AN EVENTFUL DAY
After Esther Bright and Wathemah returned from their visit at Murphy Ranch, he became a guest at the Clayton home, and there he remained until his arm was well.
His sojourn with them strengthened his devotion to Esther Bright, and brought about several changes for the better in him.
When he was allowed to run and play with the children again, he returned to school and to Keith's saloon.
The men who had always called him the "little tough," now observed him with amazement. One observed:
"I'll be blowed ef the Angel o' the Gila can't do anythin' she wants ter. See that kid? He used ter cuss like a pirate. Do ye hear him cuss now? No, sir! For why? 'Cause he knows she don't like it. That's why. Ef she wuz ter be turned loose among the Apaches, she'd civilize 'em. An' they're the blankedest Indians there be. I don't know what it is about her. She sort o' makes a feller want ter be somebody. I reckon God Almighty knows more about 'er nor we do, 'n' she knows more about us 'n' we do ourselves. Leastways, she do about me."
Having delivered himself to this effect, he left the saloon, sober.
There is no doubt Esther Bright had sown good seed broadcast, and some had fallen on good ground. The awakening of the cowlasses had been a continual joy to her. She marveled that some one had not found them before. Each successive day the little school reached out further to enrich the life of the community.
One morning, while a class was in the midst of a recitation, there came a knock at the schoolhouse door.
"I'm Robert Duncan," said a Scotch miner, as Esther opened the door. He held by the hand a little boy of about three years.
"This is Bobbie," he continued. "I've brought me bairn tae school."
Could the mother spare such a baby? Ah, could she?
Esther stooped and held out her arms to the child, but he hid behind his father.
"His mither died last week, Miss," he said with a choke in his voice. "I'd like tae leave him with ye."
"I'm very sorry," she replied, with quick sympathy. Then she promised to receive Bobbie as a pupil, providing he would stay.
"Oh, he'll stay," the father hastened to say, "if ye'll just call Donald."
So Donald was called, and he succeeded in coaxing Bobbie into the schoolroom.
When the child realized that his father had gone and left him, he ran to the door, crying, "Faither! Faither!" while tears rolled down his cheeks.
Then the mother heart of Esther Bright asserted itself. She gathered him in her arms and soothed him, until he cuddled down contentedly and fell asleep.
Soon after, Kenneth Hastings appeared at the open door, and saw Esther at her desk with the sleeping child in her arms. He heard her speaking in a soft tone to the children as she dismissed them for the morning recess; but Bobbie wakened frightened. At the moment Kenneth entered, Bobbie was carried out of the room by Donald, the other children following.
"I came to see if you could go for a horseback ride this afternoon," said Kenneth. "It's a glorious day."
"Just delighted! Nothing would please me better."
The two stood inside the open door. As Wathemah saw Kenneth talking to his teacher, he entered the door, pushed between them, nestled close to her, and said defiantly:
"Miss Bright me teacher; mine!"
"Yours, eh, sonny?" said Kenneth, smiling. Then looking into Esther's face, he said:
"I wish I could feel as sure that some day you will be mine."
A delicate flush swept over her face. When he went on his way, life and vigor were in every step. He seemed to walk on air.
The recess over, the children returned to their seats, and Patrick Murphy entered. The school, for the hour, was transformed into a place of general merchandise, for the teacher had promised that to-day they would play store, buy and sell. Business was to be done on a strictly cash basis, and accounts kept. Several children had been busy for days, making school money. Scales for weighing, and various measures were in evidence.
Patrick watched the play of the children, as they weighed and measured, bought and sold.
At the close of the exercises, he turned to Esther, saying:
"Oi wisht Oi wuz young agin mesilf. Yez larn the chilthren more in wan hour, 'n' many folks larns in a loife toime. It's thankful Oi am that yez came ter Gila, fur the school is gittin' on."
Having delivered himself of this compliment, he withdrew, highly pleased with himself, with the teacher, with the school, and the world generally. If there was one thing that met with Patrick's unqualified approval, it was "to git on."
Near the close of the midday intermission, during the absence of Wathemah, Donald Carmichael said to the teacher, "Ye love Wathemah mair nor the rest o' us, don't ye?"
"Why?" asked Esther, as she smiled down at the urchin.
"Oh," hanging his head, "ye say 'Wathemah' as though ye likit him mair nor anybody else."
