When within a dozen paces of the master, McKinstry, scarcely checking
his mustang, threw himself from the saddle, and with a sharp cut of
his riata on the animal's haunches sent him still galloping towards the
distant house. Then, with both hands deeply thrust in the side pockets
of his long, loose linen coat, he slowly lounged with clanking spurs
towards the young man. He was thick-set, of medium height, densely and
reddishly bearded, with heavy-lidded pale blue eyes that wore a look of
drowsy pain, and after their first wearied glance at the master, seemed
to rest anywhere but on him.
“Your wife was sending you your rifle by Cressy,” said the master, “but
I offered to bring it myself, as I thought it scarcely a proper errand
for a young lady. Here it is. I hope you didn't miss it before and don't
require it now,” he added quietly.
Mr. McKinstry took it in one hand with an air of slightly embarrassed
surprise, rested it against his shoulder, and then with the same hand
and without removing the other from his pocket, took off his soft felt
hat, showed a bullet-hole in its rim, and returned lazily, “It's about
half an hour late, but them Harrisons reckoned I was fixed for 'em and
war too narvous to draw a clear bead on me.”
The moment was evidently not a felicitous one for the master's purpose,
but he was determined to go on. He hesitated an instant, when his
companion, who seemed to be equally but more sluggishly embarrassed, in
a moment of preoccupied perplexity withdrew from his pocket his right
hand swathed in a blood-stained bandage, and following some instinctive
habit, attempted, as if reflectively, to scratch his head with two
stiffened fingers.
“You are hurt,” said the master, genuinely shocked, “and here I am
detaining you.”
“I had my hand up--so,” explained McKinstry, with heavy deliberation,
“and the ball raked off my little finger after it went through my hat.
But that ain't what I wanted to say when I stopped ye. I ain't just kam
enough yet,” he apologized in the calmest manner, “and I clean forgit
myself,” he added with perfect self-possession. “But I was kalkilatin'
to ask you”--he laid his bandaged hand familiarly on the master's
shoulder--“if Cressy kem all right?”
“Perfectly,” said the master. “But shan't I walk on home with you, and
we can talk together after your wound is attended to?”
“And she looked purty?” continued McKinstry without moving.
“Very.”
“And you thought them new store gownds of hers right peart?”
“Yes,” said the master. “Perhaps a little too fine for the school, you
know,” he added insinuatingly, “and”--
“Not for her--not for her,” interrupted McKinstry. “I reckon thar's more
whar that cam from! Ye needn't fear but that she kin keep up that gait
ez long ez Hiram McKinstry hez the runnin' of her.”
Mr. Ford gazed hopelessly at the hideous ranch in the distance, at the
sky, and the trail before him; then his glance fell upon the hand still
upon his shoulder, and he struggled with a final effort. “At another
time I'd like to have a long talk with you about your daughter, Mr.
McKinstry.”
“Talk on,” said McKinstry, putting his wounded hand through the master's
arm. “I admire to hear you. You're that kam, it does me good.”
Nevertheless the master was conscious that his own arm was scarcely as
firm as his companion's. It was however useless to draw back now,
and with as much tact as he could command he relieved his mind of its
purpose. Addressing the obtruding bandage before him, he dwelt upon
Cressy's previous attitude in the school, the danger of any relapse, the
necessity of her having a more clearly defined position as a scholar,
and even the advisability of her being transferred to a more advanced
school with a more mature teacher of her own sex. “This is what I wished
to say to Mrs. McKinstry to-day,” he concluded, “but she referred me to
you.”
“In course, in course,” said McKinstry, nodding complacently. “She's a
good woman in and around the ranch, and in any doin's o' this kind,” he
lightly waved his wounded arm in the air, “there ain't a better, tho'
I say it. She was Blair Rawlins' darter; she and her brother Clay bein'
the only ones that kem out safe arter their twenty years' fight with the
McEntees in West Kaintuck. But she don't understand gals ez you and me
do. Not that I'm much, ez I orter be more kam. And the old woman jest
sized the hull thing when she said SHE hadn't any hand in Cressy's
engagement. No more she had! And ez far ez that goes, no more did me,
nor Seth Davis, nor Cressy.” He paused, and lifting his heavy-lidded
eyes to the master for the second time, said reflectively, “Ye mustn't
mind my tellin' ye--ez betwixt man and man--that THE one ez is most
responsible for the makin' and breakin' o' that engagement is YOU!”
“Me!” said the master in utter bewilderment.
“You!” repeated McKinstry quietly, reinstalling the hand Ford had
attempted to withdraw. “I ain't sayin' ye either know'd it or kalkilated
on it. But it war so. Ef ye'd hark to me, and meander on a little, I'll
tell ye HOW it war. I don't mind walkin' a piece YOUR way, for if we go
towards the ranch, and the hounds see me, they'll set up a racket and
bring out the old woman, and then good-by to any confidential talk
betwixt you and me. And I'm, somehow, kammer out yer.”
