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Under the Tonto Rim
by
Zane Grey



Chapter I

Lucy Watson did not leave home without regrets. For a long time she gazed
at the desert scenery through tear-blurred eyes. But this sadness seemed
rather for the past--the home that had been, before the death of her
mother and the elopement of her younger sister with a cowboy. This
escapade of Clara's had been the last straw. Lucy had clung to the home in
the hope she might save her sister from following in the footsteps of
others of the family. Always she had felt keenly the stigma of being the
daughter of a saloon-keeper. In her school days she had suffered, under
this opprobrium, and had conceived an ideal to help her rise above the
circumstances of her position. Clara's deflection had left her free. And
now she was speeding away from the town where she had been born, with an
ache in her heart, and yet a slowly dawning consciousness of relief, of
hope, of thrill. By the time she reached Oglethorpe, where she was to
take a branch-line train, she was able to address all her faculties to
a realisation of her adventures.

Lucy had graduated from high school and normal school with honours. Of the
several opportunities open to her she had chosen one of welfare work among
backwoods people. It was not exactly missionary work, as her employers
belonged to a department of the state government. Her duty was to go among
the poor families of the wilderness and help them to make better homes.
The significance of these words had prompted Lucy to make her choice.
Better homes! It had been her ideal to help make her own home better, and
so long as her mother lived she had succeeded. The salary offered was
small, but that did not cause her concern. The fact that she had the
welfare department of the state behind her, and could use to reasonable
extent funds for the betterment of these primitive people, was something
of far greater importance. When she had accepted this position two remarks
had been made to her, both of which had been thought-provoking. Mr. Sands,
the head of the department, had said: "We would not trust every young
woman with this work. It is a sort of state experiment. But we believe in
the right hands it will be a great benefit to these uncultivated people of
the backwoods. Tact, cleverness, and kindliness of heart will be factors
in your success."

Lucy had derived gratification from this indirect compliment. The other
remark had aroused only Amusement. Mrs. Larabee, also connected with the
welfare work, had remarked: "You are a good-looking woman, Miss Watson.
You will cause something of a stir among the young men at Cedar Ridge.
I was there last summer. Such strapping young giants I never saw! I liked
them, wild and uncouth as they were. I wouldn't be surprised if one of
them married you."

Oglethorpe was a little way station in the desert. The branch-line train,
consisting of two cars and the engine, stood waiting on a side track.
Mexicans in huge sombreros and Indians with coloured blankets stolidly
watched Lucy carry her heavy bags from one train to the other, A young
brakeman espied her and helped her aboard, not forgetting some bold and
admiring glances. The coach was only partly filled with passengers,
and those whom Lucy noticed bore the stamp of the range.

Soon the train started over an uneven and uphill roadbed. Lucy began to
find pleasure in gazing out of the window. The flat bare desert had given
place to hills, fresh with spring greens. The air had lost the tang of the
cattle range. Occasionally Lucy espied a black tableland rising in the
distance, and this she guessed was timbered mountain country, whither she
was bound.

At noon the train arrived at its terminal stop, San Dimas, a hamlet of
flat-roofed houses. Lucy was interested only in the stage-coach that left
here for her destination, Cedar Ridge. The young brakeman again came to
her assistance and carried her baggage. "Goin' up in the woods, hey?"
he queried curiously.

"Yes, I think they did say woods, backwoods," laughed Lucy. "I go to Cedar
Ridge, and farther still."

"All alone--a pretty girl!" he exclaimed gallantly. "For two cents I'd
throw up my job an' go with you."

"Thank you. Do you think I need a--a protector?" replied Lucy.

"Among those bee hunters an' white-mule drinker I reckon you do, miss."

"I imagine they will not be any more dangerous than cowboys on the
range--or brakemen on trains," replied Lucy, with a smile. "Anyway, I can
take care of myself."

"I'll bet you can," he said admiringly. "Good luck."

Lucy found herself the sole passenger in the stage-coach and soon bowling
along a good road. The driver, a weather-beaten old man, appeared to have
a grudge against his horses. Lucy wanted to climb out in front and sit
beside him, so that she could see better and have opportunity to ask
questions about the country and the people. The driver's language,
however, was hardly conducive to nearer acquaintance; therefore Lucy
restrained her inquisitive desires and interested herself in the changing
nature of the foliage and the occasional vista that opened up between
the hills.

It seemed impossible not to wonder about what was going to happen to her;
and the clinking of the harness on the horses, the rhythmic beat of their
hoofs, and the roll of wheels all augmented her sense of the departure
from an old and unsatisfying life toward a new one fraught with endless
hopes, dreams, possibilities. Whatever was in store for her, the worthy
motive of this work she had accepted would uphold her and keep her true
to the ideal she had set for herself.

The only instructions given Lucy were that she was to go among the
families living in the backwoods between Cedar Ridge and what was called
the Rim Rock and to use her abilities to the best advantage in teaching
them to have better homes. She had not been limited to any method or
restricted in any sense or hampered by any church or society. She was to
use her own judgment and report her progress. Something about this work
appealed tremendously to Lucy. The responsibility weighed upon her, yet
stimulated her instinct for conflict. She had been given a hint of what
might be expected in the way of difficulties. Her success or failure would
have much to do with future development of this state welfare work. Lucy
appreciated just how much these isolated and poor families might gain or
lose through her. Indeed, though beset by humility and doubt, she felt
that a glorious opportunity had been presented to her, and she called upon
all the courage and intelligence she could summon. There was little or
nothing she could plan until she got among these people. But during that
long ride through the lonely hills, up and ever upward into higher
country, she laboured at what she conceived to be the initial step
toward success--to put into this work all her sympathy and heart.

Presently she plucked up spirit enough to address the stage driver.

"How far is it to Cedar Ridge?"

"Wal, some folks calkilate it's round twenty-five miles, then there's
tothers say it's more," he drawled. "But I don't agree with nary of them."

"You would know, of course," said Lucy appreciatingly. "How far do you
call it?"

"Reckon aboot twenty miles as a crow flies an' shinnyin' round forty on
this uphill road."

Lucy felt rather bewildered at this reply, and did not risk incurring more
confusion. She was sure of one thing, however, and it was that the road
assuredly wound uphill. About the middle of the afternoon as stage reached
the summit of what appeared rolling upland country, grassy in patches and
brushy in others, and stretching away toward a bold black mountain level
with a band of red rock shining in the sun. Lucy gazed westward across a
wide depression, grey and green, to a range of ragged peaks, notched and
sharp, with shaggy slopes. How wild and different they seemed to her!
Farther south the desert mountains were stark and ghastly, denuded rock
surfaces that glared inhospitably down upon an observer. But these
mountains seemed to call in wild abandon. They stirred something buoyant
and thrilling in Lucy. Gradually she lost sight of both ranges as the road
began to wind down somewhat, obstructing her view. Next to interest her
were clearings in the brush, fields and fences and cabins, with a few
cattle and horses. Hard as she peered, however, Lucy did not see any
people.

The stage driver made fast time over this rolling country, and his horses
trotted swingingly along, as if home and feed were not far off. For Lucy
the day had been tiring; she had exhausted herself with unusual sensation.
She closed her eyes to rest them and fell into a doze. Sooner or later the
stage driver awoke her.

"Say, miss, there's Cedar Ridge, an' thet green hill above is what gives
the town its name," he said. "It's a good ways off yit, but I reckon we'll
pull in aboot dark."

Lucy's eyes opened upon a wonderful valley, just now coloured by sunset
haze. A cluster of cottages and houses nestled under a magnificent
sloping ridge, billowy and soft with green foliage. The valley was
pastoral and beautiful. This could not be the backwoods country into which
she was going. Lucy gazed long with the most pleasing of impressions.
Then her gaze shifted to the ridge from which the town derived its name.
Far as she could see to east and west it extended, a wild black barrier to
what hid beyond. It appeared to slope higher toward the east, where on the
horizon it assumed the proportions of a mountain.

To Lucy's regret, the winding and ascending nature of the road again
obscured distant views. Then the sun set; twilight appeared short; and
soon darkness settled down. Lucy had never before felt mountain air, but
she recognised it now. How cold and pure! Would the ride never end?
She peered through the darkness, hoping to see lights of the village.
At last they appeared, dim pin-points through the blackness. She heard
the barking of dogs. The stage wheeled round a corner of trees, to enter
a wide street, and at last to slow down before looming flap-topped houses,
from which the yellow lights shone.

"Miss, anybody goin' to meet you?" queried the driver.

"No," replied Lucy.

"Wal, whar shall I set you down? Post office, store, or hotel?"

Lucy was about to answer his question when he enlightened her by drawling
that she did not need to make any choice, because all three places
mentioned were in the same house.

When the stage came to a halt Lucy saw a high porch upon which lounged
the dark forms of men silhouetted against the yellow light of lamps.
Despite the lights, she could scarcely see to gather up her belongings.
To her relief, the stage driver reached in for her grips.

"Hyar we air--Cedar Ridge--last stop--all out," he drawled.

Lucy stepped down hurriedly so that she could stay close to him. The
darkness, and the strangeness of the place, with those silent men so
close, made her heart beat a little quicker. She followed her escort up
wide rickety steps, between two lines of men, some of whom leaned closer
to peer at her, and into a large room, dimly lighted by a hanging lamp.

"Bill, hyar's a party fer you," announced the driver, setting down the
baggage. "An', miss, I'll thank you fer ten dollars--stage fare."

Lucy stepped under the lamp so that she could see to find the money in
her purse, and when she turned to pay the driver she espied a tall man
standing by him.

"Madam, do you want supper an' bed?" he asked.

"Yes. I am Lucy Watson of Felix, and I shall want room and board, perhaps
for a day or two, until I find out where I'm to go," replied Lucy.

He lighted a lamp and held it up so that he could see her face.

"Glad to help you any way I can," he said. "I'm acquainted in these parts.
Come this way."

He led her into a hallway, and up a stairway, into a small room, where he
placed the lamp upon a washstand. "I'll fetch your baggage up. Supper will
be ready in a few minutes."

When he went out Lucy looked first to see if there was a key in the lock
on the door. There was not, but she found a bolt, and laughed ruefully at
the instant relief it afforded.

"I'm a brave welfare worker," she whispered to herself scornfully. Then
she gazed about the room. Besides the washstand before noted it contained
a chair and a bed. The latter looked clean and inviting to Lucy. There
would be need of the heavy roll of blankets at the foot. The cold air
appeared to go right through Lucy. And the water in the pitcher was like
ice. Before she had quite made herself ready to go downstairs she heard
a bell ring, and then a great trampling of boots and a scraping of
chairs on a bare floor.

"Those men coming in to supper!" she exclaimed. "Bee hunters and
white-mule drinkers, that brakeman said!...Well, if I have to meet
them I--I can stand it now, I guess."

The hall and stairway were so dark Lucy had to feel her way down to the
door. She was guided by the loud voices and laughter in the dining-room.
Lucy could not help hesitating at the door. Neither her courage nor her
pride could prevent the rise of unfamiliar emotions. She was a girl,
alone, at the threshold of new life. Catching her breath, she opened
the door.

The dining-room was now brightly lighted and full of men sitting at the
tables. As Lucy entered, the hubbub of voices quieted and a sea of faces
seemed to confront her. There was a small table vacant. Lucy seated
herself in one of the two chairs. Her feeling of strangeness was not
alleviated by the attention directed toward her. Fortunately the
proprietor approached at once, asking what she would have to eat. When
she had given her order Lucy casually looked up and around the room. To
her surprise and relief, none of the young men now appeared to be
interested in her. They had lean, hard faces and wore dark, rough clothes.
Lucy rather liked their appearance, and she found herself listening to the
snatches of conversation.

"Jeff's rarin' to plough right off," said one. "Reckon it'll be plumb
boggy," was the reply. And then others of them spoke. "My hoss piled me
up this mawnin'," and "Who air you goin' to take to the dance?" and
"Lefty March paid what he owed me an' I near dropped daid," and "Did
you-all hear about Edd Denmeade makin' up to Sadie again, after she
dished him once?" and "Edd's shore crazy fer a wife. Wants a home,
I reckon."

The talk of these young men was homely and crude. It held a dominant note
of humour. Probably they were as fun-loving as the riders of the low
country. Lucy had expected to be approached by some of them or at least
to hear witticisms at her expense. But nothing of the kind happened.
She was the only woman in the room, and she might not have been there
at all, for any attention she received. Something of respect was forced
from Lucy, yet, woman-like, she suffered a slight pique. Soon her supper
came, and being hungry she attended to that.

After supper there was nothing for her to do but to her room. It was cold
and she quickly went to bed. For a while she lay there shivering between
the cold sheets, but presently she grew warm and comfortable. The
darkness appeared pitch-black. Distant voices penetrated from the lower
part of the house, and through the open window came the sound of slow
footsteps accompanied by clink of spurs. Then from somewhere far off
sounded the bay of a hound, and it was followed by the wild bark of a
coyote. Both bay and bark struck lonesomely upon her spirit.