"As though I loved him?"
"Yep."
"Well," she acknowledged, "I do love Wathemah. I love all the other children, too. Don't you think I ought to love Wathemah a little better because he has no father or mother, as you have, to love him?"
Donald thought not.
"You have no idea," said Carla, who now attended school, "what brutal treatment Wathemah used to receive at the saloon. I have seen him teased and trounced and knocked around till he was frantic. And the men took delight in teaching him all the badness they knew. I used to hear them while I was helping Mrs. Keith." Carla's eyes suddenly filled.
"Poor little fellow!" said Esther, in response.
"I shall never forget his happiness," continued Carla, "the first day he went to school. He came to me and said he liked his teacher and wanted to go live with her."
"Did he? Bless his heart!"
"After that," Carla went on to say, "he came to me every morning to see if he was clean enough to go to school."
"So you were the good fairy, Carla, who wrought the transformation in him. He certainly was a very dirty little boy the first morning he came to school, but he has been pretty clean ever since."
Donald, who had been listening, now spoke up again.
"Oh, Wathemah's all right, only I thocht ye likit him mair nor the rest o' us."
"No, she don't, neither," stoutly maintained Brigham. "I guess I know. She's always fair."
At this moment, Wathemah himself drew near. He had been to the timber for mistletoe, and returned with his arms full of sprays of green, covered with white waxen berries. He walked proudly to his Beloved, and gave her his offering. Then he stepped back and surveyed her.
"Wathemah love he teacher," he said in a tone of deep satisfaction.
"She ain't yourn, ye Apache savage," cried Donald. "She don't love ye; she said so," added the child, maliciously.
Like a flash, Wathemah was upon him, beating him with all his strength. He took the law into his own hands, settled his score, and laid his opponent out before Esther could interfere. When she grasped Wathemah's arm, he turned upon her like a tiger.
"Donald lie!" he cried.
"Yes, Donald did lie," she conceded, "but you should not punish him."
"Donald call savage. Wathemah kill he!"
The teacher continued to hold him firmly. She tried to reason with him, but her words made no impression.
The child stood resolute. He lifted a scornful finger toward Donald, and said in a tone of contempt:
"Donald lie. Wathemah no lie."
The teacher released him, and told him to see her after school. Then the afternoon session began. But Wathemah's place was vacant.
As the hours passed, it became evident that Donald was not as happy as usual. He was in disgrace. At last his class was called. He hung his head in shame. Esther did not press him to recite.
The hour for dismissal came. The little culprit sat alone in the farther corner of the room. Carla started out to find Wathemah.
The loud accusing tick of the clock beat upon Donald's ear. The teacher was busy, and at first paid no attention to him. She heard a sniffling in the corner. Still no attention. At last she sat down by the lad, and said very gently:
"Tell me about it, Donald."
No answer. He averted his face, and rubbed his dirty fists into his eyes.
"Tell me why you lied to Wathemah, Donald."
Still no answer.
"How could you hurt his feelings so?"
No answer.
Then Esther talked to him till he buried his face in his arms and sobbed. She probed down into his heart. At last she asked him what he thought he should do. Still silence. She waited. The clock ticked louder and louder in the ears of the child: "Say it! Say it! Say it!"
At last he spoke.
"I ought tae tell Wathemah I lied; but I dinna want tae tell him afore the lads."
"Ah!" she said, "but you said your untruthful words before them; and unless you are a coward, your apology ought to be before them."
"I am nae coward," he said, lifting his head.
"Then you must apologize to Wathemah before the children to-morrow."
"Yes, mum."
Then she dismissed him, telling him to remember what he had done, when he prayed to God that night.
"Did God hear me lie?" he asked.
"I think so, Donald."
The child looked troubled.
"I didna think o' that. I'll tell Him I'm sorry," he said as he left the schoolroom.
He began to search for Wathemah, that he might make peace with him.
At first Carla's search was fruitless. Then she sought him in a place she knew he loved, away up the canyon. There, sure enough, she found him. He sat on a bowlder near a cascade with his back toward her. Beyond him, on the other side of the stream, rose the overhanging cliffs. He did not hear her step as he listened to the music of the waters.
"Wathemah!" she called. He started, then turned toward her. She saw that he had been crying. She climbed up on the bowlder and sat down beside him.
