THE PARDNERS’ GIRL
“Marta is bound to know, when she stops to think about it, that she
jest can’t have two fathers.”
The house in the Cañon of Gold where the Pardners and their girl lived
was little more than a cabin of rough, unpainted boards. But there was a
wide porch overrun with vines, and a vegetable garden with flowers.
Beyond the garden there was a rude barn or shelter, built as the Indians
build, of sahuaro poles and mud, with a small corra made of thorny
ocotillo, and the place as a whole was roughly inclosed by an old fence
of mesquite posts and barbed wire. On every side the mountains
rose--ridge and dome and peak--into the sky, and night and day, through
summer droughts and winter rains, the cañon creek murmured or sang or
roared on its way from the woodsy heart of the Catalinas to lose itself
in the sandy wastes of the desert below. The little mine where the
Pardners worked was across the creek a hundred yards or more from the
kitchen door.
It was that time of the year when, if the rain gods of the Indians have
been kind, the deserts and mountains of Arizona riot in a blaze of
color. On the mountain sides, silvery white Apache plumes and graceful
wands of brilliant scarlet mallow were nodding amid the lilac of the
loco-weed, while, in every glade and damp depression, the gold of the
buck-bean shone in settings of brightest green. And on the cañon floor,
the pink white bloom of cañon anemone, with yellow primroses and
whispering bells, made points and patches of light in the shadow of the
rocky walls.
It is not enough to say that the Pardners’ girl fully justified the
Lizard’s somewhat qualified admiration. There was something
more--something that neither the Lizard nor his kind could appreciate.
She was rather boyish, perhaps, as girls reared in the healthful
out-of-door atmosphere are apt to be, but it was a dainty boyishness--if
sturdy--that in no way marred the exquisite feminine qualities of her
beauty. Her hair and eyes were dark, and her cheeks richly colored with
good health and sunshine; and she looked at one with a disconcerting
combination of innocence and frankness which, together with the charm of
her sex, was certain to fix the attention of any mere male, whatever his
station in life or previous condition of servitude. In short, the
strangeness of Marta Hillgrove’s relationship to the grizzled old
Pardners, with the mystery of her real parentage, was not at all needed
to make her the talk of the country side. She was the kind of a girl
that both men and women instinctively discuss, though for quite
different reasons.
Bob Hill put his empty coffee cup down that Saturday morning with a long
breath of satisfaction, and felt for the pipe and the sack of tobacco
in his shirt pocket.
“Thar’s nothin’ to it, daughter,” he remarked--his faded blue eyes
twinkling and his leathery, wrinkled, old face beaming with pride and
love--“if Mother Burton learns you any more cookin’, Thad an’ me will
founder ourselves sure. I’m here to maintain that one whiff of a
breakfast like that would make one of them Egypt mummies claw himself
right out of his pyramid.”
Thad Grove grunted a scornful, pessimistic, protesting grunt and rubbed
the top of his totally bald head with aggressive vigor.
“She ain’t your daughter, Bob Hill--not this week. It’s my turn to be
daddy an’ you know it. You’re allus a-tryin’ to gouge me out of my
rights.”
Marta’s laughter was as unaffected as the song of the cardinal that at
that moment was waking the cañon echoes. Patting Thad’s arm
affectionately, she said:
“Make him play fair, daddy, make him play fair. I’ll back you up every
time he tries to cheat.”
“By smoke!” ejaculated Bob. “I clean disremembered what day it was
to-day. But to-morrer is another week an’ she’ll be mine all right
then.” He glared at Thad triumphantly. “I tell you, Pardner, jest
a-thinkin’ of me goin’ to be daddy to a gal like her makes me all set
up. I’ve sure got a feelin’ that to-morrer is the day we’ll dig clean
through to our bonanza.”
“Huh,” retorted Thad. “I got a feelin’ we ain’t goin’ to dig into no
bonanza to-morrer, nor nothin’ else.”