Lucy realised that actually to experience loneliness, to be really cut
off from family and friends, was vastly different from the thought of it.
She had deliberately severed all ties. She was alone in the world, with
her way to make. A terrible blank sense of uncertainty assailed her.
Independence was wholly desirable, but in its first stage it seemed hard.
Lucy was not above tears, and she indulged in a luxury long unfamiliar
to her. Then she cried herself to sleep.

When she awoke the sun was shining in upon her. The air was crisp and cold
and bore a fragrance wild and sweet, new to Lucy. With the bright daylight
all her courage returned, even to the point of exhilaration. She put on a
woollen dress and heavier shoes. The cold air and water had greatly
accelerated her toilet. When had her cheeks glowed as rosily as now?
And for that matter, when had her hair been as rebellious? But she had no
time now to brush it properly, even if her hands had not been numb.
She hurried down to the dining-room. A wood fire blazed and cracked in
the stove, to Lucy's great satisfaction. The dining-room was empty.
Presently the kitchen door opened and a stout woman entered with a
pleasant greeting.

"Miss Watson, my husband said we might find somethin' we could do for
you," she said kindly.

"Yes, indeed, you may be able to give me information I need," replied Lucy.

"I'll fetch your breakfast an' then you can tell me what you want to know."

The proprietor's wife introduced herself as Mrs. Lynn, and appeared to be
a motherly person, kindly and full of curiosity. Lucy frankly explained
the nature of the work she was about to undertake.

"I think it's a fine idea," responded Mrs. Lynn emphatically. "If only the
Denmeades an' the rest of them will have it."

"Will they be too proud or--or anything to give me a chance?" asked
Lucy anxiously.

"We're all plain folks up here, an' the backwoods families keep to
themselves," she replied. "I don't know as I'd call them proud. They're
ignorant enough, Lord knows. But they're just backwoods. Like ground-hogs,
they stay in their holes."

On the moment the woman's husband came in from the street. He appeared to
be a gaunt man, pallid, and evidently suffered from a lung complaint, for
he had a hoarse cough.

"Bill, come here," called his wife. "Miss Watson has what I think a
wonderful mission. If it will only work!...She's been hired by the state
government to go among our people up here in the backwoods an' teach them
things. She has explained to me a lot of things she will do. But in few
words it means better homes for those poor people. What do you think
about it?"

"Wal, first off I'd say she is a plucky an' fine little girl to take such
a job," replied Mr. Lynn. "Then I'd say it's good of the state. But when
it comes to what the Denmeades an' the Claypools will think about it
I'm up a stump."

"Bill, it's such a splendid idea," said his wife earnestly. "She can do
much for the mothers an' children up there. We must help her to get
a start."

"I reckon. Now let's see," returned her husband, ponderingly. "If our
backwoods neighbours are only approached right they're fine an'
hospitable. The women would welcome anyone who could help them. But the
men ain't so easy. Miss Watson, though, bein' young an' nice-lookin',
may be able to make a go of it...If she can keep Edd Denmeade or one of
them bee hunters from marryin' her!"

Here Lynn laughed good-humouredly and smiled knowingly at Lucy. Mrs. Lynn
took the question more seriously.

"I was goin' to tell her that myself," she said. "But we mustn't give her
the wrong impression about our neighbours. These backwoodsmen are not
Bluebeards or Mormons, though they are strong on gettin' wives.
They are a clean, hardy, pioneer people. Edd Denmeade, for instance,
now--he's a young man the like of which you won't see often. He's
a queer fellow--a bee hunter, wonderful good to look at, wild like
them woods he lives in, but a cleaner, finer boy I never knew. He loves
his sisters. He gives his mother every dollar he earns, which, Lord knows,
isn't many...Now, Miss Lucy, Edd like as not will grab you right up an'
pack you off an' marry you. That would settle your welfare work."

"But, Mrs. Lynn," protested Lucy, laughing, "it takes two to make a
bargain. I did not come up here to marry anyone. With all due respect to
Mister Edd's manner of courting, I feel perfectly capable of taking care
of myself. We can dismiss that."

"Don't you be too sure!" ejaculated Mrs. Lynn bluntly "It's better to be
safe than sorry!...I ain't above tellin' you, though--if Edd Denmeade
really fell in love with you--that'd be different. Edd has been tryin' to
marry every single girl in the country. An' I don't believe he's been in
love with any one of them. He's just woman hungry, as sometimes these
backwoodsmen get. That speaks well for him bein' too clean an' fine to be
like many others. An' as to that, Edd is only one of a lot of good boys."

"Thanks for telling me," replied Lucy simply. "Of course I want to know
all I can find out about these people. But just now what I need to know
is how to get among them."

"Mary, I've been thinkin'," spoke up Mr. Lynn, "an' I've an idea.
Suppose I call in the Rim Cabin school-teacher. He's in the post office
now--just rode in. I reckon he's the one to help Miss Watson."

"Fetch him in pronto," replied Mrs. Lynn with alacrity; and as her husband
went out she continued: "It's Mr. Jenks, the school-teacher. First man
teacher ever here. You see, the youngsters at Rim Cabin school never got
much teachin', because whenever a schoolmarm did come one of the boys
would up an' marry her. So they're tryin' a man. It's workin' out fine,
I hear. Mr. Jenks is in this high, dry country for his health, same as my
husband. I reckon he wasn't always a school-teacher. Anyway, he's a good
Christian man, not young enough to have the girls makin' sheep eyes
at him."

At this juncture Mr. Lynn returned with a slight, stoop-shouldered man
whose thin, serious face showed both suffering and benevolence. He
was introduced to Lucy, who again, somewhat more elaborately,
explained the reason for her presence in Cedar Ridge.

He made her a very gallant bow, and seated himself at the table, to bend
keen, kind blue eyes upon her.

"You are a courageous young woman," he said, "and if you are sincere
these people will take you into their homes."

"No one could be more sincere," replied Lucy, with spirit. "I have
absolutely no motive but to do good. I chose this out of a number of
positions offered me. I wanted something different--and not easy."

"You have found it," he said. "The opportunity is here and it is big.
There are a score or more of children who might as well belong to savages
for all the civilisation they get. No doctor when they are sick, no
church, no amusement, no pretty things common to children, no books or
toys--nothing except what little schooling I can give them. They have no
school in winter, on account of weather. I've been here a month. There
are twenty-seven pupils in my school, the eldest a boy of nineteen--a
man, really--and the youngest a girl of four. They are like a lot of
wild Hottentots. But I really think more of them than any children I ever
taught. The problem is to win them."

"It must be a problem for an outsider," replied Lucy seriously.

"I believe they will take more quickly to a girl," he went on. "At least
the children and boys will. Your problem will be a different one from
mine. I'll not dwell on it, lest I discourage you. What's more to the
point, I can say as their teacher I've learned a good deal about their
lives. At first this seemed a tragedy to me, but I am learning that a good
many of our necessities are not really necessary, after all. These
children and young people are really happy. They have few wants because
they do not know what more civilised people have in their lives. It is not
through sophistication that you will benefit them. To brighten their
surroundings, change the primitive squalor, teach the children useful
things--therein lies your opportunity."

"Can you advise me how to start--whom to approach first?" asked Lucy.

"Come with me," replied Mr. Jenks earnestly. "I'm driving back to-day. I
live at Johnson's--five miles down from the Rim Cabin, which, by the way,
is the name of my school. I'll take you up to see Lee Denmeade. He lives
some miles farther on, up in the woods under the Rim Rock. He's probably
the most influential man among these backwoodsmen. I rather incline to the
opinion that he will like your proposition."

"It's very good of you. Thank you," replied Lucy gratefully. "I am ready
now to go with you."

"I'll call for you in an hour," said Mr. Jenks, rising.

After he had gone out Lucy returned to Mrs. Lynn to ask: "I wonder--when
he hinted about my problem and said he didn't want to discourage me--did
he mean this--this marrying propensity you spoke of?"

"I reckon you hit it plumb," replied Mrs. Lynn gravely, yet with a smile.
"It's the only problem you have. You will be a blessin' to them overworked
mothers an' a godsend to the children."

"Then--I can stand anything," rejoined Lucy happily, and she ran upstairs
to repack the grip she had opened. While her hands were busy her mind was
preoccupied, now humorously and then thoughtfully, and again dreamily.
She was indeed curious about these backwoods people--earnestly and
sympathetically curious. It was impossible not to conjecture about this
Edd Denmeade. She made a mental picture of him, not particularly
flattering. Poor fellow! So all he wanted was a wife, any girl he could
get. The thought afforded Lucy amusement, yet she felt pity for the
lonesome fellow. "I hope to goodness he doesn't run after me!"
soliloquised Lucy, suddenly aghast. "I certainly wouldn't marry a
backwoodsman--or a cowboy...Pooer little foolish sister! I wonder how
soon she'll find out her mistake. That Rex Wilcox was no good...I wish
everybody wouldn't make me think of marriage. It'll be a long time until
I want to--if ever."

Lucy sighed, dispelled her dreams, and finished her packing, after which
she gazed out of the window.

It was considerably longer than an hour before Lucy found herself seated
in an old buckboard beside Mr. Jenks, rattling along a dusty road behind
the heels of two big shaggy horses.

But the brisk trot soon ended at the base of the steep ridge, up which the
road zigzagged through a low-branched thick-foliaged forest, remarkable
for its fragrance.

"What smells so sweet?" was one of Lucy's many questions.

"Cedar. Those gnarled trees with the grey sheafs of bark, hanging like
ribbons, and the dense fine light-green foliage, are the cedars that give
name to the ridge and village," replied Mr. Jenks. "They are an upland
tree, an evergreen. I like them, but not so well as this more graceful
tree with the chequered bark. That's a juniper. See the lilac-coloured
berries. They grow ripe about every two years. And this huge round green
bush with the smooth red-barked branches is manzanita. And that pale green
plant with the spear-pointed leaves like a century plant--that's
mescal...But perhaps you would be more interested to hear about the
people."

"Yes. But I love the outdoors and all that grows," replied Lucy
enthusiastically. "I've never had a chance to live in the country,
let alone in the wilds."

"You may find it too wild, as I did at first," replied the teacher in
grim amusement. "I walk from Johnson's to the schools--five miles.
I used to see fresh bear tracks in mud or dust. I seldom see them now,
as the bears have moved up higher. Almost every day I see deer and wild
turkey. One night I was late leaving the cabin. It was moonlight. A big
grey animal followed me half-way down to Johnson's. I didn't know what
it was until next day, but anyhow my hair stood on end."

"And what was it?" queried Lucy.

"A mountain lion," replied Mr. Jenks impressively.

"A lion?" echoed Lucy incredulously. "I didn't know there were
lions in this country."

"It was a panther, or cougar. But mountain lion is the proper name.
I'll show you his skin. Lee Denmeade put his hounds on the track of the
beast and killed it. He gave me the skin...Oh, it'll be wild enough for
you. After we get on top of the ridge you won't wonder that bears and
lions live there."

Lucy, being an artful questioner and inspiring listener, led Mr. Jenks to
talk about the people among whom she expected to dwell.

He told how some of his child pupils rode their little burros six and
eight miles to school; how a slip of a boy came on horseback from his
home twelve miles away; how sometimes they were frightened by wild animals
and cattle. He told of the dance that was held at the school-house once
every week--how everyone for miles around attended--babies, children,
young people, and grown-ups--and stayed from sundown to sunrise. All of
which time the boys and girls danced! It was their one and only time to
be together. Distance and hard work precluded the pleasure of company.
Sometimes on a Sunday or a birthday one family would visit another. The
girls spent what little leisure they had in sewing. The boys passed their
spare time in hunting and fighting.

Mr. Jenks said he had at first been dreadfully concerned at the frequent
fights. But as these young backwoodsmen appeared to thrive on it, and
seldom were any less friendly for all their bloody battles, he had begun
to get used to it.

So interesting was the talk of the school teacher that Lucy scarcely
noted the tedious miles up the long ascent of the ridge, and was only
reminded of distance when he informed her they were almost on top and
would soon have a magnificent view. Despite his statement, however, Lucy
was wholly unprepared for what suddenly burst upon her gaze from the
summit.

"Oh--how glorious!" she cried.

It seemed she gazed down on an endless green slope of massed tree-tops,
across a rolling basin black with forest, to a colossal wall of red rock,
level and black fringed on top, but wildly broken along its face into
gigantic cliffs, escarpments, points, and ledges, far as eye could see to
east or west. How different from any other country Lucy had ever viewed!
A strong sweet breath of pine assailed her nostrils. Almost she tasted it.
In all the miles of green and black there was not a break. If homes of
people existed there, they were lost in the immensity of the forest. An
eagle soared far beneath her, with the sun shining on his wide-spread
wings. A faint roar of running water floated up from the depths, and that
was the only sound to disturb the great stillness. To one who had long
been used to flat desert, the drab and yellow barrenness, how fertile
and beautiful these miles and miles of rolling green! That wild grand
wall of rock seemed to shut in the basin, to bar it from what lay beyond.
Lastly the loneliness, the solitude, gripped Lucy's heart.