He moved slowly down the trail, still holding Ford's arm confidentially,
although, owing to his large protecting manner, he seemed to offer a
ridiculous suggestion of supporting HIM with his wounded member.
“When you first kem to Injin Spring,” he began, “Seth and Cressy was
goin' to school, boy and girl like, and nothin' more. They'd known each
other from babies--the Davises bein' our neighbors in Kaintuck, and
emigraten' with us from St. Joe. Seth mout hev cottoned to Cress, and
Cress to him, in course o' time, and there wasn't anythin' betwixt the
families to hev kept 'em from marryin' when they wanted. But there never
war any words passed, and no engagement.”
“But,” interrupted Ford hastily, “my predecessor, Mr. Martin, distinctly
told me that there was, and that it was with YOUR permission.”
“That's only because you noticed suthin' the first day you looked over
the school with Martin. 'Dad,' sez Cress to me, 'that new teacher's very
peart; and he's that keen about noticin' me and Seth that I reckon you'd
better giv out that we're engaged.' 'But are you?' sez I. 'It'll come to
that in the end,' sez Cress, 'and if that yer teacher hez come here with
Northern ideas o' society, it's just ez well to let him see Injin Spring
ain't entirely in the woods about them things either.' So I agreed, and
Martin told you it was all right; Cress and Seth was an engaged couple,
and you was to take no notice. And then YOU ups and objects to the hull
thing, and allows that courtin' in school, even among engaged pupils,
ain't proper.”
The master turned his eyes with some uneasiness to the face of Cressy's
father. It was heavy but impassive.
“I don't mind tellin' you, now that it's over, what happened. The
trouble with me, Mr. Ford, is--I ain't kam! and YOU air, and that's
what got me. For when I heard what you'd said, I got on that mustang and
started for the school-house to clean you out and giv' you five minutes
to leave Injin Spring. I don't know ez you remember that day. I'd
kalkilated my time so ez to ketch ye comin' out o' school, but I was too
airly. I hung around out o' sight, and then hitched my hoss to a buckeye
and peeped inter the winder to hev a good look at ye. It was very quiet
and kam. There was squirrels over the roof, yellow-jackets and bees
dronin' away, and kinder sleeping-like all around in the air, and
jay-birds twitterin' in the shingles, and they never minded me. You were
movin' up and down among them little gals and boys, liftin' up their
heads and talkin' to 'em softly and quiet like, ez if you was one of
them yourself. And they looked contented and kam. And onct--I don't
know if YOU remember it--you kem close up to the winder with your
hands behind you, and looked out so kam and quiet and so far off, ez if
everybody else outside the school was miles away from you. It kem to me
then that I'd given a heap to hev had the old woman see you thar. It kem
to me, Mr. Ford, that there wasn't any place for ME thar; and it kem
to me, too--and a little rough like--that mebbee there wasn't any place
there for MY Cress either! So I rode away without disturbin' you nor the
birds nor the squirrels. Talkin' with Cress that night, she said ez how
it was a fair sample of what happened every day, and that you'd always
treated her fair like the others. So she allowed that she'd go down to
Sacramento, and get some things agin her and Seth bein' married next
month, and she reckoned she wouldn't trouble you nor the school agin.
Hark till I've done, Mr. Ford,” he continued, as the young man made a
slight movement of deprecation. “Well, I agreed. But arter she got to
Sacramento and bought some fancy fixin's, she wrote to me and sez ez how
she'd been thinkin' the hull thing over, and she reckoned that she and
Seth were too young to marry, and the engagement had better be broke.
And I broke it for her.”
“But how?” asked the bewildered master.
“Gin'rally with this gun,” returned McKinstry with slow gravity,
indicating the rifle he was carrying, “for I ain't kam. I let on to
Seth's father that if I ever found Seth and Cressy together again, I'd
shoot him. It made a sort o' coolness betwixt the families, and hez
given some comfort to them low-down Harrisons; but even the law, I
reckon, recognizes a father's rights. And ez Cress sez, now ez Seth's
out o' the way, thar ain't no reason why she can't go back to school and
finish her eddication. And I reckoned she was right. And we both agreed
that ez she'd left school to git them store clothes, it was only fair
that she'd give the school the benefit of 'em.”
The case seemed more hopeless than ever. The master knew that the man
beside him might hardly prove as lenient to a second objection at his
hand. But that very reason, perhaps, impelled him, now that he knew his
danger, to consider it more strongly as a duty, and his pride revolted
from a possible threat underlying McKinstry's confidences. Nevertheless
he began gently:
“But you are quite sure you won't regret that you didn't avail yourself
of this broken engagement, and your daughter's outfit--to send her to
some larger boarding-school in Sacramento or San Francisco? Don't
you think she may find it dull, and soon tire of the company of mere
children when she has already known the excitement of”--he was about to
say “a lover,” but checked himself, and added, “a young girl's freedom?”
