything but religious. But your religion is practical. You live it. You make men believe in your religion, make them believe it is the one real thing of life. I need to be taught of you."
"Please bring this young girl to me, or take me to her," she responded.
Together they sought Carla Earle. As Esther was introduced, she clasped Carla's hand, and began to talk to her of England. Kenneth excused himself, and the two girls took seats in the corner where he had left them. At first Carla avoided looking into the face of her companion. When she did gain courage to look up, she saw that Esther's face was full of tenderness. What could it mean? Sympathy for her? Carla Earle? Her chest rose and fell. Suddenly she hid her face in her hands, while suppressed sobs shook her frame.
Quickly, Esther slipped her arm about her, and drew her to the open door, and out into the clear night air. There, Nature seemed full of peace. Up and down, the two walked in the moonlight, talking in low, earnest tones. Often they paused and looked up into the heavens. Once the English girl bowed her head on the New England girl's shoulder, and wept bitterly. The teacher listened, listened to a story whose pathos touched her heart. Then she said gently:
"You know right from wrong. Leave the wrong life. Come to me for shelter, until I can find a home for you where you will be safe, and I hope, contented."
"Oh, I can't," sobbed Carla, "I am so unhappy!"
"I know you can leave if you will," Esther said firmly. "You will have strength and courage given you to do right. It is wrong for you to continue in the life you are now living."
Carla shuddered. She was still weeping.
"God will never forgive me," she said. "He has forsaken me."
She seemed utterly hopeless.
"God always forgives those who come to Him penitent, Carla. He has not forsaken you; you have forsaken Him. I am glad you and I have found each other. Perhaps I can help you find your way back to God."
Carla gripped her hand. When they re-entered the house, the English girl slipped into the bedroom.
"Fust couple forrerd an' back!" called out the fiddler, keeping time with his foot.
There were bows, differing more in quality than in kind; bows masculine, with spurred foot to rearward; bows feminine, quite indescribable.
"Swing y'r pardners!" shouted the fiddler, flourishing his bow. Around flew the lasses, with skirts and ribbons flying; down came the boots of the cowboys, their spurs clanking time to the music. The room grew more stifling.
Among the late-comers was a middle-aged woman, immaculately clean. Her snapping black eyes were set close to her nose, which was sharp and thin. Her lips closed firmly. Her thin black hair, drawn tightly back, was fastened in a tight wad at the back of her head. She wore an antiquated black alpaca dress, sans buttons, sans collar, sans cuffs; but the crowning glory of her costume, and her particular pride, was a breastpin of hair grapes. She was accompanied by an easy-going, stubby little Irishman, and a freckle-faced, tow-headed lad of ten.
"Maw, Maw!" said the child, "there's my teacher!"
"Mind y'r mannerses," said the woman, as she cuffed him on the ear.
"I am mindin' my mannerses," he said sulkily.
The teacher saw the shadow on the child's face, stepped forward to greet him, then extended her hand to the mother, saying:
"Good evening, Mrs. Black. I am Brigham's teacher."
But Mrs. Murphy was on the warpath.
"I'm not Miz. Black," she snapped, assuming an air of offended dignity; "I'm Miz Murphy, the wife o' Patrick Murphy. This is my man," pointing to the stubby Irishman, with the air of a tragedy queen. The teacher thereupon shook hands with Patrick. Mrs. Murphy continued:
"My first husband were a Young, my second a Thompson, my third a Wigger, my fourth a Black, and my fifth a Murphy."
"I wonders who the nixt wan will be," said Patrick, grinning from ear to ear. "My woman lived wid the Mormons."
Mrs. Murphy's eyes looked daggers. He continued:
"An' she thought if it were good fur wan man to marry many women, it were equally good fur wan woman ter have many husbands, even if she didn't have all of thim ter onct." He chuckled.
"Mind y'r bizness!" snapped the irate Mrs. Murphy.
"An' so it came my turrhn, schoolma'am, an' she were that delighted wid me she have niver tried another man since. Eh, mavourneen?"
Saying which, Patrick made his escape, shaking with laughter.
Then Esther poured oil on the troubled waters, by telling Mrs. Murphy how interested she was in what Brigham had told her of his little sisters, Nora and Kathleen.
