THE STORM
Ralph Marshall decided that he never had seen Bettina Graham so
agreeable nor so good looking as she was tonight.
Ralph was a great admirer of Bettina’s mother; indeed, whenever he made
a visit to Washington, he was always in Mrs. Graham’s train. And he knew
that Mrs. Graham wished him to be friends with her daughter; indeed, she
had frankly told him so, announcing that she believed the one would be
good for the other. For Bettina, in her mother’s eyes, was too grave,
too given to yielding to odd fancies and too indifferent to people,
while Ralph, in contrast, was too frivolous and fond of society. He was
some day to inherit great wealth, so his father was trying vainly to
interest him in something of importance. His excursions to Washington
and his connection with Senator Graham were in order to inform him of
national affairs. Failing that interest, for Ralph had announced himself
as bored to death by politics, he had gone for a few weeks to the
Webster farm, pretending to have developed a curiosity concerning
scientific farming.
But, really, Ralph was only concerned at present with having an
agreeable time. He was not a student and had barely managed to be
allowed to remain at college. He was not a first-rate athlete, for
athletics required too much self-sacrifice to appeal to Ralph. But he
had a charming voice and was one of the stars of his college glee club,
and there was not a man in college who danced better.
So he and Bettina really were too great a contrast in all their ideas
and desires ever to have been intimate friends up to the present time,
in spite of the family wishes.
Tonight, however, Ralph had concluded that Bettina was almost a real
girl, and not a prig given to writing poetry and reading a lot of dull
books that would bore any natural human being to death. She was
evidently interested in all kinds of outdoor sports, which she must have
learned through her Camp Fire work, and Ralph always had been forced to
concede that Bettina knew how to dance. She was so tall and slender and,
just as she had a peculiar light grace in walking, so she had it in
dancing.
Ralph and Bettina were dancing together at the time the young man was
reaching these conclusions—dancing outdoors on the smooth plateau of the
mesa on a wonderful, white night. Bettina’s hair was shining in the
moonlight, and she was stirred out of her usual coldness by the beauty
and novelty of her surroundings. So it was small wonder that Ralph, who
was a romantic person, was at present taking a more kindly view of his
companion.
However, Bettina had not changed to the same degree in her opinion of
Ralph. She was still convinced that he was exactly the kind of man she
would always least admire. Bettina’s ideal was represented by her
father, who had made his own way by a strenuous and self-denying youth.
Moreover, Bettina had never forgiven Ralph for his discovery of the poem
she had written and believed she had safely burned that afternoon at the
Webster farm.
But the music ceased. After Bettina and Ralph stopped dancing they
walked together to the side of the mesa and Bettina sat down.
The music consisted of a Victor, which Mrs. Burton had brought with them
as a part of the camping outfit, and tonight Marie had the music in
charge.
She looked like a little French figure of Pierette in her tight-fitting
black dress, and with her face oddly white in the moonlight. For Marie
insisted upon following the French fashion of using a great deal of
white powder in spite of her mistress’ remonstrances.
The Victor had been placed in a convenient position and Marie mounted on
a stool beside it. Almost for the first time since their arrival in
camp, Marie appeared almost gay as she ground out the records and
watched the dancers.
Mr. Jefferson Simpson had come forth from his lone tent near the creek
and established himself several yards away, to smoke a meditative cigar
and observe the proceedings with his twinkling, philosophic eyes.
“It is great out here, isn’t it?” Ralph said, as he arranged himself in
a picturesque attitude, lying at full length on the sands near Bettina’s
feet.
“And it wasn’t so worse—that little poem of yours I found this spring;
at least, not for stuff of that kind.” And Ralph spoke with a fine scorn
of the poets and poetry of all ages.
“I can repeat the thing, I think. Indeed, to tell you the truth, after I
read it over I learned the words and have been singing them to some
music I know.”
And Ralph sang under his breath in a charming voice:
“In the moon of the peach blossoms,
Toward the land of the setting sun,
Ghosts of old camp fires keep calling;
Camp fires whose race has been run.