“Why not?” demanded Bob.
“’Cause to-morrer is Sunday, ain’t it? Holy Cats! but you’re a-gettin’
loonier and loonier. If you keep on a-dyin’ at the top you won’t be fit
to be daddy to nobody. I’ll jest up an’ git myself app’inted guardian
for my off weeks--that’s what I’ll do.”
“I may be a-dyin’ at the top,” returned Bob, “but, by smoke, I ain’t
coverin’ no alkali flat under my hat like you be. As for us workin’
Sundays--I know we ain’t allowed, in general, but it’s a plumb sin if we
can’t--jest for to-morrer--with me all set like I am.”
He looked at Marta appealingly.
“Whatever my gal says goes,” said Thad.
Bob continued persuasively:
“You see, honey, I’ve got it all figgered out that when we git in about
three feet further than we’ll make to-day we’re bound to uncover our
everlastin’ fortunes. You want us all to be rich, don’t you?”
“It’s no use,” said the girl firmly. “You both know well enough that I
will not permit you to break the Sabbath. Saint Jimmy’s mother says it
is no way for Christians to do, and that settles it. Anything that
Mother Burton says is wrong _is_ wrong. You both consider yourselves
Christians, don’t you?”
“You’re dead right, daughter,” said Thad, with an air of gentle
complacency. “I hadn’t a mite of a notion to work on Sunday myself. I
wouldn’t go so far as to say I was much of a Christian but”--he glared
at his pardner--“it’s a cinch I’m no Zulu. As for anybody that intimates
we got a chance to uncover a fortune anywhere in that hole out there,
between the dump and China--wal, I’d hate to tell you what sort of a
Christian I think _he_ is.”
Bob grinned cheerfully.
“Mebby I ain’t so much of a Christian neither,” he agreed, “but if I’d
a-been that old Pharaoh what built them pyramids----“
The girl interrupted:
“Now, there you go again. That’s the second time. What in the world
started you to talking about Egypt and pyramids and Pharaoh and mummies
and things like that?”
“Oh, I jest happened to take a peek into one of them books that Saint
Jimmy got us to buy for you, that’s all,” returned the old-timer, with a
sly wink at the smiling girl. “An’ anyway, it seems like I ought to know
somethin’ about mummies by this time, after livin’ as long as I have
with that there.” He pointed a long, gnarled finger at his pardner.
“Egypt or Arizona, livin’ or dead, it’s all the same, I reckon. A
mummy’s a mummy wherever you find it.”
Thad rubbed his bald head with deliberate care.
“Daughter, does Mother Burton’s brand of Christianity say anything about
what a man should do to his enemies?”
“Indeed it does,” returned the girl. “It says we must love our enemies
and forgive them.”
“All right--all right--an’ what does it say about lovin’ an’ forgivin’
your friends, heh?”
“Why--nothing, I guess.”
“Course it don’t,” cried the old prospector in shrill triumph.
“Course it don’t. An’ do you know why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because
it’s so doggone easy to forgive an enemy compared to what it is to
forgive a friend, that’s why. The Good Book knows ’tain’t necessary to
say nothin’ about friends, ’cause it’s jest as nateral and virtuous to
hate a friend as ’tis to love an enemy--that’s what I’m a-meanin’.”
Marta was not in the least disturbed over this exchange of courtesies by
her two fathers. Rising from the table, she laughingly remarked that if
they were not _too_ busy they might saddle her horse, as she must go to
Oracle for supplies. Whereupon the Pardners went to the barn, leaving
their girl free to clear away the breakfast things, wash the dishes, and
finish her morning housework.
It was an unwritten law of the partnership that the particular father of
the week should stand obligated to the parental responsibilities of the
position. It was by no means the least of his duties that he must endure
the criticisms of the other upon the way he was “bringing up” his
daughter. It seems scarcely necessary to add that criticism was never
wanting and that it was never without directness and point. To
compensate for this burden of responsibility, the parent was permitted
to say “my gal” while the critic, by the rules of the game, must
invariably say “that gal of yourn.”