"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Murphy?"
Esther's voice and manner were very charming at that moment, as she drew a chair forward for her companion.
Somewhat mollified, Mrs. Murphy seated herself.
"Oh, I don't mind ef I do set down. I'm that tuckered out with scrubbin' and washin' an' cookin', I'm afeared I can't dance till mornin'."
As she talked, she fanned herself with her red cotton handkerchief.
"You enjoy dancing, don't you, Mrs. Murphy?" asked the teacher, with apparent interest.
"Enjoy dancin'? I should say I did!" She suddenly assumed an air of great importance. "Back East where I was riz, I went ter all the barn raisin's, an' was accounted the best dancer in the county."
She showed sudden interest in the fiddler, and tapped time to the music with her foot.
"Then I joined the Mormons. When I lived in Utah, there was plenty o' dancin', I can tell you."
"You are from New York, Mrs. Murphy, I think you said."
"Yep," complacently. "I was riz in York State, near Syrycuse. My folks was way up, my folks was. Why, my aunt's husband's sister's husband kep' a confectony, an' lived on Lexity Street, York City. She were rich, she were,—an' dressed! My landy! How she dressed! Always latest style! Ye didn't know her, I s'pose. Miz Josiah Common was her name, lived at 650 somethin' Lexity Street. Wisht you'd a knowed her."
Here she mopped her face again.
It was not often that Mrs. Murphy found herself in society, and in society where she wished to make an impression. Her voice rose higher and shriller.
"Yep," she continued, in a tone of supreme satisfaction, "I'm 'lated, as it were, to Miz Josiah Common. She gimme this here pin."
Here she took off a hair grape pin, and held it up for inspection. "A bunch o' grapes, yer see, hereditaried in the family, descended from father to son, yer know, in memory of the departed."
All this in a tone of one who gives information, and commiserates the ignorance of the listener. Suddenly Esther Bright lifted her handkerchief to her eyes.
"Got pink eye?" asked Mrs. Murphy with sudden sympathy. But at this moment Patrick Murphy joined them, and Mrs. Murphy rose to dance with him.
As the two left her, Esther saw John Clayton edging his way through the crowd. An instant later, he presented Lord Kelwin, of Dublin, Ireland.
"Really," said the newcomer, "I had no idea I should meet an American lady on the frontier. I am charmed. So delighted, Mr. Clayton, to meet Mrs. Clayton and Miss Bright. I had anticipated meeting Indians, Indian princesses, don't you know, like the people we see in the shows you send us."
"It is too bad you should be disappointed, Lord Kelwin," said the New Englander, smiling. "There are princesses galore in the southwest, and a little search will reward you."
"Beg pardon, I did not intend to give the impression that I was disappointed; rather, I am surprised that here out of civilization, ah—ah—I should find a lady,—two ladies. I count myself most fortunate."
John Clayton's eyes twinkled. At the first opportunity he drew Lord Kelwin aside, and whispered in his ear. The Irishman looked astonished.
"An Indian princess, did you say? By Jove!"
"Yes, of the blood royal," replied John Clayton, with gravity.
"And possessed of untold wealth? What was it you said?"
"Of untold wealth. I'd rather have her wealth than the crown jewels of any royal house."
"By George! A fortune and a pretty girl thrown in!"
It was evident that this bit of information was not without effect upon Lord Kelwin, for he turned to Esther Bright effusively.
"It is such a pleasure, such a great pleasure, to meet one who so charmingly represents her race."
He bowed deferentially.
Esther looked mystified. Before she could frame a reply, their conversation was interrupted.
Lord Kelwin drew John Clayton aside.
"An American princess, did you say?"
"Yes, by divine right," responded the older man.
The Irishman adjusted his monocle, to view Esther more critically.
"She looks more like an English woman," he said meditatively. "Rather too slender to be a beauty."
"She was born on the free soil of America," continued his companion, "and has some ideas of her own."
The Irishman smiled cynically.
"As if a pretty girl ever had ideas of her own! She usually knows just what her mamma or governess teaches her. I always find a pretty girl an easy victim. I've broken more than one innocent's heart." He twirled his moustache.