"We're on top of Cedar Ridge," the school teacher was saying. "That
mountain wall is called the Red Rim Rock. It's about thirty miles in a
straight line...We're looking down upon the homes of the backwoodsmen
you've come to live among."


Chapter II

The road down into this forest-land contrasted markedly with the ascent on
the other side of the ridge; it was no longer steep and dusty; the soil
was a sandy loam; the trees that shaded it were larger and more spreading.
Birds, rabbits, and squirrels made their presence known.

Some ferns and mosses appeared on the edge of the woods, and pine trees
were interspersed among the cedars. Mr. Jenks was nothing if not
loquacious, and he varied his talk with snatches of natural history, bits
of botany, and considerable forestry. It appeared he had once been a
forest ranger in one of the Northern states. Lucy had a natural thirst for
knowledge, something that her situation in life had tended to develop.

They descended to a level and followed the road through pine thickets
above which an occasional monarch of the forest reared itself
commandingly. At length they abruptly drove out of the woods into the
first clearing. Lucy's thought was--how hideous! It was a slash in the
forest, a denuded square, with dead trees standing in the brown fields,
a rickety fence of crooked poles surrounding a squat log cabin, with open
door and dark window suggestive of vacancy.

"Family named Sprall once lived here," said Mr. Jenks. "Improvident sort
of man. He has a large family, more or less addicted to white mule. They
moved back in some canyon under the Rim."

"I've heard of this white mule," replied. Lucy.

"Of course it's a drink, and I gather that it kicks like a mule. But just
what is it?"

"Just plain moonshine whisky without colour. It looks like alcohol. It is
alcohol. I once took a taste. Fire and brimstone! I nearly choked to
death...The people of this district make it to some extent. They raise a
kind of cane from which they distil the liquor. But I'm bound to say that
seldom indeed do I see a drunken man."

Beyond this deserted clearing the road tunnelled into a denser forest
where the pungent odour of pine thickly pervaded the atmosphere. The
ground was a smooth mat of pine needles, only sparsely grown over with
underbrush. Live-oak trees appeared, at first stunted, but gradually
developing into rugged members of the forest. Noon found the travellers
halted beside the first brook, a tiny trickling rill of clear water. Lucy
was grateful for a cool drink. Mr. Jenks had been thoughtful to provide a
lunch, of which they partook while sitting in the shade of an oak.

Here Lucy had opportunity to observe a small reddish-brown squirrel that
was the sauciest little animal she had ever beheld. It occupied a branch
above her and barked in no uncertain notes its displeasure and curiosity.
Presently its chatter attracted a beautiful crested blue jay that flew
close and uttered high-pitched notes, wild and fierce in their intensity.

"I hope the people here are not as antagonistic as this squirrel and
bird," observed Lucy.

"A few of them are--like the Spralls, for instance," replied. Mr. Jenks.
"Well, we still have far to go. I call it five miles from here to
Johnson's. You'll say it's five leagues."

If Lucy had not been eager and anxious to establish her position securely
here in the region she would have revelled in the winding shady road
through the green-canopied, sun-flecked forest. Along here it had a
considerable sameness, that added to the distance. Lucy indeed found the
so-called five miles almost interminable. About two o'clock Mr. Jenks
drove into another clearing, somewhat less hideous than the first one, but
still a crude, ragged, unpastoral kind of farm. A wide green field dotted
by cows and horses was the only redeeming feature. Log corrals and pole
fences led the eye to a large log cabin surrounded by shacks old and
mouldy roofed, manifestly the first buildings erected.

"This is the Johnson place, where I live," said Mr. Jenks, with a smile.
"That framework of boards, covered by a tent, is my humble domicile.
Do you know, Miss Watson, I have actually grown to love sleeping out
there?...This is Sunday, which means the Johnsons will all be home or all
away visiting."

The school teacher drove through an open gate in the log fence, and past
a huge flat barn, dark and odorous of horses, to draw rein at the back of
the cabin. "I was wrong. Sam Johnson is home, at least. I don't know the
boy with him," said Mr. Jenks as he threw the reins and got down.

"I'd like to walk a little," rejoined Lucy.

"You'll probably walk, and climb, and besides ride horseback, before
you're through to-day," replied Mr. Jenks, laughing, as he reached for
his parcels on the seat.

"Oh, that'll be fine!" exclaimed Lucy, delighted. And naturally she gazed
over at the young men sitting on the rude porch. They might have been two
of the boys she had seen in the dining-room at Cedar Ridge.

"Sam, she's a looker," drawled one of them in a perfectly audible voice.

The other stood up, disclosing a tall, lithe form clad in blue jeans. He
had a shock of tousled chestnut hair and a freckled face that on the
moment bore a broad grin.

"Dog-gone me!" he ejaculated. "Teacher has fetched back a wife."

Lucy met the teacher's eyes. They were twinkling. She could not restrain
a laugh, yet she felt a blush rise to her face.

"Sam flatters me, Miss Watson," said Mr. Jenks in a low voice.
"But that illustrates."

"They must have this wife business on the brain," retorted Lucy,
half nettled.

The teacher called to the young man, Sam, who approached leisurely,
a young giant somewhere over twenty years of age, clean-eyed and
smooth-faced.

"Howdy, teacher!" he drawled, but his light hazel eyes were fixed on Lucy.

"This is Sam Johnson," spoke up Mr. Jenks, turning to Lucy. "Sam, meet
Miss Lucy Watson of Felix. She has come to sojourn awhile with us."

"Right glad to meet you," said Sam, somewhat shyly.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson," replied Lucy.



"Sam, will you saddle two horses for us? I'm taking Miss Watson up to
Denmeade's," interposed Mr. Jenks.

"Shore will, teacher," rejoined Sam, and moved away with sidelong glance
at Lucy.

"Have you any riding clothes?" inquired Mr. Jenks, as if suddenly
reminded of something important.

"Yes. I was careful not to forget outdoor things," replied Lucy.

"Good! I'll carry your grips to my tent where you can change. Of course
we'll have to leave your baggage here until we interview Denmeade.
If all goes well it can be packed up to-night."

The interior of Mr. Jenks's abode was vastly more prepossessing than
the exterior. It was such an attractive little place that Lucy decided
she wanted one similar to it, for the summer at least. The furnishings
included a comfortable-looking cot, a washstand with mirror above,
a table, books, lamp, and pictures. Several skins, notably a long grey
furry one she took to have belonged to the lion Mr. Jenks had mentioned,
served as rugs for the rude board floor. A picture of a sweet, sad-looking
woman occupied a prominent place. Lucy wondered if she was his wife.

It did not take her many minutes to get into her riding clothes.
Fortunately they had seen a service which now appeared likely to serve her
in good stead. At normal school Lucy had ridden horseback once a week,
and felt that she was not altogether a tenderfoot. Finding her gauntlets,
she had the forethought to pack her travelling suit, so that in case she
remained at Denmeade's her baggage could be sent for. Then, with a last
and not unsatisfied glance at herself in the mirror, she sallied forth
from the tent, keen for this next stage of her adventure.

A glossy, spirited little bay pony stood there saddled and bridled,
champing his bit. Another horse, dusty and shaggy, large in build and
very bony, was haltered to the hitching rail near by. Mr. Jenks was
lacing something on the saddle of the smaller horse. Sam Johnson
lounged beside him and the other fellow had approached. He did not
appear so tall or so lean as young Johnson.

Lucy felt uncertain how these backwoodsmen would take her rather trim
and natty riding suit, but as she knew she looked well it gave her no
great concern. She had made up her mind to win the liking of all these
people, if possible.

"What a pretty pony!" she exclaimed. "Am I to ride him, Mr. Jenks?"

"Yes--if you can," returned the teacher dubiously as he looked up from
his task. "I assure you he is no pony, but a very mettlesome mustang."

"Aw, teacher, Buster's as gentle as a lamb," protested Sam. Then,
indicating his companion by a sweep of his long arm, he said, "Miss Lucy,
this here is my cousin, Gerd Claypool."

Lucy had to give her hand to the brown-faced young man, for he had
extended a great paw. She liked his face. It was rich and warm with
healthy blood, and expressive of both eagerness and bashfulness. Lucy was
not going to forget his remark, "Sam, she's a looker!" and she gazed as
demurely as possible into his blue eyes. It took only one glance to
convince her that he was of the type Mrs. Lynn had praised so heartily.
Lucy also saw that he was quite overcome.

"Mettlesome mustang?" echoed Lucy, gazing from Mr. Jenks to Sam. "Does
that mean anything terrible? I assure you I'm no cowgirl."

Sam's shrewd eyes sought her boots and then her gauntlets. "Wal, you're
shore no stranger to a hoss. Buster isn't a bronc. He's never pitched with
a girl yet. Talk to him some an' pat him as if you'd no idea a hoss
could be mean."

Lucy did as she was bidden, successfully hiding her nervousness; and
it appeared that Buster did not show any viciousness or fear. He had
a keen, dark eye, somewhat fiery, but not at all fierce. As he was a small
horse, Lucy mounted him easily, to her satisfaction.

"How's the length of your stirrups?" asked Mr. Jenks.

"Just right, I think," replied Lucy, standing up in them.

"Wal, I reckon they're a little long--I mean short," drawled Sam,
approaching.

Lucy was quick to grasp the guile in this young gentleman of the woods.
He was as clear as an inch of crystal water. She grasped just as quickly
the fact that she was going to have a good deal of fun with these boys.
Sam knew her stirrups were all right; what he wanted was a chance to
come close to her while she was in the saddle. It was an old cowboy trick.

"Thanks, I'm very comfortable," she said, smiling at him.

Meanwhile Mr. Jenks had mounted and turned his horse toward the road.

"I never rode this nag," he said. "Come now, Miss Watson."

"Teacher, look out she doesn't run off from you," called Sam as they
started. His voice was full of mirth. "An', Miss Lucy, that's shore a
regular hoss you're ridin'."

Lucy turned in the saddle. "I nearly forgot to thank you, Mr. Johnson.
It is good of you to let me ride him."

She found Buster rather hard to hold in. Before she had followed Mr. Jenks
many paces she heard Sam blurt out to his cousin, "Gerd, by golly! it's
shore worth a lot to have Edd Denmeade see that girl ridin' my best hoss."

"Haw! Haw!" roared Gerd, and then made a reply Lucy could not distinguish.

Presently she caught up with her guide and together they rode out through
the corral.

"Mr. Jenks, did you hear what they said?" inquired Lucy.

"Indeed I did. They're full of the Old Nick, those boys. I'd like to be
in your boots, yet again I wouldn't."

"What did he mean by saying it was worth a lot to have Edd Denmeade see
me riding his horse?"

"It was a compliment to you, especially his emphasis on the qualifying
adjective before girl," replied the teacher, with a chuckle. "You see,
Edd Denmeade seems a superior sort of person to most of the boys.
Really he is only forceful--a strong, simple, natural character. But the
boys don't understand him. And the girls do still less. That is why I
suspect some have refused to marry him. Sam now is tickled to have Edd see
the very prettiest girl who ever came to Cedar Ridge ride up on his horse.
Edd will be wild with jealousy."

"Goodness! I'm afraid most girl visitors here have been homely,"
replied Lucy.

"No, they haven't been, either," declared the teacher. "Now, Miss Watson,
we have a mile or so of good sandy road before we cut off on the trails.
Let's have a gallop. But be sure you don't do what Sam hinted--run off
from me. You might get lost."

With that he urged his mount from walk to trot and from trot to gallop.
Lucy's horse did not need urging; he bolted and shot down the road ahead
of Mr. Jenks. Lucy was alarmed at first and found it hard to keep her
feet in the stirrups. But soon she caught the swing of the mustang and
then a wild impulse prompted her to let him run. How fast he sped on under
the pines. His gait made the saddle seem like a rocking-chair. But she
hauled hard on Buster, obedient to the resolve she had made--that she
would restrain herself in all ways. Pulling him to a swinging canter,
Lucy took stock of pleasant sensations. The rush through the pine-scented
air was exhilarating; soon the exercise had her blood dancing all over
her; low branches of pine tore at her hair; the turns of the winding road
through the woods allured with their call of strange new scenes. Rabbits
darted ahead of her, across the open, into the pine thickets. At length,
some distance ahead she saw where the road forked, and here she brought
Buster to a stand. She was tingling, pulsing with heated blood, and felt
that she could have cried out with the joy of the moment.

Mr. Jenks came galloping up to halt beside her. "That was bully," he
said. "Miss Watson, you need not be ashamed of your riding...We take
the left-hand road. That to the right goes on to my log-cabin school. I
wish we had time to see it. A little way farther we strike a trail."