“I can see the sands of the desert;
I can hear strange desert cries;
And ever my thoughts go homing
To a tent under desert skies.”
In the beginning Bettina was uncertain whether she was pleased or
annoyed at Ralph’s reminding her of an embarrassing experience. But
undoubtedly, by the close of the song, she was flattered. Ralph really
made the most of her little poem.
“The meter is very poor—so poor I threw my poem away—but the music is
lovely and you sing awfully well,” Bettina conceded, finding herself not
so bored by her companion as she always had been in the past. But then,
they had scarcely been together for a ten-minutes’ conversation alone in
their entire acquaintance before tonight, both Bettina and Ralph having
taken pains to avoid it.
“Anacoana, Flower of Gold, is your Camp Fire name, isn’t it?” Ralph
continued, gazing somewhat sentimentally at Bettina with his hazel-brown
eyes. His hair was nearly the same color, and his teeth strong and
white. Indeed, the only contradictory thing in Ralph’s appearance was
his mouth, which was fine and clearly cut—contradicting the weakness of
the rest of his face.
This time Bettina was annoyed. It was useless to try to be sensible with
Ralph Marshall, as he was always under the impression that he must be
languishing when talking to a girl.
And Bettina did not like this; neither did she know exactly how to
behave under the circumstances. It would have been simple enough to have
laughed Ralph into better judgment of her and of the situation. But
Bettina was no longer sufficiently at ease.
“Oh, that is rather an absurd name which my father once chose for me as
a Camp Fire name and by which I have been embarrassed ever since,” she
answered coldly, not returning her companion’s gaze, but sitting up
stiffly.
Her attitude gave Ralph the desire to flee. Bettina was a literary
iceberg, after all! But how escape when one was lying at full length on
the ground gazing with at least an appearance of ardor upon an
unresponsive maiden, unless some one came to the rescue?
Ralph glanced about and suppressed a sigh of relief.
Terry Benton and a girl were coming toward them.
And Bettina was equally relieved by the vision of Sally Ashton—a Sally
no longer suggesting the least appearance of sleepiness, or of anything
but sweetness and animation. It is curious, but there are a number of
girls in this world—and an equal number of women—who really never do
wake up until something masculine appears upon their horizon.
Sally was laughing and talking, her cheeks crimson and her big brown
eyes shining.
“We have come to look for you, Bettina. Tante was afraid you and Mr.
Marshall might be lost.” For Polly was ‘Tante’ to all of the Camp Fire
girls who were the daughters of her old friends, as well as to her own
niece.
The fact was, however, that she had not suggested to Sally to look for
Bettina and Ralph—the suggestion had come from Gerry. And Gerry had not
mentioned Bettina. She had simply told Terry Benton that she had not yet
met his eastern friend, and did he suppose that Ralph had already run
away?
So Terry and Sally had good-naturedly set off to find him.
Sally’s explanation had been the only excuse she could think of at the
moment, since, under the circumstances, she did not wish to mention
Gerry’s name. She was not really bad-tempered or deceitful; it seemed
impossible that any daughter of Esther and Dick Ashton’s could be! But
the fact was that Sally was like a pretty, soft kitten. She did not wish
her pleasures interfered with, and if they were she was capable of a
scratch. Moreover, she had fallen very much under the influence of an
older girl who had experiences of life which Sally considered extremely
fascinating. And at present Gerry’s power was perhaps stronger than the
Camp Fire’s.
Bettina and Ralph both got up hastily. The four of them were about to
move away when, unexpectedly and almost simultaneously, their attention
was attracted by the silhouette of a figure coming alone along the
western trail from the desert to the ranch, running with extraordinary
swiftness.
But at some distance off he stopped and stood perfectly still, gazing in
the direction of the mesa.
“An Indian—and a stunning one!” Ralph exclaimed in surprise and
excitement. Having only just arrived in Arizona, he had not yet learned
to take the appearance of an Indian upon the scene as a matter of
course.
And the figure below was a fine one—nearly six feet in height, with
broad, slender shoulders, perfectly erect, the head thrown back,
motionless as a man in bronze.