"You'll not get on so well with Miss Bright. You see, she is used to meeting men." John Clayton looked a trifle wicked, as he continued, "She might take you for a long-headed animal with long ears."
But the last remark was lost upon the Irishman, whose attention was fixed upon Esther Bright.
"You say her ancestors were savages, Mr. Clayton?"
"I suppose they were savages, same as ours. She has the best heritage the ages can give,—a healthy body, a beautiful mind, and a heroic soul."
John Clayton's voice, half ironical, had an undertone of seriousness.
"A heroic soul! A heroic soul!" The Irishman raised his monocle again. "I didn't suppose savages had souls. I've always imagined this fad about souls came with civilization."
"I have begun to think," answered his companion, "that with much of the so-called civilization, men and women are losing their souls. Miss Bright is a remarkable woman. She believes in the possibilities of every man and woman. It is her purpose in life to awaken the soul wherever she finds it dormant or atrophied."
"Indeed!"
Again the monocle was raised, and the Irishman's curious gaze was fixed upon the American girl, then engaged in conversation with a cowboy.
Patrick Murphy now interrupted this dialogue.
"Lord Kelwin, we wants yez ter dance an Irish jig."
The lord lifted his eyebrows.
"There's no one to dance an Irish jig with me unless you do it yourself, Patrick."
Here there was a general laugh.
"Come along wid yez," persisted Patrick, half carrying him toward the dance room.
"Here," he said to Lord Kelwin, "here's light-footed Janette O'Neil will dance this wid yez."
There was a stir. The center of the room was cleared, then out stepped Lord Kelwin, leading rosy, graceful Janette. She was lithe and dainty.
The fiddler flourished his bow, drew it across the strings, and brought forth the strains of "Soldier's Joy,"—a melody that sets an Irishman's feet flying.
Janette's short, red skirt showed her trim feet and ankles. Down the room came the two dancers, side by side, their feet fairly flying. Backward, again they danced, the length of the room, still keeping up the feathery rapidity of flying feet. Then Lord Kelwin swung his partner around and around; then facing each other, they danced apart. Expressions of admiring approval were heard.
"Them's fine dancers!"
"Go it, Kelwin! I'll bet on you."
"Three cheers for ould Ireland!"
Down again the full length of the room sped the flying feet; then back again. Then, whirling as birds in flight, they faced each other once more, and danced apart, and finished the dance amid deafening applause. As it continued, Lord Kelwin raised his hand for attention.
"Give us the Highland fling. Here, Burns, you and Jessie Roth dance the Highland fling."
"Highland fling! Highland fling!" echoed many voices.
Again the center of the room was cleared, and Robert Burns led forth Jessie Roth.
In a moment the air of "Bonnie Woods and Braes" shrieked from the fiddle. With rhythmic swing of body and limb, the graceful Scotch dancers kept time to the music. Up rose the arm of the girl, with inimitable grace; forward came one foot, daintily touching the floor. It was the very poetry of motion. At the close of this dance, the applause was again deafening.
"Git y'r pardners fer Virginny reel!" shouted the weary fiddler.
In the rush of the dancers, John Clayton was jostled against Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings.
"Well!" said he, "I believe we'd better go out to supper, and then start homeward."
A brief search brought the other members of the party. They seated themselves at a long improvised table, covered with red tablecloths. There was but one course, and that included everything from roast venison and Irish stew, hot biscuit and honey, to New England doughnuts, hot tamales and whiskey.
Near by sat an Indian half-breed, who, discovering a large plate of doughnuts, greedily devoured every one. As he had been drinking heavily, no one interfered, or made audible comments. When the Clayton party were about to withdraw, there were sounds of scuffling, oaths and cries, from the adjoining room, followed by a heavy thud. Some one had fallen. John Clayton rushed out, and finding one of his own cowboys in the fight, dragged him out into the open air. To keep him out of the mêlée, he sent him for their team, and he himself returned to the house for the members of his party. The leave-taking over, the spirited team dashed away from Jamison Ranch. The lights of the house grew fainter and fainter, then disappeared. The babble of voices, the clink of glasses, the clatter of spurs, the sound of dancing feet, were far behind. To the New England girl, the experience of the night seemed a strange dream; and the reality, the solemn hush of the midnight sky brooding over all.