Soon after that Lucy was riding behind the teacher along a narrow trail
that almost at once began to lead downhill. The forest grew denser and the
shade became dark and cool. Rocks and ledges cropped out of the ground,
and all about her appeared to tend toward a wilder and more rugged nature.
The dreamy, drowsy hum which filled Lucy's ears swelled to a roar. It came
from far down through the forest. It was running water, and it thrilled
Lucy. How sweet and welcome this verdant forest to eyes long used to
desert glare! The trail took a decided pitch, so that Lucy had to cling
to the pommel of her saddle. It led down and down, into a ravine full of
mellow roar, deep, murmuring, mystical, where the great trees shut out
the sky.

Only faint gleams of sunlight filtered down. They came to a rushing brook
of amber water, brawling and foaming over rocks, tearing around huge
mossy boulders, and gleaming on down a wild defile, gloomy with its
shadows.

The horses stopped to drink and then forded the brook, crashing on the
rocks, plunging on to splash the water ahead. Lucy had a touch of that
sweet cold water on her face. On the other side the trail turned up this
beautiful glen, and followed the brook, winding in and out among boulders
that loomed high overhead. Ferns and flowers bordered the trail. Maples
and birches grew thickly under the stately pines. Lucy became aware of
another kind of tree, the most wonderful she had ever seen, huge-trunked,
thick with drooping foliage, and lifting its proud height spear-shaped to
the sky. Her guide informed her that this tree was a silver spruce, which
name seemed singularly felicitous.

Again they forded the brook, to Lucy's mingled dismay and delight, and
after that so many times that she forgot them and also her fears. The
forest became a grand temple. Higher towered the forest patriarchs,
two hundred feet and more above her head, mingling their foliage in a
lacy canopy, like a green veil against the blue. She caught a glimpse of
wild, sleek, grey creatures bounding as on rubber legs into the brush.
Deer!

At last the trail led out of the fragrant glen and zigzagged up a slope,
to the dry forest of pines, and on and upward, farther and higher until
Lucy felt she had ascended to the top of a mountain. She lost the mellow
roar of the brook. The woodland changed its aspect, grew hot with dusty
trail and thick with manzanita, above which the yellow-barked pines
reached with great gnarled arms. Open places were now frequent. Once Lucy
saw a red wall of rock so high above her that she gasped in
astonishment. That was the Red Rim Rock, seemingly so closer though yet
far away. Lucy became conscious of aches and pains. She shifted from
side to side in the saddle, and favoured this foot, then the other. Often
she had to urge Buster on to catch up with her guide.

Suddenly she turned a corner of the brushy trail to ride out into a
clearing. Bare brown earth, ghastly dead pines, like spectres, seemed to
lift her gaze to where, sky-high, the red wall heaved, bold, strange,
terrific, yet glorious with its zigzag face blazing in the hues of sunset,
and its black-fringed crown wandering away as if to the ends of the earth.

Strangely then into her mind flashed a thought of this backwoods boy
whose name had been on the lips of everyone she had met. Born under that
colossal wall! All his life in this forest and rock solitude! Lucy could
not help but wonder what manner of man he was. She resented an involuntary
interest. The force of a personality had been thrust upon her. It was
feminine intuition that caused her, unconsciously, to fortify herself
by roused antagonism.

Mr. Jenks pointed to a little rough grey house, half log, half stones,
that dominated the clearing. "Denmeade built it twenty-three years ago,"
said the teacher. "He and his wife walked up here, from no one knows
where. They had a burro, a cow, a gun, and an axe, and some dogs.
They homesteaded this section. He has five girls and four boys, all born
in that little one-room hut. Edd is the oldest--he's twenty-two. Last
year they built quite a fine log cabin, up in the woods beyond the fields.
You can't see it from here."

The surroundings seemed fitting for such heroic people as these Denmeades.

"They may be backwoodsmen," declared Lucy, voicing her thought, "but I'd
call them pioneers. Which is to say real Americans."

"Miss Watson, I like that," replied the teacher warmly. "You have gotten
the significance. These people are great."

Over against that impulsive impression Lucy had the crudeness of the
scene to oppose it. She was intelligent enough to accept crudeness as a
part of pioneer life. It could not be otherwise. But she gazed over the
slash cut in the forest, and found it lacking in anything she could
admire. The Red Rim Rock and the encircling belt of mighty green were
facts of nature. This space of bare ground with its ghastly dead trees,
its ruined old hut, its uncouth shacks of boards and poles, its pigs
rooting around, its utter lack of what constituted her idea of a farm,
somehow did not seem to harmonise with the noble pioneer spirit.
Lucy hesitated to make this impression permanent. She did not like the
look of this place, but she was broad-minded enough to wait. She hoped
she would not find these people lazy, shiftless, dirty, existing in
squalid surroundings. Yet she feared that would be exactly what she
would find.

The trail led along a patchwork fence of poles and sticks, here rotting
away and there carelessly mended by the throwing of an untrimmed branch
of tree. At the corner of the huge field snuggled the rude shacks she had
seen from afar, all the worse for nearer view. They rode between these and
a round log corral, full of pigs of all sizes, and from which came an
unbearable stench. Some of the hogs were stuck in the mud. Lucy saw some
tiny baby pigs, almost pink, with funny little curly tails, and sight of
these gave her unexpected pleasure. So she experienced two extremes of
feeling in passing that point.

From there the trail led through an uncared-for orchard of peach trees,
into a narrow lane cut in the woods. The pines had been left where they
had fallen, and lay brown and seared in the tangle of green. This lane was
full of stumps.

"You appreciate why we needed horses to get here, don't you?" inquired
Mr. Jenks.

"Indeed I do!" replied Lucy.

"Denmeade said he'd never live in a place where wheels could go. I rather
sympathise with that spirit, but it is not one of a progressive farmer.
I dare say you will have it to combat."

The lane descended into a ravine, where clear water ran over stones that
rang hollow under the hoofs of the horses. Lucy saw cows and calves, a
very old sheep, woolly and dirty, and a wicked-looking steer with wide
sharp horns. Lucy was glad to get safely past him. They rode up again,
into a wider lane, at the end of which showed a long cabin, somewhat
obscured by more peach trees. A column of blue smoke curled up against the
background of red wall. A fence of split boards surrounded the cabin.
A strip of woods on the right separated this lane from the bare field.
Lucy could see light through the pine foliage. The brook meandered down
a shallow ravine on this side; and on the other a deep gully yawned, so
choked with dead trees and green foliage and red rocks, that Lucy could
not see the bottom. She heard, however, the fall of water.

A dog barked. Then rose a chorus of barks and bays, not in the least a
friendly welcome. It increased to an uproar. Lucy began to be conscious
of qualms when a loud sharp voice rang out. The uproar ceased.

"Hyar, you onery dawgs, shet up!" the voice continued.

Then Lucy saw a tall man emerge from the peach trees and come to the gate.
His garb was dark, his face also at that distance, and they gave a
sinister effect.

"That's Denmeade," whispered Mr. Jenks. "We're lucky. Now, young lady,
use your wits."

They rode on the few remaining rods, and reaching the rude hitching rail
in front of the fence, they halted the horses. Mr. Jenks dismounted and
greeted the big man at the gate.

"Howdy, teacher!" he replied in a deep pleasant drawl.

"Fine, thank you, Denmeade," returned Mr. Jenks as he extended his hand
over the fence. "I've brought a visitor to see you. This is Miss Lucy
Watson of Felix."

Lucy essayed her most winning smile as she acknowledged the introduction.

"Glad to meet you, miss," responded Denmeade. "Get down an' come in."

Dismounting, Lucy approached the gate, to look up into a visage as rugged
as the rock wall above. Denmeade was not old or grey, though his features
showed the ravages of years. Lucy had no time to mark details. The man's
eyes, grey and piercing as those of an eagle, caught and held her gaze.

"If you please, I'd like to talk to you alone before I go in," she said
appealingly.

Denmeade removed the huge battered black sombrero, and ran a brawny hand
through his thick dark hair. The grey eyes twinkled and a smile changed
the craggy nature of his face.

"Wal, seein' as Edd ain't hyar, I reckon I can risk it," he drawled.

Mr. Jenks suggested that they sit in the shade; and presently Lucy found
herself seated on a stump, facing this curious backwoodsman. He seemed a
more approachable person than she had pictured, yet there was something
about him, strong, raw, fierce, like the wilds in which he lived. Lucy had
worried about this coming interview; had schooled herself to a deliberate
diplomacy. But she forgot worry and plan. The man's simplicity made
her sincere.

"Mr. Denmeade, I want a job," she announced bluntly.

It was good to see his astonishment and utter incredulity. Such a
situation had never before happened in his life. He stared. His seamed
visage worked into a wonderful grin.

"Wal, I reckon yo're foolin'," he said, and he turned to Jenks. "Teacher,
shore you've hatched some kind of a joke."

"No, Denmeade. Miss Watson is in earnest," replied the school-teacher.

"Indeed I am," added Lucy, trying to restrain her impulsiveness.

But Denmeade still could not take her seriously. "Wal, can you chop wood,
carry water, pick beans, an' hop around lively--say fer a fellar like
my Edd?"

"Yes, I could, but that is not the kind of a job I want," returned Lucy.

"Wal, there ain't no other kin' of work up hyar fer a woman," he said
seriously.

"Yes, there is...It's to make better homes for the children."

"Better homes! What you mean?" ejaculated Denmeade.

Briefly Lucy explained some of the ways the homes in the wilderness could
be made happier for women and children. Denmeade was profoundly impressed.

"Wal now, young woman, I reckon it's good of you to think of them nice
an' pretty ways fer our kids an' their mothers. But we're poor. We
couldn't pay you, let alone fer them things they need so bad."

Lucy's heart throbbed with joy. She knew intuitively that she had struck
the right chord in this old backwoodsman. Whereupon she produced her
papers.

"It's a new thing, Mr. Denmeade," she said earnestly. "State welfare
work. My salary and the expenses I incur are paid by the state. It's all
here for you to read, and my references."

Denmeade took her papers in his horny hands and began to read with the
laborious and intense application of one to whom reading was unfamiliar
and difficult. He took long to go over the brief typed words, and longer
over the personal letter from the superintendent of the state department
that had engaged Lucy. Finally he absorbed the import.

"Welfare! State government! Dog-gone me!" he ejaculated, almost
bewildered. "Say, Jenks, what ails them fellars down thar?"

"Perhaps they have just waked up to the needs of this north country,"
replied the teacher.

"Shore them papers don't read like they had an axe to grind. Reckon it
ain't no politics or some trick to make us pay taxes?"

"Denmeade, they read honest to me, and my advice if you ask it is to
accept their help."

"Humph! It shore took them a long time to build us a school-house an'
send us a teacher. Whar did they ever get this hyar welfare idee?"

"Mr. Denmeade," spoke up Lucy, "I had something to do with this idea. It
really developed out of my offer to go into welfare work in a civilised
district."

"Wal, comin' from a gal like you, it ain't hard to accept," he declared,
and he extended his great brown hand. His grey eyes flashed with a
softened light.

Lucy placed her hand in his, and as he almost crushed it she was at
considerable pains to keep from crying out. When he released it she felt
that it was limp and numb.

"You--you mean it--it's all right?" she stammered. "You'll let me
stay--help me get started?"

"I shore will," he replied forcefully. "You stay hyar with us as long as
you want. I reckon, though, the other four families close by in this high
country need you more'n us. Seth Miller's, Hank Claypool's, Ora Johnson's,
an' Tom Sprall's."

"Miss Watson, the Ora Johnson he means is a brother of the Sam Johnson
you met," interposed Mr. Jenks.

Lucy was too happy to express her gratitude, and for a moment lost her
dignity. Her incoherent thanks brought again the broad grin to Denmeade's
face.

"Jenks, come to think about it, thar's angles to this hyar job Miss Lucy
is aimin' at," he remarked thoughtfully. "She can't do a lot for one
family an' slight another. If she stays hyar with us she'll have to stay
with the others."

"Of course. That's what I expect to do," said Lucy.

"Wal, miss, I ain't given to brag, but I reckon you'll find it different
after stayin' with us," rejoined Denmeade, shaking his shaggy head.

Plain it was for Lucy to see that Mr. Jenks agreed with him.

"In just what way? queried Lucy.

"Lots of ways, but particular, say--Ora Johnson has an old cabin with one
room. Countin' his wife, thar's eight in the family. All live in that one
room! With one door an' no winder!"

Lucy had no ready reply for such an unexpected circumstance as this,
and she gazed at Mr. Jenks in mute dismay.

"I have a tent I'll lend her," he said. "It can be erected on a frame
with board floor. Very comfortable."

"Wal, I reckon that would do fer Johnson's. But how about Tom Sprall's?
Thar's more in his outfit, an' only two cabins. But shore no room for her.
An' the tent idee won't do--sartin not whar Bud Sprall goes rarin' around
full of white mule. It wouldn't be safe."

"Denmeade, I had that very fear in mind," said Mr. Jenks earnestly.
"Miss Watson will have to avoid Sprall's."