“Oh, that is our Indian, or Tante’s or Bettina’s,” Sally replied
teasingly. “However, I ought not to speak of him disrespectfully, for he
is the son of an Indian chief and a chief himself, I believe, when he
happens to be at home from college. Really, he does seem to be an
unusual fellow.”
“There are several of these Indian students at my college,” Ralph
remarked. “Queer contrast their existence must offer, if they return to
their own people in the holidays.”
Ralph was watching as he talked.
The man below had started to move again and was climbing the ascent to
the mesa. It chanced that the trail was not far from the spot where the
two Camp Fire girls and their companions were standing.
When the Indian reached the top he hesitated a moment, perhaps surprised
by the unexpectedness of seeing two strange young men. But, without
making any sign, he went on in the direction of the group of tents.
Not far from her own tent Mrs. Burton was sitting in a big camp chair,
with Dawapa on the ground beside her. The Indian girl had been
frightened by the appearance of so many strangers.
Standing in front of Mrs. Burton was a big, good-looking fellow named
Howard Brent, the son of another Arizona ranchman, with whom she was
talking.
The Indian stopped in front of them, but Polly did not notice until she
heard a little suppressed cry from the girl beside her.
Mrs. Burton was not altogether pleased at the sight of the young man.
After all, he had too mysterious a fashion of appearing at camp
unexpectedly.
But something in the dignity and aloofness of his manner always
impressed her.
“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not know you had friends with you or I
would not have come. They must have told you to be prepared before now.”
“Told me what?” Mrs. Burton demanded with her usual impatience.
“That a storm is coming.”
The Indian pointed toward the southwest.
“Nonsense,” the young ranchman beside Polly replied. And then in a
patronizing fashion: “The Indians out here think they are great weather
prophets, and that they know the signs in the sky as well as we know the
face of a clock.”
The young ranchman looked up at the sky and then sniffed the air.
“Not a sign of a storm that I can make out, and I was born and brought
up in Arizona.”
“Oh, well; even if a storm does break on us, I suppose we can find
refuge in our tents,” Mrs. Burton added, not specially interested in the
subject of the weather at the present moment, and thinking that Tewa
might have manufactured a more worthwhile excuse for his appearance.
In response the Indian said nothing, but the other man laughed.
“I don’t believe you realize what an Arizona storm toward the end of
July may mean, Mrs. Burton. However, there is no reason for worrying
tonight.”
Tewa turned away, not replying to Mrs. Burton’s vague invitation to
remain.
The next instant, however, Dawapa had jumped up and seized the young man
by the arm.
“Take me home; I don’t like it here. I have fear, Tewa,” Dawapa
whispered.
Her companion shook his head.
“It is too far; there will be no time before the storm gets here.”
Freeing himself, he walked quickly away.
Half an hour later the first informal Sunrise Camp Fire dance was over.
The young men guests had started back on the trail toward the Gardener
ranch.
In another half hour Mrs. Burton and the girls were in their tents
asleep.
Tewa, the Indian, had disappeared.
Only Mr. Simpson had not retired. He had gone down to his own solitary
tent after the young men visitors departed. But he did not seem able to
sleep.
The moon had gone down, but the night was still fairly clear, with a few
stars overhead.
However, over toward the southwest there was a yellowish white cloud
rolling up the horizon. Suddenly, all the vitality and freshness had
gone from the atmosphere.
But more important, down in the neighborhood of the creek there were
queer rustlings in the branches of the tall cottonwood trees, as if the
birds were whispering together. On the ground there was the faint sound
of running, soft-padded feet.
Also Mr. Simpson heard familiar cries of the animals farther off—the
queer barking of the coyotes, the snarl of a wild cat—signaling each
other of the approach of danger.
Perhaps the tents ought to be more securely fastened down in case of
danger.
Mr. Simpson was again climbing the mesa when he saw away off, coming
from the neighborhood of the Painted Desert toward them, what appeared
like a giant. It was a huge column of sand borne straight upright.
A hurricane was behind it!