"Donald lie!" he said, angrily.
"Yes, Wathemah, but he is sorry for it, and I am sure will tell you so."
She saw tears roll down the dirty little face. She had the wisdom to leave him alone; and walking a short distance up the canyon, sent pebbles skipping the water. After a while this drew him to her.
"Shall we go up stream?" she asked.
He nodded. They jumped from bowlder to bowlder, and at last stopped where the waters go softly, making a soothing music for the ear.
"Carla!"
"Yes, Wathemah."
"Jesus forgive?"
"Yes, dear, He does." Then Carla's self-control gave way, and she sobbed out her long-suppressed grief. Instantly the child's arms were around her neck.
"No cry, Carla!" he said. "No cry, Carla!" patting her cheek.
Then, putting his tear-stained cheek close to hers, he said:
"Jesus love Carla."
She gathered the little comforter in her arms; and though her tears fell fast, they brought relief to her heart.
At last she persuaded him to return to school the following day, and to do all he could to atone for leaving it without permission.
On their return, they sought the teacher in the schoolhouse, but she was gone, and the door was locked; neither was she to be found at the Clayton ranch. The little penitent lingered a long time, but his Beloved did not come. At last he walked reluctantly in to camp.
Away up the mountain road, Esther Bright and Kenneth Hastings drew rein. The Englishman sat his horse well; but it was evident his companion was not a horsewoman. She might shine in a drawing-room or in a home, but not on a horse's back. If she had not been riding one of the finest saddle horses in the country, she would have appeared to greater disadvantage.
The canter up the mountain road had brought the color to her cheeks. It had also shaken out her hairpins; and now her wavy brown hair, with its glint of gold, tumbled about her shoulders.
"You look like a gypsy," Kenneth was saying.
She laughed.
"The last gypsies I ever saw," she said merrily, "were encamped along the road through Beekman's Woods, as you approach Tarrytown-on-Hudson from the north. The gypsy group was picturesque, but the individuals looked villainous. I hope I do not strongly resemble them," she said still laughing; then added, "They wanted to tell our fortunes."
"Did you let them tell yours?"
"Yes, just for fun."
"What did they tell you?"
"Oh, just foolishness."
"Come, tell me just for fun."
"Well,"—here she blushed—"the old gypsy told me that an Englishman would woo me, that I'd not know my own mind, and that I would reject him."
"Interesting! Go on."
"That something dreadful would happen to the suitor; that I'd help take care of him, and after that, all was cloudland."
"Really, this grows more interesting. The fortune teller realized how hard-hearted you were. Didn't she ask you to join their caravan? You'd make an ideal gypsy princess."
Esther touched her horse with her whip. He gave a sudden lunge, and sped onward like mad. It was all she could do to sit her horse. Before her, to her dismay, yawned a deep gulch. She could not stop her horse now, of that she was sure. She tightened her grip, and waited. She heard the sound of hoofs behind her, and Kenneth's voice shouting "Whoa!" As well shriek at a tornado to stop. She seemed to catch the spirit of the horse. The pupils of her eyes dilated. She felt the quivering of the beast when, for a moment, he reared on his haunches. Then she felt herself borne through the air, as the animal took the gulch; then she knew that he was struggling up the bank. In a moment the beast stopped, quivering all through his frame; his nostrils were dilated, and his breath came hard.
In a few minutes Kenneth Hastings overtook her. It was evident he had been alarmed.
"You have done a perilous thing for an inexperienced rider," he said. "It is dumb luck that you have escaped unhurt. I expected to find you injured or dead."
"I was dreadfully scared when we came to the gulch. I didn't know about it, you know; but I couldn't stop the horse then."
"Of course not. What made the animal run? Did you cut him with the whip?"
"Yes. I thought it'd be such fun to run away from you for calling me a gypsy."
He laughed. Then he looked grave.
Suddenly Esther Bright grew as cold as ice, and swayed in the saddle. At last she was forced to say she was ill. Her companion dismounted and lifted her from the saddle.
"Why, how you tremble!" he was saying. "How cold you are!"
"Just fright," she replied, making an effort to rally. "I am ashamed of being scared. The fright has made me deathly sick." Even her lips were white. He seemed deeply concerned.
After a while her color returned, and she assured him that she was able to go on.