"Shore, it'd ought to be done. But I'm reckonin' that'll raise hell.
Tom is a mean cuss, an' his outfit of wimmen are jealous as coyote poison.
They'll all have to know Miss Lucy is hyar helpin' everybody equal.
They'll all want equal favours from the state. I ain't sayin' a word
ag'in' Tom, but he's a rustler. An' thar's turrible bad blood between Bud
Sprall an' my boy Edd."

"You see, Miss Watson, it's not going to be as rosy as we hoped," said
Mr. Jenks regretfully.

"I'm not afraid," replied Lucy resolutely. "It never looked easy. I accept
it, come what may. The Spralls shall not be slighted."

"Wal, you've settled it, an' thar ain't nothin' wrong with your nerve,"
replied Denmeade. "Come in now an' meet my folks. Teacher, you'll eat
supper with us?"

"I'm sorry, Denmeade. I must hurry back and send Sam up with her baggage,"
returned Jenks, rising. "Good-bye, Miss Watson. I wish you luck. Come down
to school with the children. I'll see you surely at the dance Friday
night."

"I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Jenks," replied Lucy. "You've helped me.
I will want to see you soon. But I can't say that it will be at the
dance."

"Shore she'll be thar, teacher," said Denmeade. "She can't stay hyar
alone, an' if she wanted to, Edd wouldn't let her."

"Oh--indeed," murmured Lucy constrainedly, as Denmeade and the
school-teacher exchanged laughs. How irrepressibly this Edd bobbed up at
every turn of conversation! Right then Lucy resolved that she would
certainly not go to the dance. And she realised an undue curiosity in
regard to this backwoods boy.


Chapter III

Lucy followed her escort into the yard and between the blossoming peach
trees to the cabin. She saw now that it was a new structure built of
flat-hewn logs, long and low, with a peaked roof of split shingles
covering two separate square cabins and the wide space between them.
This roof also extended far out to cover a porch the whole length of
the building. Each cabin had a glass window, and the door, which Lucy
could not see, must have faced the middle porch. The rude solid structure
made a rather good impression.

A long-eared hound stood wagging his tail at the head of the porch steps.
Lucy's roving eye took in other dogs asleep in sunny spots; several little
puppies with ears so long they stumbled over them as they ran pell-mell
to meet Denmeade; heavy rolls of canvas, no doubt blankets or bedding,
were piled along the wall; saddles and saddle blankets were ranged in
similar order on the opposite side; the cabin wall on the right was
studded with pegs upon which hung kitchen utensils and tools; that on
the left held deer and elk antlers used as racks for hats, guns, ropes.
The wide space of porch between the two cabins evidently served as an
outdoor dining-room, for a rude home-carpentered table and benches
occupied the centre.

At Denmeade's call a flock of children came trooping out of the door of
the left cabin. They were big-eyed, dirty and ragged, and sturdy of build.
A sallow, thin-faced little woman, in coarse dress and heavy shoes,
followed them.

"Ma, this hyar is Miss Lucy Watson from Felix," announced Denmeade.

Mrs. Denmeade greeted Lucy cordially and simply, without show of curiosity
or astonishment. Then Denmeade told her in his blunt speech what Lucy had
come for. This information brought decided surprise and welcome to the
woman's face. Lucy was quick to see what perhaps Denmeade had never known
in his life. She added a few earnest words in her own behalf, calculated
to strengthen Mrs. Denmeade's impression, and to say that when convenient
they would talk over the work Lucy was to undertake.

"Reckon you're a new kind of teacher?" queried Mrs. Denmeade. "Sort of
home-teacher?"

"Why yes, you could call me that," replied Lucy smiling.

"Shore, that'll please the kids," said Denmeade. "They sort of look up to
a teacher. You see we've only had school-teachers a few years. Edd went
four years, Allie three, Dick an' Joe three, Mertie two, Mary an' Dan one.
Liz an' Lize, the twins hyar, five years old--they haven't started yet."

Whereupon the children were presented to Lucy, a situation rich in
pleasure and interest for her. The twins were as like as two peas in a
pod, chubby, rosy-cheeked little girls, fair-haired, with big eyes of grey
like their father's. To Lucy's overtures they were shy, silent, yet
fascinated. Dan was a dark-headed youngster, with eyes to match, dirty,
mischievous, bold, and exceedingly responsive to Lucy. Mary, too, was
dark, though lighter than Dan, older by a year or two, a thin overworked
girl who under favourable conditions would be pretty. The several other
children present were Claypools, visiting the Denmeades. When Lucy had
greeted them all she was to meet Denmeade's older daughters Allie, a young
woman, huge of build, with merry face, and Mertie, a girl of sixteen,
quite beautiful in a wild-rose kind of way. She was the only one of the
family who showed anything of colour or neatness in her attire. Manifestly
she wore her Sunday dress, a coarse print affair. Her sharp dark eyes
seemed more concerned with Lucy's riding habit, the way she had arranged
her hair and tied her scarf, than with Lucy's presence there.

Lucy was taken into the left-hand cabin, to meet the mother and sister of
the Claypool children. They, too, were hard-featured, unprepossessing,
and bore the unmistakable marks of hard labour in a hard country. All
these impressions of Lucy's were hasty ones that she knew might pass
entirely or change. Intense as was her interest, she could not stare at or
study these people. She had to confess that they put her at her ease.
There was not a suspicion of inhospitality, or, for that matter, except
on the part of the children, the betrayal of anything unusual about this
new-corner. Lucy was given one of the few home-made chairs, a rude
triangular board affair that could be set two ways. And then the
conversation which no doubt her advent had interrupted was resumed by the
older women.

The twins began to manifest signs of being irresistibly drawn to Lucy.
They were in the toils of a new experience. Lucy had been used to
children, and had taken several months of kindergarten work, which was
going to be of infinite value to her here. She listened to the
conversation, which turned out to be homely gossip, differing only in
content from gossip anywhere. And while doing so she had a chance to gaze
casually round the room.

The walls were bare, of rough-hewn logs, with the chinks between plastered
with clay. There was a window on each side. A huge rough stone fire-place
occupied nearly all the west end of the cabin. In a left-hand corner, next
to the fire-place, was a closet of boards reaching from floor to ceiling.
This ceiling appeared to be of the same kind of shingling Lucy had
observed on the roof. The floor was rough clapboard, like that of the
porch outside. The two corners opposite the fire-place contained built-in
beds, bulky with a quilted covering. There were no other articles of
furniture, not even a table or lamp.

Lucy appreciated that this living-room, despite its lack of comforts,
might be far superior to the dark, clay-floored cabin rooms she had heard
about. It was at least dry and light. But its bareness jarred on her. What
did these people do with their leisure time, if they had any? The younger
women talked of nothing save dances and boys; their elders interpolated
their gossip with bits of news about the homely labours that spring had
brought. Mary was the only one of the children whom Lucy could induce to
talk; and she had, apparently, a limited range of subjects. School, the
burro she rode, the puppies she played with, appeared to be in possession
of her mind.

At length the Claypools announced that if they were to reach home by
dark they must hurry.

"Come an' see us," invited the mother, addressing Lucy, and the grown
daughter added: "'By. Reckon Edd'll be fetchin' you an' Mertie to
the dance."

Lucy murmured something non-committal in reply, and accompanied the women
and children outside. They left the porch at the far end of the cabin,
and went through a side gate out into the woods, where two horses and a
burro were haltered to trees. Dogs, sheep, and chickens tagged at their
heels. There was a rather open clearing under the pines, trodden bare,
and covered with red and white chips of wood.

Women and children talked all together, so that it was impossible for
Lucy to distinguish much of what was said. She gathered, however, that
Mrs. Denmeade told Mrs. Claypool something about Lucy's welfare work.
Then mother and daughter, unmindful of their skirts, mounted the two
horses.

The burro raised one long ear and cocked the other at the three Claypool
youngsters. Mrs. Denmeade and Allie lifted them up on the back of the
burro. It had a halter tied round its nose. The little boy, who could not
have been more than four years old, had the foremost position astride the
burro. He took up the halter. His sisters, aged, respectively, about
three and two, rode behind him. The older girl got her arms round the boy,
and the younger did likewise by her sister. Lucy was not only amazed and
frightened for the youngsters, but also so amused she could scarcely
contain herself.

"Aren't you afraid you'll fall off?" she asked, standing abreast of them.

"Naw!" said the boy. And the elder girl, with a sober smile at Lucy,
added: "'Tain't nuthin' to fall off. But it's hard gettin' back on."

It required considerable beating and kicking on the part of the three to
start the burro after the horses, but at last he decided to move, and
trotted off.

"How far have they to go? inquired Lucy, as she watched them disappear
in the woods.

"Reckon five miles or so. They'll get home about dark," replied
Mrs. Denmeade. "Now, girls, there's supper to get. An', Miss Watson,
you're goin' to be more one of the family than company. Make yourself
to home."

Mary attached herself to Lucy and led her around the corner of the
cabin to see the puppies, while the twins toddled behind. Lucy wanted
to know the names of the puppies and all about them. When Mary had
exhausted this subject she led Lucy to see her especial playground,
which was across the ravine in a sheltered spot redolent of pine needles.
She showed Lucy a nook under a large manzanita where she played with
pine cones and bits of Indian pottery, which she said she had found right
there. Lucy had to see the spring, and the stone steps across the brook,
and the big iron kettle and tub which were used in washing. Lucy looked
in vain for an outhouse of any description. There was none, not even a
chicken-coop. Mary said the chickens roosted in trees, like the wild
turkeys, to keep from being eaten by beasts. Lucy inquired about these
beasts, and further if there were snakes and bugs.

"Rattlers, trantulars, an' scorpions in summer. That's all that's bad,"
said Mary.

"Goodness! That's enough!" exclaimed Lucy.

"They won't hurt nobody," added the child simply. Then she led Lucy across
the clearing, where the twins tarried on an enterprise of their own, and
down a trail into the deep gully. Here among the rocks and ferns,
overshadowed by the pines and sycamores, they got away from the despoiled
forest above. Lucy was glad to rest a little and listen to Mary's prattle.
How wild and rugged this gully. Yet it was scarcely a stone's-throw from
the cabin. The clear water babbled over smooth red stone and little falls
and gravelly bars.

"It dries up in summer," said Mary, indicating the brook. "Sometimes the
spring does, too. Then we all have to pack water from way down."

They came at length to a green bench that had been cleared of brush and
small trees, yet, owing to the giant spreading pines above, did not long
get direct rays of the sun. Rude boxes, some of them painted, were
scattered around on little platforms of stones.

"Edd's beehives," said Mary, with grave importance. "We must be awful
good. Edd doesn't mind if we behave."

"I'll be very careful, Mary. I don't want to get stung. Are they real
wild bees?"

"Shore. But Edd tames them. Oh, Edd loves bees somethin' turrible,"
answered the child solemnly. "Bees never sting him, even when he's
choppin' a new bee tree."

"Why does Edd do that? inquired Lucy.

"Didn't you ever--ever hear of Edd Denmeade's honey?" returned Mary, in
great surprise. "Pa says it's the best in the world. Oh-umum! He'll shore
give you some. Edd likes girls next to his bees...He's a bee hunter.
Pa says Edd's the best bee liner he ever seen."

"Bee liner! What's that, Mary?"

"Why, he watches for bees, an' when they come he lines them. Bees fly
straight off, you know. He lines them to their hive in a tree. Then
he chops it down. Always he saves the honey, an' sometimes he saves
the bees."

The child added to the interest accumulating round the name of Edd
Denmeade.

"Where is Edd now?" asked Lucy.

"He went to Winbrook with the pack burros," replied Mary. "That's up over
the Rim an' far off, to the railroad. Edd's promised to take me there
some day. Shore he ought to be back soon. I want him awful bad. Candy! Edd
always fetches us candy. He'll come by Mertie's birthday. That's next
Wednesday. He's fetchin' Mertie's new dress. Her first boughten one!
She's sixteen. An' Edd's givin' it to her. Oh, he'll come shore 'cause he
loves Mertie."

"Of course he loves you, too? queried Lucy, winningly.

"Ma says so. But Mertie's his favourite. She's so pretty. I wish I was,"
replied Mary, with childish pathos.

"You will be, Mary, when you are sixteen, if you are good and learn how
to take care of yourself, and have beautiful thoughts," said Lucy.

"Ma told Mrs. Claypool you was a home-teacher. Are you goin' to teach
me all that?"

"Yes, and more. Won't you like to learn how to make nice dresses?"

"Oh!" cried Mary beamingly, and she burst into a babble of questions.
Lucy answered. How simple! She had anticipated cudgelling her brains to
satisfy these backwoods children. But Mary was already won. They remained
in the gully until the sun sank, and then climbed out. Mary ran to confide
her bursting news to the little twin sisters, and Lucy was left to herself
for the time being. She walked down the lane, and across the strip of
woodland to the open fields, and out where she could see.

