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[Illustration: _She forgot the flowers in her arms, forgot
the sunset, and stood entranced in prayer._]
THE ANGEL OF THE GILA
_A Tale of Arizona_
CORA MARSLAND
_With Illustrations by
S. S. HICKS and GEM VAUGHN_
[Illustration]
RICHARD G. BADGER
THE GORHAM PRESS
BOSTON
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY RICHARD G. BADGER
_All Rights Reserved_
_THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A._
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE MINING CAMP 11
II THE DAWN OF A NEW DAY 19
III CLAYTON RANCH 30
IV THE ANGEL OF THE GILA 41
V THE ROCKY MOUNTAIN BALL 57
VI A SOUL'S AWAKENING 78
VII THE GILA CLUB 89
VIII THE COW LASSES 107
IX A VISIT AT MURPHY RANCH 117
X CARLA EARLE 132
XI AN EVENTFUL DAY 140
XII CHRISTMAS DAY 154
XIII THE ADOPTION OF A MOTHER 167
XIV THE GREAT TRANSFORMATION 182
XV SOME SOCIAL EXPERIENCES 194
XVI OVER THE MOUNTAINS 205
XVII THE GREAT RACE 217
XVIII NIGHT ON THE RANGE 225
XIX INASMUCH 238
XX A WOMAN'S NO 241
XXI THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW 248
XXII THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE 265
XXIII AT SUNSET 271
XXIV AFTERMATH 278
THE ANGEL OF THE GILA
The Angel of The Gila
CHAPTER I
THE MINING CAMP
It was an October day in Gila,[1] Arizona. The one street of the
mining camp wound around the foothills, and led eastward to Line
Canyon, which, at that point, divides Arizona from New Mexico. Four
saloons, an opium den, a store of general merchandise,--owned and
operated by the mining company,--a repair shop, one large, pretentious
adobe house,--the headquarters of the company, where superintendent,
assayers, and mining engineers boarded,--several small dwelling
houses, and many miners' shacks, constituted the town.
[1] Pronounced he la.
A little further to the eastward, around a bend in the foothills, and
near Line Canyon, lay Clayton Ranch,--the most historic, as well as
the most picturesque spot in that region. Near the dwelling house, but
closer to the river than the Clayton home, stood a little adobe
schoolhouse.
The town, facing south, overlooked Gila River and its wooded banks.
Beyond the Gila, as in every direction, stretched foothills and
mountains. Toward the south towered Mt. Graham, the highest peak of
the Pinaleno range, blue in the distance, and crowned with snow.
Up a pathway of the foothills, west of the town, bounding forward as
if such a climb were but joy to her, came a slight, girlish figure.
She paused now and then to turn her face westward, watching the
changing colors of sunset.
At last she reached a bowlder, and, seating herself, leaned against
it, removed her sombrero hat, pushed back the moist curls from her
forehead, and turned again to the sunset. The sun, for one supreme
moment, poised on a mountain peak, then slowly sank, flashing its
message of splendor into the majestic dome of the sky, over
snow-capped mountains, over gigantic cliffs of red sandstone, over
stretches of yellow foothills, and then caught the white-robed figure,
leaning against the bowlder, in its rosy glow. The girl lifted her
fine, sensitive face. Again she pushed the curls from her forehead. As
she lifted her arm, her sleeve slipped back, revealing an arm and hand
of exquisite form, and patrician to the tips of the fingers.
She seemed absorbed in the scene before her, unconscious that she was
the loveliest part of it. But if she was unconscious of the fact, a
horseman who drew rein a short distance away, and who watched her
intently a few moments, was not. At last the girl stirred, as though
to continue on her way. Instantly the horseman gave his horse a sharp
cut with his whip, and went cantering up the ascent before her.
The sudden sound of a horse's hoofs startled her, and she glanced up
to see the horseman and his thoroughbred speeding toward the town.
She swung her sombrero hat over her shoulder, and gathered up her
flowers; then, with a lingering glance to westward, turned and walked
rapidly toward Gila.