While Thad the father was currying his daughter’s horse, Nugget--a
bright little pinto--Bob squatted comfortably on his heels, his back
against the wall of the barn.
“Pardner,” he said, as one who speaks after mature deliberation, “I
ain’t meanin’ to mix none in your family affairs, but as a friend I’m
a-feelin’ constrained to remark that you ain’t doin’ right by that gal
of yourn nohow.”
Marta’s father was making a careful examination of the pinto’s off
forefoot and seemed not to hear.
Bob continued:
“Anybody can see that she comes mighty nigh bein’ grown up. First thing
_you_ know somebody’ll make her understand all to once that she’s a
woman, and then----“
Thad dropped the pinto’s foot and glared at his pardner over the horse’s
back.
“Then _what_?”
“Then she’ll be wantin’ to know things. An’--it might be too late to
tell her.”
“You mean that I ought to tell my gal what we know about her?” demanded
Marta’s father. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to say?”
“You guessed it, Pardner,” returned the critical one cheerfully. “It’s
time that your gal knowed about herself. Bein’ her daddy, it’s up to you
to tell her.”
The other exploded:
“Which is exactly what I tried all last week to tell _you_, when you was
her daddy, you blamed old numskull, an’ you wouldn’t near listen to me.
A healthy father you are. When it’s _your_ daughter that ought to be
told, you can’t even whisper, but when she’s mine you can yell your fool
head off tellin’ me what _I_ ought to do. Besides, you said yourself
that we don’t actually know enough to tell her anything.”
“But that was last week, you see,” returned Bob calmly. “You was doin’
the talkin’ then--now _I’m_ tellin’ you.”
When Thad, without replying, fell to rubbing Nugget’s glossy hide with
such energy that the little horse squirmed like a schoolboy undergoing
maternal inspection, Bob continued:
“Marta is bound to know, when she stops to think about it, that she jest
can’t have two fathers. It’s plumb unnateral, even for two such daddies
as she’s got. So far she ain’t give it much thought. She’s sort of
growed up with the idea an’ accepted things as young folks do--up to a
certain time, that is. My point is, that from now on her time is liable
to come any day. Right now, if she thinks of it at all she jest smiles
an’ plays the game with us, but that’s ’cause she’s mostly kid yet. You
wait ’til the woman in her is woke up--right there she’ll quit playin’
an’ somethin’ is due to happen. You ain’t doin’ right by your daughter,
Thad, not to tell her--you sure ain’t.”
Thad Grove faced his old pardner miserably. “I know you’re right, Bob.
Marta ought to be told what we know about her. I can see that it’ll look
mighty bad to her some day if she ain’t. But, hang darn it, it’s jest
like you said last week--we don’t know enough for me to tell her
anything. If I was to tell her what little we do know, it would look a
heap sight worse to her than it possibly can with her not bein’ told
anything, like she is now. The way I figger, if the gal don’t know
nothin’, she’s got a chance to ride over it; but if she knows the little
that we know she’ll be plumb ruined.”
“I don’t reckon it’s near so bad as that, Pardner,” said the other
soothingly. “I’m here to tell you that there ain’t nothin’ could ruin
that gal of yourn.”
At this, the fire of old Thad’s soul flared up anew.
“Is that so?” he returned in a voice of withering scorn. “_Is_ that so?
Well, I’m a tellin’ _you_ that you can ruin _anybody_.”
“Saint Jimmy, for instance?” retorted Bob with sarcasm.
“Yes, Saint Jimmy. You can’t tell what sort of a scoundrel Saint Jimmy
would a-been if he hadn’t happened to a-turned sick. There’s many a man
in the pen, right now, jest on account of havin’ too much good health.”
“I reckon you’re speakin’ gospel for once,” agreed Bob reluctantly.