Westward along the Rim vast capes jutted out, differing in shape and
length, all ragged, sharp, fringed, reaching darkly for the gold and
purple glory of the sunset. Shafts and rays of light streamed from the
rifts in the clouds, blazing upon the bold rock faces of the wall.
Eastward the Rim zigzagged endlessly into pale cold purple. Southward a
vast green hollow ran like a river of the sea, to empty, it seemed, into
space. Beyond that rose dim spectral shapes of mountains, remote and
detached. To the north the great wall shut out what might lie beyond.

How unscalable it looked to Lucy! Points of rim ran out, narrow, broken,
sloping, apparently to sheer off into the void. But the distance was far
and the light deceiving. Lucy knew a trail came down the ragged cape that
loomed out over Denmeade's ranch.

She had heard someone say Edd would come back that way with the
pack-train. It seemed incredible for a man, let alone a burro. Just to
gaze up at that steep of a thousand deceptive ridges, cracks, slants, and
ascents was enough to rouse respect for these people who were conquering
the rock-confined wilderness.

This lifting of Lucy's spirit gave pause to the growth of something akin
to contempt that had unconsciously formed in her mind. After hearing and
reading about these primitive inhabitants of the wild she had developed
abstract conceptions of kindliness, sympathy, and close contact with
them. They had been very noble sentiments. But she was going to find them
hard to live up to. By analysing her feelings she realised that she did
not like the personal intimations. Her one motive was to help these
people and in so doing help herself. She had come, however, with an
unconscious sense of her personal aloofness, the height to which, of
course, these common people could not aspire. Yet their very first and
most natural reaction, no doubt, was to imagine a sentimental attachment
between her and one of these backwood boys.

From amusement Lucy passed to annoyance, and thence to concern. She had
experienced her troubles with cowboys even in town, where there were
ample avenues of escape. What would she encounter here? Would she find at
the very outset a ridiculous obstacle to her success, to the fine record
of welfare work she longed to establish?

The matter became a problem, no less because a faint accusing voice had
begun to reach her conscience. She listened to it and strained at it
until she heard something like doubt of her being big enough for this
job. She humiliated herself. It had never occurred to her that she might
be found wanting. A wonderfully stabilising though painful idea this was.
After all, what excuse had she for superiority?

Standing there in the open fields, Lucy forgot the magnificent red wall
and the gorgeous sunset-flushed panorama. She realised her vanity, that
she had wounded it, that in all probability it would have to be killed
before she could be wholly worthy of this work. Her humility, however,
did not withstand the rush of resentment, eagerness, and confidence of
her youth. Lucy stifled in its incipiency a thought vaguely hinting that
she would have to suffer and grow before she really was what she dreamed
she was.

Presently she heard the crack of hoofs on rock, and, turning, she espied
two riders entering the corral at the end of the field. She decided they
must be two more of the Denmeades, Dick and Joe, if she remembered
rightly. They dismounted, threw their saddles, turned the horses loose.
They appeared to be long, lean, rangy young men, wearing huge sombreros
that made them look top-heavy. They whistled and whooped, creating sounds
which clapped back in strange echo from the wall. It emphasised the
stillness to Lucy. Such hilarity seemed out of place there. Lucy watched
the tall figures stride out of sight up the lane toward the cabin.

"One thing sure," soliloquised Lucy, gravely, "I've got to realise I
have myself to contend with up here. Myself!...It seems I don't know
much about me."

She returned to the cabin, entering the yard by the side gate. Some of
the hounds followed her, sniffing at her, not yet over their hostility.
The Denmeades were collecting round the table on the porch. The mother
espied Lucy and greeted her with a smile.

"Reckon we was about ready to put the hounds on your trail," she called,
and when Lucy reached the table she added: "You set in this
place...Here's Dick an' Joe. You've only one more to see, an' that's
Edd. Boys, meet Miss Lucy Watson of Felix."

Lucy smiled at the young men, waiting to sit down opposite her. Which was
Dick and which Joe she could not tell yet. The younger was exceedingly
tall and thin. The older, though tall and angular, too, appeared short by
comparison. Both had smooth, still, shining faces, lean and brown, with
intent clear eyes.

"Hod-do!" said the older boy to Lucy, as he took his seat across the table.
He was nothing if not admiring.

"Joe, did you meet teacher Jenks?" asked Denmeade, from the head of the
table.

"Yep. Saw him at Johnson's. He told us about Miss Watson. An' we passed
Sam on the trail. He was packin' her baggage."

Before Allie and Mertie, who were carrying steaming dishes from the
kitchen, had brought in all the supper, the Denmeades set about the
business of eating.

"Help yourself, miss," said the father.

The table was too small for so many. They crowded close together. Lucy's
seat was at one end of a bench, giving her the free use of her right
hand. Mary sat on her left, happily conscious of the close proximity. The
heads of the little girls and Dan just topped the level of the table. In
fact, their mouths were about on a level with their tin plates. At first
glance Lucy saw that the table was laden with food, with more still
coming. Pans of smoking biscuits, pans of potatoes, pans of beans, pans
of meat and gravy, and steaming tin cups of black coffee! Lucy noted the
absence of milk, butter, sugar, green or canned vegetables. She was
hungry and she filled her plate. And despite the coarseness of the food
she ate heartily. Before she had finished, dusk had settled down around
the cabin, and when the meal ended it was quite dark.

"I hear Sam's hoss," said Dick, as he rose, clinking his spurs. "Reckon
I'll help him unpack."

Lucy sat down on the edge of the porch, peering out into the woods.
The children clustered round her. Mrs. Denmeade and her older daughters
were clearing off the supper table. A dim lamplight glimmered in the
kitchen. Lucy was aware of the tall form of Dick Denmeade standing to one
side. He had not yet spoken a word. Lucy addressed him once, but for
all the answer she got he might as well have been deaf. He shifted one
of his enormous boots across the other. In the dim light Lucy made out
long spurs attached to them. Then Mrs. Denmeade ordered the children off
to bed. One by one they vanished. Mary's pale face gleamed wistfully
and was gone.

It dawned on Lucy, presently, that the air was cold. It had changed
markedly in an hour. Big white stars had appeared over the tips of the
pines; the sky was dark blue. The blackness of the night shadows had
lighted somewhat or else her eyes had become accustomed to it. Quiet
settled over the cabin, broken only by low voices and sounds from the
kitchen. It struck Lucy as sad and sombre, this mantle of night
descending upon the lonely cabin, yet never before had she felt such
peace, such sweet solitude. By straining her ears she caught a dreamy
murmur of the stream down in the gorge, and a low mourn of wind in
the pines. Where were the coyotes, night hawks; whip-poor-wills, all
the noisy creatures she had imagined lived in the wilderness?

Pound of hoofs and clink of spurs became audible in the lane, approaching
the cabin. Lucy heard a laugh she recognised, and low voices, merry,
subtle, almost hoarse whisperings. Then the gate creaked, and the musical
clink of spurs advanced toward the porch. At last Lucy made out two
dark forms. They approached, and one mounted the steps, while the other
stopped before Lucy. She conceived an idea that this fellow could see
in the dark.

"Wal, Miss Lucy, here's your bags without a scratch," said Sam Johnson's
drawling voice. "Shore I bet you was worried. How'd you find my hoss
Buster?"

"Just fine, thank you," replied Lucy. "Full of spirit and go. Yet he
obeyed promptly. I never had a slip. Now were you not trying to frighten
me a little--or was it Mr. Jenks?--telling me he was some kind of a
mustang?"

"Honest, Buster's gentle with girls," protested Sam. "Shore he pitches
when one of these long-legged Denmeades rake him. But don't you believe
what anyone tells you."

"Very well, I won't. Buster is a dandy little horse."

"Wal, then, you're invited to ride him again," said Sam, with subtle
inflection.

"Oh, thank you," replied Lucy. "I--I'll be pleased--if my work allows me
any spare time."

"Howdy, Sam!" interposed Allie, from the kitchen door. "Who're you goin'
to take to the dance?"

"Wal, I ain't shore, jest yet," he returned. "Reckon I know who I'd like
to take."

"Sadie told me you asked her."

"Did she?...Sent her word. But she didn't send none back," protested
Sam lamely.

"Sam, take a hunch from me. Don't try to shenanegin out of it now,"
retorted Allie, and retreated into the kitchen.

Lucy was both relieved and amused at Allie's grasp of the situation.
No doubt Sam had been approaching another invitation.

Denmeade's heavy footfall sounded on the porch, accompanied by the soft
pad of a dog trotting. "That you, Sam? How's yore folks?"

"Tip top," replied Sam shortly.

"Get down an' come in," drawled Denmeade as the other shuffled
restlessly.

"Reckon I'll be goin'," said Sam. "I've a packhoss waitin'...Evenin',
Miss Lucy. Shore I hope to see you at the dance."

"I hardly think you will," replied Lucy. "Thank you for fetching my
baggage."

Sam's tall form disappeared in the gloom. The gate creaked as if opened
and shut with forceful haste. Almost directly followed the sound of hoofs
going off into the darkness.

"Hey, Sam!" called Joe, coming out of the cabin, where he had carried
Lucy's grips.

"He's gone," said his father laconically.

"Gone! Why, the dinged galoot had somethin' of mine! Funny, him runnin'
off. He shore was rarin' to get here. Never saw him make such good time
on a trail. What riled him?"

"Wal, I have an idea," drawled Denmeade. "Allie give him a dig."

"I shore did," spoke up Allie, from the kitchen, where evidently she
heard what was going on outside. "It's a shame the way he treats Sadie."

Lucy began to gather snatches of the complexity of life up here. After
all, how like things at home! This girl Sadie had refused to marry Edd
Denmeade. There was an intimation that she was attached to Sam Johnson.
On his part, Sam had manifested a slight interest in a new-comer to the
country.

Mrs. Denmeade came out of the kitchen carrying a lighted lamp, and she
called Lucy to accompany her into the other cabin. She set the lamp on
the high jutting shelf of the fire-place.

"You sleep in here with the children," she said simply.

"Yes--that will be nice," rejoined Lucy, peering around. Dan was asleep
on the floor in a corner, his bed a woolly sheep skin, his covering a rag
quilt. Mary and the twins were fast asleep in one of the beds. Lucy
stepped close to peer down at them. Liz and Lize lay at the foot, curly
fair heads close together. Their faces had been washed and now shone
sweet and wan in the lamplight. Their chubby hands were locked. Mary lay
at the head of the bed, and her thin face bore a smile as if she were
having pleasant dreams.

"Where--shall I wash?" asked Lucy, with diffidence.

"You'll find water, basin, towel out on the porch...Good night. I
reckon you're tired. Hope you sleep good."

Lucy bade her hostess good night, and turned musingly to the opening of
one of her grips. She could hear the low breathing of the sleepers.
Somehow, to be there with them, under such circumstances, touched her
deeply. It was for the sake of such as they that she had forsaken
personal comfort and better opportunities. Despite a somewhat depressed
spirit, Lucy could not regret her action. If only she won their love and
taught them fine, clean, wholesome ways with which to meet their hard and
unlovely futures! That would transform her sacrifice into a blessing.

The room was cold. A fire in the big stone fireplace would have been much
to her liking. By the time she got ready for bed she was chilled through.
Before blowing out the lamp she took a last look at the slumbering
children. They seemed so still, so calm, so white and sweet. Lucy
trembled for them, in a vague realisation of life. Then, with some
difficulty she opened one of the windows. Once in bed, she stretched
out in aching relief. That long ride, especially on the horse, had
cramped and chafed her. The bed was as cold and hard as ice. There were
no sheets. The blankets under her did not do much to soften the feel of
what she concluded was a mattress filled with corn husks. It rustled like
corn husks, though it might have been coarse straw. The coverings were
heavy rag quilts.

Nevertheless, Lucy had never before been so grateful for a bed. If this
bed was good enough for those innocent and happy and unfortunate
children, it was good enough for her. Unfortunate! She pondered. She
would have to learn as much as she taught.

She heard heavy boots and the jangle of spurs on the porch, the unrolling
of one of the canvas packs, faint voices from the kitchen, and then
footsteps over her head in the attic. One of the boys spoke up there.
Probably that was where they slept. Lucy now remembered seeing the ladder
that led from the middle porch to a wide hole in the ceiling. She
wondered where the rest of the Denmeades slept. No doubt she was robbing
father and mother of their room and bed.

Gradually all sounds ceased, except the faint murmur of water and wind,
out in the woods. Lucy grew warm and sleepy. Yet so novel and strange
were her sensations that she fought off the drowsy spell. She was really
there up in the backwoods. She could scarcely credit it. The blackness of
the room, the silence, the unfamiliar fragrance of pine and wood smoke,
were like unrealities of a dream. She lived over the whole journey and
would not have changed any of it. Suddenly the stillness broke to a
deep-ringing, long-drawn bay of a hound. It made her flesh creep. How it
rang out the truth of her presence in the wild forest, in the hard bed of
these lowly pioneers! The home that had failed her was gone for ever.
The one person she had loved most--her sister Clara--had failed her. And
in the lonely darkness she wept, not as on the night before, childishly
and unrestrainedly, but with sorrow for loss and gratefulness for the
future that promised so much.