"But are you sure?" he asked, showing the deepest concern.
"Quite sure," she said, positively. "Come, let us go. I have given you enough trouble already."
"No trouble, I assure you."
He did not add that the very fact that she had needed a service from him was sufficient recompense.
Then they walked their horses homeward, talking of many things of common interest to them.
Down in the valley, the soft gray of the dead gramma grass was relieved by the great beds of evergreen cacti, yucca, and the greenery of the sage and mesquite. The late afterglow in the sky mingled with the purple haze that hung like an ethereal veil over the landscape.
They stopped their horses at a turn of the road commanding a fine view of the mountains.
"How beautiful the world is everywhere!" Esther said, half to herself.
"Especially in Arizona," said Kenneth, as he drew a deep invigorating breath.
Silence again.
"Miss Bright," he hesitated. "I believe the world would be beautiful to me anywhere, if you were there."
"You flatter," she said, lifting her hand as if to ward off what might follow.
"No flattery. Since you came, the whole world has seemed beautiful to me."
"I am glad if my coming has improved your vision," she said merrily. "Come, we must hasten, or we'll be late for dinner. You are to dine with us to-night, I believe."
"Yes, Mrs. Clayton was so kind as to invite me."
Again her horse took the lead. Kenneth touched his with the whip, and overtook her. For some distance, the horses were neck and neck. As they came to a steep ascent, they slackened their pace.
Her eyes were sparkling, and she was in excellent spirits.
"If I were a better horsewoman," she said gayly, "I'd challenge you to a race."
"Why not, anyway?" he suggested. "There are no more gulches."
"I might not be able to stick on."
"We'll try it," he responded, encouragingly, "over the next level stretch."
So try it they did. They flew like the wind. The cool evening air, the excitement of the race, the rich afterglow in the heavens,—all were exhilarating. On they sped, on and on, till they turned into the canyon road. Again Esther's horse led, but Kenneth soon overtook her, and then their horses walked slowly on together the rest of the way.
"I wonder if you are as happy as I am," he said, as he assisted her from the saddle.
"I am in the positive degree of happiness," she said, cheerily. "I am always happy except when shadowed by someone else's sorrow."
He said something to her about bearing all her future sorrows for her, adding:
"That is becoming the dearest wish of my heart."
"All must meet sorrow sometime," she responded gravely. "I hope to meet mine with fortitude when it comes."
She stood stroking the horse's neck.
"I wish I might help you to bear it when it comes. Oh, Miss Bright," he said, earnestly, "I wish I could make you realize how I honor you—and dare I say it?—how I love you! I wish you would try to understand me. I am not trifling. I am in earnest." He looked at her downcast face.
"I will try," she said, looking up frankly, with no trace of coquetry in her voice or manner.
There had been moments when Kenneth's love for Esther had led him to speak dearer words to her than her apparent interest in him would warrant. At such times she would retire within herself, surrounded by an impenetrable reserve. Kenneth Hastings was the only one she ever treated icily. One day he would be transported to the seventh heaven; another, he would sink to the deeps of gloom.
It was several days after this ride that he chanced to meet Esther in the path along the river road. He stopped her, and asked abruptly:
"Why do you treat me so frigidly sometimes?"
"Do I?" she asked in surprise.
He remained silent.
"Do I?" she said, repeating her question.
"Yes, you do. Why do you treat me so?"
She looked distressed.
"I didn't realize I had treated you discourteously, Mr. Hastings. If I did, it was because I am afraid of you."
"Preposterous! Afraid of me!" Now he was smiling.
"Perhaps—" As she hesitated, she looked up at him in an appealing manner.
"Perhaps what?"
"Perhaps it is because you have given me a glimpse of your own heart, and have—"
"Have what?"
"—asked me to reveal mine to you. I can't."
"In other words, you do not love me?"
"I honor you as I do several people I know. Nothing more."
There was a long pause. Kenneth was the first to speak.
"Your friendship! Am I to be deprived of that, too?"
"My friendship is already yours," she said. "You know that."
"I thank you. I need hardly tell you that your friendship is the dearest thing I know."
Then Kenneth left her, and she walked on alone. But still those words kept repeating themselves in her mind like a haunting melody, "Your friendship is the dearest thing I know!" and, like Banquo's ghost, they would not down.