By the time she had reached the one long street, many cowboys and
miners had already congregated about the saloons. She dreaded to pass
there at this hour, but this she must do in order to reach Clayton
Ranch, nearly a mile beyond.
As she drew near one saloon, she heard uproarious laughter. The voices
were loud and boisterous. It was impossible for her to escape hearing
what was said. It was evident to her that she herself was at that
moment the topic of conversation.
"She'll git all the Bible school she wants Sunday afternoon, or my
name's not Pete Tompkins," ejaculated a bar-tender as he stepped to
the bar of a saloon.
"What're ye goin' ter do, Pete?" asked a young miner. "I'm in f'r y'r
game, or my name ain't Bill Hines."
"I?" answered the individual designated as Pete Tompkins, "I mean ter
give 'er a reception, Bill, a _reception_." Here he laughed
boisterously. "I repeat it," he said. "I'll give 'er a reception, an'
conterive ter let 'er understan' that no sech infernal business as a
Bible school 'll be tol'ated in these yere parts o' Arizony. Them as
wants ter join me in smashin' this cussed Sunday business step ter the
bar. I'll treat the hull blanked lot o' ye."
The girl passing along the street shuddered. The brutal voice went on:
"Set up the glasses o' whiskey, Keith. Here, Jess an' Kate. We want
yer ter have a hand in smashin' this devilish Bible school. Another
glass fur Jess, Keith, an' one fur Kate."
The pedestrian quickened her pace, but still the voice followed her.
"Here's ter y'r healths, an' ter the smashin' o' the Bible school, an'
ter the reception we'll give the new schoolma'am."
The stranger heard the clink of glasses, mingled with the uproar of
laughter. Then she caught the words:
"Ye don't jine us, Hastings. P'r'aps y're too 'ristercratic, or
p'r'aps y're gone on the gal! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
The saloon rang with the laughter of the men and women.
The girl who had just passed quickened her pace, her cheeks tingling
with indignation. As she hastened on, the man addressed as Hastings
replied haughtily:
"I am a _man_, and being a man I cannot see insult offered to any
woman, especially when that woman is making an effort to do some good
in this Godless region."
"He's gone on 'er, sure, Bill. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Imagine me, Pete Tompkins,
gone on the schoolma'am! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"
His companions joined in his laughter.
"What'ud she think o' my figger, Bill?" he asked, as he strutted
across the saloon. "How 'ud I look by 'er side in Virginny reel, eh?
I'm afeared it 'ud be the devil an' angel in comp'ny. Ha-ha-ha!"
"Y're right thar," replied one of the men. "Ye certain are a devil,
an' she do look like a angel."
"Say, fellers," said Bill Hines, "me an' Pete an' all o' ye ought ter
git some slime from the river, an' throw on them white dresses o'
hern. I don't like nobody settin' theirselves up to be better'n we be,
even in clo'es, do ye, Jess?"
Jess agreed with him.
"What's all this noise about?" interrupted a new comer.
"Hello, Mark Clifton, is that you? Well, me an' Bill an' Jess an' the
other kids is plannin' ter smash schoolma'am's Bible school, Sunday.
We're goin' ter give 'er a reception."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Clifton.
"Ye kin jine the party an' we'll show yer."
"Let me urge you to leave Miss Bright alone. She has not harmed you.
Leave the Bible school alone, too, and attend to your own business."
"Oh, he's a saint, ain't he! He is!" sneered Pete Tompkins. "What about
this gal as he has with him here? More whiskey! Fill up the glasses,
Keith. Come, Jess. Come, Kate Harraday." And the half-intoxicated man
swung one woman around and tried to dance a jig, failing in which, he
fell to the floor puffing and swearing.
Mark Clifton's face darkened. He grasped a chair and stepped forward,
as if to strike the speaker. He hesitated. As he did so, a handsome
cowboy entered, followed by a little Indian boy of perhaps six years
of age.