She would be happy to face the morrow, come what might. It could only
bring another kind of strife, that in itself might be good for her soul.
With such hope and a prayer that it would be so she fell asleep.


Chapter IV

Lucy awakened in a half-conscious dream that she was in a place
unfamiliar to her. Before she opened her eyes she smelled wood smoke.
Then she saw that daylight had come, and she was looking at her open
window through which blue smoke and sunlight were pouring in. Bewildered,
she gazed around this strange room--bare wood and clay walls--big stone
fire-place--rude ceiling of poles and shingles. Where was she?

With a start she raised on her elbow. Then the effort that cost her, the
sense of sore muscles, and the rustling of the corn-husk mattress brought
flashing to memory her long ride of yesterday and the backwoods home of
the Denmeades.

She was surprised, and somewhat mortified, to see that the children were
up and gone. On the moment Lucy heard the patter of their feet outside on
the porch and the ringing strokes of an axe on hard wood. Whereupon she
essayed to hop out of bed. She managed it all right, but not without
awkwardness and pain.

"Oh, I'm all crippled!" she cried ruefully. "That ride!...And say, it's
Greenland's icy mountains here."

The plain, substantial woollen garments that she had brought for cold
weather were going to be welcome now. Lucy dressed in less time than ever
before in her life. Then with soap, towel, comb, and brush she sallied
out on the porch and round to the side of the cabin. The children were in
the kitchen. An old man sat on a bench. He was thin, grey, with
cadaverous cheeks, a pointed chin bristling with stubby beard.

"Good mawnin'," he said.

Lucy greeted him and asked where the water was.

"I jest fetched some," he said, pointing to a stand at the end of the
porch. "Right pert this mawnin'. I reckon the frost won't do them peach
blossoms no good."

Lucy indeed found the water pert. Her ablutions, owing to her
impetuosity, turned out to be an ordeal. Evidently the old fellow had
watched her with interest, for as she finished her hair and turned back
he said with a huge grin, "Rosy cheeks!"

"Thanks," replied Lucy brightly. "I'm Lucy Watson. I didn't meet you
last night."

"Nope. But I seen you. I'm Lee's oldest brother. Thar's four of us
brothers hyar in the woods. Uncle Bill the kids call me."

Upon her way back to the room she encountered the extremely tall young
Denmeade who appeared too bashful to return her greeting. Lucy hurriedly
put her things away and made her bed, then presented herself at the
kitchen door, to apologise for being late.

"Reckon you'd be tired, so I wouldn't let the children call you," replied
Mrs. Denmeade. "Come an' eat."

They were having breakfast in the kitchen. Mary was the only one of the
children to answer Lucy's greeting. Dan did not appear bashful, but his
mouth was so full he could not speak. Mrs. Denmeade and Mertie were
sitting at the table, while Allie stood beside the big stove. They did
not seem stolid or matter-of-fact; they lacked expression of whatever
they did feel. Lucy sat down to ham, eggs, biscuits, coffee. "Some of
Edd's honey," indicated Mrs. Denmeade, with pride, as she placed a pan
before her. Lucy was hungry. She enjoyed her breakfast, and as for the
honey, she had never tasted anything so delicious, so wild and sweet of
flavour.

After breakfast, Lucy was greatly interested in the brief preparations
for school. Dan had to be forced away from the table. He was bareheaded
and barefooted. Lucy went out to the gate with him and Mary. Dick was
coming up the lane, leading two little grey lop-eared burros and a pony,
all saddled. Dan climbed on one burro and Mary the other. Mertie came out
carrying small tin buckets, one of which she handed to each of the
children. Mary seemed reluctant to leave Lucy, but Dan rode off down the
lane, mightily unconcerned. Mertie mounted the pony, and then had her
brother hand up books and bucket. She smiled at Lucy. "You must get the
boys to lend you a horse, so you can ride down to school with us," she
said.

"That'll be fine," replied Lucy. "But the ride I had yesterday was
enough for a while. I'm afraid I'm a tenderfoot."

Dick picked up a bucket and a rifle, and made ready to start.

"Do you walk to school?" queried Lucy, smiling. "Yes'm, I like
walkin'," he replied.

"Look at his legs," said Mertie. "Pa says Dick can outwalk any of them,
even Edd."

"He does look as if he could take long steps," returned Lucy, laughing.

"Reckon it'd be nice if you could teach us at home," said Dick shyly.

"Yes, it would, and I shall teach you a good deal," replied Lucy. "But
I'm not a regular school teacher."

Lucy watched them go down the lane after Dan and was unexpectedly stirred
at sight of the little procession. When she turned back up the path,
Mrs. Denmeade met her.

"They're gone. It was fun to see the little burros," said Lucy. "How far
do they have to ride, and why does Dick carry the gun?"

"It's five miles. Woods all the way. An' Dick doesn't pack that gun for
fun. There's bears an' cats. An' hydrophobia skunks. I'm afraid of them,
But when Dick's with the children I don't worry."

"What in the world are hydrophobia skunks?" queried Lucy.

"Nothin' but polecats with hydrophobia," replied the other. "Lee reckons
the skunks get bitten by coyotes that have hydrophobia. It makes the
skunks crazy. They come right for you. If you ever run across a pretty
white-an'-black cat with a bushy tail--you run!"

"I will indeed," declared Lucy. "An ordinary skunk is bad enough. But
this kind you tell of must be dreadful."

"Wal, Miss Lucy, this is wash-day for us," said Mrs. Denmeade. "An' we
never seem to have time enough to do all the work. But I want to help you
get started. Now if you'll tell me--"

"Mrs. Denmeade, don't you worry one minute," interrupted Lucy. "I'm here
to help you. And I shall lend a hand whenever I can. As for my work, all
I want is your permission to plan for what I think necessary--to buy
things and make things for the house."

"Reckon I'm glad to agree on anythin' you want," replied Mrs. Denmeade.
"Just call on me, an' Lee or the boys."

As they walked up the patch to the cabin Lucy was telling Mrs. Denmeade
how it had been the decision of the welfare board to endeavour to teach
the people living in remote districts to make things that would further
easier and better living.

Denmeade, coming from the fields, apparently, met them and could not help
but hear something of what Lucy said. It brought the broad grin to his
weather-beaten face.

"Wife," he said, as he surveyed Lucy from head to foot, "this hyar city
girl has got sense. An' she looks like she might grow into a strappin'
fine young woman. 'To work with their hands,' she says. She's hit it
plumb. That's all we ever done in our lives. That's why we never learned
new tricks...All the same, if Miss Lucy teaches us somethin', we can
do the same for her."

"I certainly expect you to," said Lucy gladly. "I'd like to learn to
take care of a horse, chop wood, and line bees."

Denmeade let out a hearty laugh.

"Wal, now, listen to her," he ejaculated. "Take care, young woman, an'
don't let my boy Edd hear you say you want to line bees. 'Cause if you do
he'll shore take you. An' say, mebbe hangin' to that long legged boy when
he's on a bee line, mebbe it ain't work!"

"All the same, I shall ask him to take Mertie and me sometime," declared
Lucy.

"You couldn't hire Mertie to tramp up an' down these woods all day for
anythin', let alone bees," replied Mrs. Denmeade with scorn. "Mertie
sews clothes for herself or me all day, an' shore she dances all night.
But she's not like the rest of the Denmeades. I reckon Dick would be the
best one to go with you an' Edd."

"Wal, how'd you like to help me an' Uncle Bill plough to-day?" asked
Denmeade quizzingly.

"Plough! Oh, that would be a little too much for me just yet!" laughed
Lucy. "Why, that ride yesterday knocked me out! I'm stiff and sore this
morning."

"Shore. That's no easy trail to anyone new to hosses," said Denmeade.

"Mr. Denmeade, I'd like to accept the loan of that tent the
school-teacher offered," rejoined Lucy. "I think I could make myself
very comfortable and I would not be depriving you and your wife of your
room."

"Shore. Anythin' you like. Reckon the boys could make a tent tight enough
to keep out bugs, snakes, dogs, wild cats, lions an' bears--an' mebbe
hydrophobia skunks."

"Goodness!...Mr. Denmeade, you're teasing me," exclaimed Lucy.

"Wal, reckon I was," he replied. "Fact is, though, it ain't a bad idee.
Summer is comin' an' the weather will soon get fine fer sleepin'
outdoors. I seen the way Jenks had his tent fixed. Reckon me an' the boys
can do it. But to-day we want to get through ploughin' before the
rain...See them clouds comin' up out of the south-west? That means storm.
Mebbe to-night or to-morrow or next day--but storm shore an' sartin."

"I hope Edd gets in before the rain," said Mrs. Denmeade. "Mertie would
be sick if her new dress got spoiled."

"Ahuh! I reckon," returned Denmeade gruffly. Then as Lucy mounted the
steps to the porch he said to her, "You have the run of the place now,
Miss Lucy, an' you can call on me or the boys any time."

"Who's the best carpenter?" queried Lucy.

"Wal, I reckon Dick is shore handy with tools," replied Denmeade. "An'
he has time before an' after school. But tools is all-fired scarce about
hyar."

"Can we buy them at Cedar Ridge?"

"Shore. An' I reckon someone will be ridin' down after the dance."

Lucy did not need to spend much more time looking around the cabins,
inside or outside. The possessions of the Denmeades were so few that a
glance had sufficed to enumerate them. Manifestly also their wants were
few. But the comfort and health of a home did not depend upon how little
was necessary. The children of pioneers should have some of the
conveniences of civilisation. Lucy did not under-estimate the problem on
her hands.

She found that Mrs. Denmeade had removed from the closet whatever had
been there, leaving it for Lucy's use. This enabled Lucy to unpack most
of her belongings. When that was done she took pencil and pad and went
outdoors to find a place to sit down and think and plan.

One of the old black hounds, a dignified and solemn dog, looked at Lucy
as if he realised she should have company, and he went with her. How
amused Lucy was to see the hound walk along with her, manifesting no
evidence of friendliness other than his accompanying her.

Lucy crossed the strip of woods to the edge of the field, and then
walked along under the pines toward the slope. Through the green
and black of the forest she could see the looming red wall. At
the end of the field she halted. Deep dark woodland merged upon the edge
of the clearing. She sat down under a huge pine, from which position she
could see out across the open.

"Oh, I'll never be able to concentrate on anything here!" murmured Lucy,
thrilled with the wildness and splendour of the forest. Birds and
squirrels were boisterous, as if rejoicing at the spring. The wind moaned
through the tree-tops, a new sound to Lucy, stirring her blood. Most
striking of all was the fragrance of pine. Lucy revelled a few moments in
this sweet wild solitude, then made a valiant effort to put her mind on
her work. At the very outset she made notes on her pad. The fact that
expenditure of funds for the betterment of living conditions up here had
been trusted to her common sense and discretion made Lucy extremely
conscientious. She would purchase only what was absolutely necessary, and
superintend the making of many useful things for the Denmeades. To this
end she applied herself to the task of choosing the articles she must buy
and those she must make.

It turned out to be a fascinating task, made easy by the course of manual
training she had taken at normal school. Prominent among the articles
selected to buy were tools and a sewing-machine. Tools meant the
constructing of chairs, tables, closets, shelves, and many other
household articles; a sewing-machine meant the making of sheets, pillows,
towels, curtains, table-covers, and wearing apparel.

Lucy pictured in her mind what the inside of that cabin would look like
in a couple of months. It filled her with joy for them and pride for
herself. The expense would be little; the labour great. She had already
convinced Denmeade that this welfare work was not charity; in the long run
it must be for the good of the state.

Between such dreams and calculations Lucy mapped out the letters and
orders she would write that afternoon. Then she would have to wait so
long until the things arrived. Still, she reflected, a number of
necessities could be obtained at the store in Cedar Ridge. She would
persuade Denmeade to go or send someone at once.

At length Lucy discovered that without thinking about it she had changed
her position several times to get out of the shade into the sun. The air
had grown chill. Then she became aware of the moan of wind in the pines.
How loud, mournful, strange! Clouds were scudding up from the
south-west. They were still broken, but much heavier and darker than they
had been in the early morning. They made great dark shadows sail along
the rolling green crest of the forest. Gazing upward, Lucy was amazed to
see that the clouds obscured the Rim at the high points. From up there
drifted down a low, steady roar. Wind in the pines! It was a different
sound from the sough in the near-by tree-tops. Birds and squirrels had
ceased song and chatter.

Once more Lucy applied herself diligently to her task, and for a while
forgot herself. The wind increased to a gale, intermittent, but steadily
growing less broken. She heard it and thrilled, yet went on with her
figuring. Suddenly a heavy crash somewhere in the woods close at hand
thoroughly frightened her. No doubt a dead tree had blown over. Nervously
Lucy gazed about her to see if there were other dead trees. She espied
several and many bleached gnarled branches shaking in the wind. A
great primeval forest like this seemed to be a dangerous place.