Then, as if he had not forgotten his critical privileges, he added: “But
there’s something else you ought to tell your gal--something that the
best authorities all agree ought to be told every gal by somebody--an’
bein’ as you’re her father, an’ she ain’t never had no real ma, why--it
would look like it was up to you.”
“What’s that?” demanded Thad suspiciously.
“That’s what they call love,” returned the other gently. “Growin’ up
like Marta has, with jest us two old, dried-up, desert rats, she don’t
know no more about love an’ its consequences than--than--nothin’.”
Marta’s father dropped his brush and kicked it viciously across the
stable. Nugget danced with excitement.
“Love! Holy Cats! What fool notion’ll take you next? You don’t need to
worry none. Some feller will happen along some day an’ tell her more
about love in a minute than you’ve ever knowed in all your life.”
“That’s jest it,” returned the other. “Some feller is bound to tell her,
jest like you say. He’ll slip up on her quiet like, when she ain’t
suspicionin’ nothin’, an’ break it to her sudden ’fore she knows where
she’s at. That’s how them consequences happen. An’ that’s why she ought
to know beforehand, so’s she can be watchin’ out.”
Thad was rubbing his bald head seeking, apparently, for an answer
sufficiently crushing, when a clear call came from the house.
“Daddy--Oh, Daddy, I am ready.”
With frantic haste, the Pardners, working together as if they had never
had a difference, saddled and bridled the pinto. Together they led the
little horse to the house.
When the girl was in the saddle, she looked down into their upturned
faces with such an expression of girlish affection and womanly
thoughtfulness that the two old men grinned with sheepish delight and
pride.
“You will find your dinner all ready for you,” she said, while Nugget
tossed his head, impatient to be off. “It is on the table, covered with
a cloth. I’ll be home in time for supper. _Adios._” She lifted the
bridle rein and the pinto loped away.
The Pardners stood watching while she opened and closed the gate, cowboy
fashion, without dismounting. With a wave of her hand she rode on up the
cañon while the two old men followed her with their eyes until she
passed from sight around a turn in the cañon wall.
Thad spoke slowly:
“You’re plumb right, Bob. The gal has mighty nigh growed into a woman,
ain’t she? It don’t seem more’n a month or two neither, does it?”
“It sure don’t,” returned the other softly. “An’ ain’t she a wonder,
Thad--ain’t she jest a nateral-born wonder?”
“She’s all of that,” agreed Thad, “an’ then some. It plumb scares me
though, when I think of her findin’ out about herself an’ her all
educated up by Saint Jimmy an’ his mother like she is. Holy Cats, Bob!
What’ll we do?”
“She’s bound to know some day,” said Bob.
“She’s bound to, sure,” echoed Thad with a groan. “But my God a’mighty
ain’t either of us got nerve to tell her _now_. If she hadn’t been goin’
to school to Saint Jimmy these last five years--I mean if she was like
she would a-been with jest me an’ you to bring her up, it might not
a-mattered. But now--now it’s goin’ to be plain hell for her when she
finds out.”
Bob murmured softly:
“Won’t even let us work on Sundays ’cause it ain’t the right way for
Christians like us to do. We’d ought to a-told long ago, that’s what we
ought to a-done.”
“Sure, we ought to told her,” cried Thad, “jest like we’d ought to done
a lot of things we ain’t. But mournin’ over what ought to been done
ain’t payin’ us nothin’. What’re we _goin’_ to do, that’s what we got to
figger out. The gal’s got to be told.”
“Yes,” returned Bob. “An’ she’s got to be told ’fore some sneakin’
varmint beats us to it an’ tells her for true what me an’ you are only
suspicionin’. How’ll you ever do it?”
“How’ll _I_ ever do it?” shrilled Thad. “Holy Cats! I can’t--How’ll you
ever do it yourself?”
Bob answered helplessly:
“I can’t neither--an’ by smoke, I won’t.”
“She’s got to be told,” insisted Thad.
“She sure has,” said Bob.