"What's the row, Hastings?" asked the cowboy in a low voice.
"Pete Tompkins and Bill Hines and their ilk are planning to give Miss
Bright, the new teacher, some trouble when she attempts to start a
Bible school to-morrow afternoon. Clifton remonstrated, and they
taunted him about Carla Earle. That enraged him."
"What do they plan ter do?"
"I fancy they'll do every blackguard thing they can think of. They are
drunk now, but when they are sober they may reconsider. At any rate,
the decent men of the camp ought to be on the spot to protect that
girl, Harding."
"I'll be there fur one, Hastings. Have yer seen 'er?"
"Yes. As I rode into camp just now I passed someone I took to be Miss
Bright."
"Pretty as a picter, ain't she?" said Jack Harding.
"Look, there she goes around the bend of the road towards Claytons'.
There goes y'r teacher, Wathemah."
The Indian child bounded to the door.
"Me teacher, _me_ teacher," he said over and over to himself, as he
watched the receding figure.
"_Your_ teacher, eh, sonny," said Kenneth Hastings smiling. He laid
his hand on the child's head.
"Yes, _me_ teacher," said the boy proudly.
His remark was overheard by Pete Tompkins.
"Lookee here, boys! There goes Wathemah's teacher. Now's y'r chance,
my hearties. See the nat'ral cur'osity as is to start a religion shop,
an' grind us fellers inter angels. Are my wings sproutin'?"
As he spoke the words, he flapped his elbows up and down. Kenneth
Hastings and Jack Harding exchanged glances. Mark Clifton had gone.
Pete Tompkins hereupon stepped to the door and called out:
"Three cheers fur the angel o' the Gila, my hearties. One, two, three!
Now! That's it. Now! Death to the Bible school!"
"Death to the Bible school!" shouted they in unison.
The little Indian heard their words. He knew that insult and,
possibly, injury threatened his teacher, and, stepping up to Pete
Tompkins, he kicked his shins with all his childish strength, uttering
oaths that drew forth hilarious laughter from the men.
"Y're a good un," said one.
"Give 'im a trounce in the air," added another.
In a moment, the child was tossed from one to another, his passionate
cries and curses mingling with their ribald laughter. At last he was
caught by John Harding, who held him in his arms.
"Never mind, Wathemah," he said soothingly.
Hoarse with rage, the child shrieked, "You blankety blanked devils!
You blankety blanked devils!"
A ruffian cursed him.
He was wild. He struggled to free himself, to return to the fray, but
Jack Harding held him fast.
"You devils, devils, devils!" he shrieked again. His little frame
trembled with anger, and he burst into tears.
"Never mind, little chap," said his captor, drawing him closer, "ye go
with me."
For once John Harding left the saloon without touching liquor. The
Indian child was clasped in his arms. When he reached a place beyond
the sound of the men's voices, he set the little lad on his feet. He
patted him on the head, and looked down compassionately into the
tear-stained face.
"Poor little chap," he said, "poor little chap. Y're like me, ain't
ye? Ye ain't got nobody in the world. Let's be pards, Wathemah!"
"Pards?" repeated the child between sobs.
"Yes, pards, sonny. That's what I said."
Wathemah clasped his arms about Jack's knees.
"Me _teacher_ pard too?" he asked, trying bravely to stop crying.
"Yourn, not mine, sonny," answered Harding, smiling. Then hand in hand,
they strolled toward Clayton Ranch. And this was the strengthening of
the comradeship between the two, which was as loyal as it was tender.
Kenneth Hastings overtook them, then passed them. He reached Clayton
Ranch, hesitated a moment, then walked rapidly toward Line Canyon.
For some indefinable reason he did not call that evening at Clayton
Ranch as was his custom, nor did he knock at that door for many days.
On the following Monday, he was called to a distant mining camp, where
he was detained by business. So it happened that he was one of the
last to meet the new teacher whose coming was to mean so much to his
life and to the people of Gila.