"I always imagined it would be wonderful to live like an Indian--wild in
the woods," soliloquised Lucy. "But I guess it might be fearful on
occasions."

She became prey then to conflicting impulses--one to run back to the
cabin, the other to stay out in this roaring forest. For a moment the
latter dominated her. She stepped out from under the pine into a glade
and threw back her head. How the wind whipped her hair! The odour of
pine was now so strong that it was not far from suffocating. Yet its
sweetness seemed intoxicating. The cold air was exhilarating, in spite of
its increasing chill. Against the background of blue sky and grey cloud
the pine crests waved wildly and thin streams of brown pine needles flew
before the gale.

Lucy's daring did not extend beyond a moment or so. Then the old black
dog appeared, to eye her solemnly and trot off. She followed as fast as
she could walk, sometimes breaking into a little run. Soon she was
breathless and light-headed. Such little exertion to tire her! Lucy
recollected that high altitudes affected some persons thus. Her heart
pounded in her breast. It became absolutely imperative that she go
slower, or give out completely. Even then, when she reached the cabin
porch she was glad to sink upon it with a gasp.

The golden sunshine was gone. A grey mantle appeared to be creeping over
the forest world. The roar of the wind now seemed behind and above the
cabin. Presently Mrs. Denmeade, coming out for a pail of water, espied
Lucy sitting there.

"Storm comin'," she said. "It'll blow for a while, then rain."

"Oh--I'm--so--out of--breath!" panted Lucy. "It was--wonderful,
but--scared me...The children! Will they stay at school?"

"Not much. They'll come home, rain or shine. Edd is goin' to catch it
good. Dave Claypool just rode by an' stopped to tell me he met Edd up on
the mountain."

"Met E--your son! When?"

"This mornin'. Dave was ridin' through. He lets his hosses range up
there. Said he'd run across Edd about fifteen miles back down the
Winbrook trail. Shore now Edd can drive a pack-train of burros. But
they're loaded heavy, an' Edd will spare the burros before himself. I
reckon he'll hit the Rim just about dark. An' if the storm breaks before
then he'll have somethin' tough. Rain down here will be snow up there.
But he'll come in to-night shore."

Her matter-of-factness over what seemed exceedingly serious and her
confidence in the return of her son through gale and darkness awakened in
Lucy a first appreciation of the elemental strength of these backwoods
people. Lucy respected strength to endure above all virtues. How
infinitely she herself had been found wanting! She hurried to her room,
conscious that again this Edd Denmeade had been forced upon her
attention.

Lucy got out her writing materials and set herself to the important task
of the letters she had planned. At intervals she found her mind
wandering, a thing not habitual with her. Yet the circumstances here were
extenuating. And all the time she was aware of the gale. It swooped down
the chimney with hollow roar. She was able to think and write
consistently through the hours. The Denmeades ate whenever some of them
came in hungry, a bad and labour-consuming habit, Lucy thought, which she
would endeavour to break. She was glad, however, that there was no midday
meal except Sundays. She grew cramped and cold from sitting so long on the
uncomfortable chair, writing on her lap. But she accomplished the task
of a dozen letters, and an enlarging and copying of her notes.

This accomplishment afforded her great satisfaction. Putting on a heavy
coat, she went outside to walk off the chill in her blood. She found Mrs.
Denmeade and Allie carrying the day's wash up from the brook down in the
gully. Lucy promptly lent her assistance, and when she had made four trips,
carrying a heavy burden, she was both out of breath and hot from the
effort.

The grey mantle overhead had darkened. Only occasional rifts showed a
glimpse of blue sky. The air was perceptibly damper. And the roar of wind
now had no break.

Lucy rested a little, trying the while to win Liz and Lize to talk to
her. They did not sidle away from her any longer, but had not yet reached
the communicative stage.

Lucy was conscious of worry, of dread, and not until she saw Mary and
Dan, with Mertie behind them, coming up the lane, did she realise the
significance of her feelings. They were safe. And by the time they
reached the gate the tall form of Dick came stalking into sight.

Manifestly for them the journey home through the forest, under the
threshing boughs of the trees, was merely an incident of school days.
However, when Mertie heard from her mother that Edd had been seen back
up on the Rim and would surely be caught in the storm, she gave vent to
an excited concern. Not for her brother's safety and comfort, but for her
birthday present of the new dress! Mrs. Denmeade petted and soothed her.
"Don't worry, Mertie," she concluded. "Reckon you ought to know Edd.
There's sacks of flour on them pack-burros. It ain't likely he'll see that
flour spoiled, let alone your new dress."

"But, ma!" protested Mertie, miserably, "Edd's only human! An' you
know how terrible storms are up there."

"Wal, it was your fault Edd packed to Winbrook," retorted her mother. "He
could of got the flour at Cedar Ridge, only one day's pack. But you had
to have a city dress."

Mertie subsided into sullen restless silence, and took no part in the
preparations for supper. The children gravitated to Lucy, who essayed to
play with them on the windy porch. The afternoon darkened. Presently the
men returned from their labours, loud-voiced and cheery, smelling of
horses and newly ploughed earth. At the wash-bench they made much
splashing.

"Wal, ma, we got the field ploughed, an' now let her rain," announced
Denmeade.

"Let her rain!" cried Mertie shrilly, as if driven. "That's all
anybody cares. Storm--rain--snow! For Edd to be caught out!"

"Aw, so thet's what ails you," returned her father. "Wal, don't you
worry none about him."

During supper Denmeade again silenced his unhappy daughter, and though he
drawled the reprimand in cool, easy words, there was a note in them that
gave Lucy an idea of the iron nature of these backwoodsmen. This was the
only instance so far in which the slightest discord or evidence of
authority had appeared in the Denmeade family. To Lucy they seemed so
tranquil, so set in their rugged simplicity.

After supper the grey twilight deepened and a misty rain blew in Lucy's
face as she stood on the porch. Above the sound of the wind she heard a
patter of rain on the roof.

"Reckon she'll bust directly," said Denmeade, as he passed Lucy, his arms
full of wood. "I'm buildin' a fire fer you. It's shore goin' to storm."

By turning her ear to the north and attending keenly Lucy was able to
distinguish between the two main sounds of the storm--the rush and gusty
violence of the wind around the cabin, and the deep mighty roar of the
gale up on the Rim. She shivered with more than cold. At dark the fury of
the storm burst. Torrents of rain fell, drowning all other sounds. Lucy
was forced back against the wall, but the rain, driving under the porch
roof in sheets, sent her indoors.

A bright log fire blazed and cracked in the open fire-place of the room
she occupied. The children were sitting on the floor, talking, and such
was the roar on the roof and the bellow down the chimney that Lucy could
not hear a word they said. Evidently, however, something in the fire
attracted them. Mary was looking at it, too, thoughtfully, even dreamily,
her thin face and large eyes expressive of a childish hunger for
something.

The hour seemed a restless, uncertain one for Lucy. How the storm raged
and lashed! She had an almost irresistible desire to run out into it, a
sensation at once overcome by abject fear. Even the porch, with its two
open doors of lighted rooms, was as black as pitch. Lucy knew she could
not have gone a rod from the cabin without being lost. The gale outside
would howl and shriek accompaniments to the roar on the roof; now and
then a gust of wind sent a volley of raindrops, thick as a stream,
against the windowpanes. The red fire hissed with the water that dripped
down the chimney. Lucy walked from window to window, from the fire-place
to the door; she sat down to gaze with the children at the opalescent
embers settling on the hearth; and she rose to pace the floor. Her
thoughts were wholly dominated by the sensations of the storm. At last
Lucy put on her long heavy coat and braved the porch. But this time she
went to the back, where in the lee of the cabin she was out of the fury
of wind and rain. There she stood against the wall, peering out into the
blackness, feeling the whip of wind, the cold wet sting of flying hail.

It had grown colder. The rain was lessening in volume and some of it was
freezing to sleet. While she cowered there the roar on the roof subsided,
and gradually the strife of the elements around the cabin slowed and
softened. Presently Lucy became aware of the terrific roar of the storm
up on the Rim. It shook her heart. It seemed a continuous thunder and it
roused in her unaccustomed feelings. How strange to realise that she both
feared and loved the black wild roaring void out there.

She seemed thousands of miles from her home, from the desert where she
had lived always, the hot glaring little city, with its sun-baked streets
winter and summer, its throng of people, intent upon money-making,
marrying, living. What a contrast they presented to these few hardy
families of the mountains! Lucy wondered if a race of people in their
gregarious instincts, their despoliation and destruction of the
wilderness, could not lose something great and beautiful. She felt it
vaguely. How had men lived in the long ages before there were cities or
settlements?

How was it possible for this Edd Denmeade to find his way home,
in this ebony blackness, under the roaring and cracking pines, down
over a two-thousand foot mountain wall? The thing was incredible.
Yet his father and his mother expected him as a matter of
course. He had done it before. They trusted him. Even the vain Mertie,
despite her fears and doubts, knew he would come. Then considering all
this, what manner of Man was Edd Denmeade? Lucy no longer repudiated her
interest. In her heart there was a vague longing for she knew not what,
but in this case she imagined it due to her disappointment at home, with
Clara and her suitors, with the type of young men that had the good will
of her father. They had received scant courtesy from Lucy. No
understanding of sentiment stirred in Lucy. What could a boy of the
backwoods be to her? But this wild-bee hunter was surely pretty much of a
man, and Lucy was curious to see him.

She remained out on the porch until she was thoroughly cold and wet, and
still longer, until she had convinced herself that she had a faint
realisation of what a storm was in this high timbered country. Then she
went in.

All the family, including Uncle Bill, had assembled in her room.
Denmeade, his brother, and Dick and Joe, were grouped near the
fire-place. Denmeade knelt on one knee, in what Lucy later discovered was
his characteristic resting position, his dark face in the light, his big
black hat pushed back on his head. The others were sitting on the floor,
backs to the wall, listening to what he was saying. The mother and Allie
were seated, silent, on the children's bed. Mertie, crouched on one of
the chairs, stared sombrely into the fire. Mary was bent over, so that
she could catch the light on a book. The children played as before.

As Lucy went in, it was Mary who got up to offer her chair. Lucy, as she
advanced to the blazing logs, was astonished to see how wet her coat had
become. She held it to the fire, most gratefully conscious of the warmth.
Then at the moment Joe interrupted his father's talk.

"I hear bells. Reckon some of the burros got in. Edd won't be far."

"Wal, he'll be with the pack outfit. Rustle out thar," replied his
father.

While Denmeade replenished the fire the others stamped out, their spurs
clanking. Mrs. Denmeade and Allie went into the kitchen. Mertie's apathy
vanished and she rushed out into the darkness of the porch. Her voice
pealed out, calling to Edd. Likewise the children responded to the
home-coming of their brother.

Lucy felt happy for all of them. Hanging up her coat, she wiped the
raindrops from her face and gave a touch here and there to her
dishevelled hair. Then she stood, back to the fire, palms turned to the
genial heat, and, watching the door, she waited with sustained interest,
with something of amusement, yet conscious of a vague unformed emotion.

Presently clamour of childish voices, pitched high above the deeper ones
of men, and the thump of heavy boots, and jingle of spurs, moved across
the porch to the door of the cabin. Lucy stepped aside into the shadow.
Then the light of the fire streamed out of the door.

"In thar, all of you," boomed Denmeade. "Let Edd get to the fire."

It seemed to Lucy that a tall dark form emerged from the gloom into the
light, and entered the door With the children and girls. For a moment
there was a hubbub. The older members of the household came in,
somewhat quieting the melee.

"Mertie, here's your present," said the new-corner. His voice seemed
rather drawling and deep. Disengaging himself from clinging hands, he
laid a large parcel, wrapped in a wet slicker, upon a vacant chair. Mertie
let out a squeal, and pouncing upon the package, dropped to her knees and
began to tear it open.

"Oh, Edd!...If you got it--wet!" she panted.

"No fear. It's wrapped in paper an' oilskin, under the slicker," he said.
Then he drew another package from the inside of his huge fur-collared
coat. "Liz! Lize! Danny!"

"Candy!" screamed the children in unison. And straightway pandemonium
broke loose.

When the young man threw his wet sombrero on the floor near the hearth,
and removed his rain-soaked coat, Lucy had a better chance to see what he
looked like. Certainly his face was not handsome, but she could not say
how much of its dark, haggard rawness was due to exposure. He did not
change expression as he gazed down upon those whom he had made happy. But
Lucy's keen sight and power to read divined the fact that he worshipped
Mertie and loved the children. He untied a wet scarf from his neck and
threw that beside his sombrero. All the older members of the family were
silently gazing down upon the fortunate one. Mary seemed to be revelling
in Mertie's excitement, yet, as she gazed up at Edd, her large eyes
questioned him.

"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 the 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