“Mr. Ford,” returned McKinstry, with the slow and fatuous misconception
of a one-ideaed man, “when I said just now that, lookin' inter that kam,
peaceful school of yours, I didn't find a place for Cress, it warn't
because I didn't think she OUGHTER hev a place thar. Thar was that thar
wot she never had ez a little girl with me and the old woman, and that
she couldn't find ez a grownd up girl in any boarding-school--the home
of a child; that kind o' innocent foolishness that I sometimes reckon
must hev slipped outer our emigrant wagon comin' across the plains, or
got left behind at St. Joe. She was a grownd girl fit to marry afore she
was a child. She had young fellers a-sparkin' her afore she ever played
with 'em ez boy and girl. I don't mind tellin' you that it wern't in the
natur of Blair Rawlins' darter to teach her own darter any better, for
all she's been a mighty help to me. So if it's all the same to you,
Mr. Ford, we won't talk about a grownd up school; I'd rather Cress be
a little girl again among them other children. I should be a powerful
sight more kam if I knowed that when I was away huntin' stock or
fightin' stakes with them Harrisons, that she was a settin' there with
them and the birds and the bees, and listenin' to them and to you.
Mebbee there's been a little too many scrimmages goin' on round the
ranch sence she's been a child; mebbee she orter know suthin' more of a
man than a feller who sparks her and fights for her.”
The master was silent. Had this dull, narrow-minded partisan stumbled
upon a truth that had never dawned upon his own broader comprehension?
Had this selfish savage and literally red-handed frontier brawler been
moved by some dumb instinct of the power of gentleness to understand his
daughter's needs better than he? For a moment he was staggered. Then
he thought of Cressy's later flirtations with Joe Masters, and her
concealment of their meeting from her mother. Had she deceived her
father also? Or was not the father deceiving him with this alternate
suggestion of threat and of kindliness--of power and weakness. He had
heard of this cruel phase of Southwestern cunning before. With the
feeble sophistry of the cynic he mistrusted the good his scepticism
could not understand. Howbeit, glancing sideways at the slumbering
savagery of the man beside him, and his wounded hand, he did not care
to show his lack of confidence. He contented himself with that
equally feeble resource of weak humanity in such cases--good-natured
indifference. “All right,” he said carelessly; “I'll see what can be
done. But are you quite sure you are fit to go home alone? Shall I
accompany you?” As McKinstry waived the suggestion with a gesture, he
added lightly, as if to conclude the interview, “I'll report progress to
you from time to time, if you like.”
“To ME,” emphasized McKinstry; “not over THAR,” indicating the ranch.
“But p'rhaps you wouldn't mind my ridin' by and lookin' in at the
school-room winder onct in a while? Ah--you WOULD,” he added, with the
first deepening of color he had shown. “Well, never mind.”
“You see it might distract the children from their lessons,” explained
the master gently, who had however contemplated with some concern the
infinite delight which a glimpse of McKinstry's fiery and fatuous face
at the window would awaken in Johnny Filgee's infant breast.
“Well, no matter!” returned McKinstry slowly. “Ye don't keer, I s'pose,
to come over to the hotel and take suthin'? A julep or a smash?”
“I shouldn't think of keeping you a moment longer from Mrs. McKinstry,”
said the master, looking at his companion's wounded hand. “Thank you all
the same. Good-by.”
They shook hands, McKinstry transferring his rifle to the hollow of his
elbow to offer his unwounded left. The master watched him slowly resume
his way towards the ranch. Then with a half uneasy and half pleasurable
sense that he had taken some step whose consequences were more important
than he would at present understand, he turned in the opposite direction
to the school-house. He was so preoccupied that it was not until he had
nearly reached it that he remembered Uncle Ben. With an odd recollection
of McKinstry's previous performance, he approached the school from the
thicket in the rear and slipped noiselessly to the open window with the
intention of looking in. But the school-house, far from exhibiting that
“kam” and studious abstraction which had so touched the savage breast
of McKinstry, was filled with the accents of youthful and unrestrained
vituperation. The voice of Rupert Filgee came sharply to the master's
astonished ears.
“You needn't try to play off Dobell or Mitchell on ME--you hear! Much
YOU know of either, don't you? Look at that copy. If Johnny couldn't do
better than that, I'd lick him. Of course it's the pen--it ain't your
stodgy fingers--oh, no! P'r'aps you'd like to hev a few more boxes
o' quills and gold pens and Gillott's best thrown in, for two bits a
lesson? I tell you what! I'll throw up the contract in another minit!
There goes another quill busted! Look here, what YOU want ain't a pen,
but a clothes-pin and a split nail! That'll about jibe with your dilikit
gait.”
The master at once stepped to the window and, unobserved, took a
quick survey of the interior. Following some ingenious idea of his own
regarding fitness, the beautiful Filgee had induced Uncle Ben to seat
himself on the floor before one of the smallest desks, presumably
his brother's, in an attitude which, while it certainly gave him
considerable elbow-room for those contortions common to immature
penmanship, offered his youthful instructor a superior eminence, from
which he hovered, occasionally swooping down upon his grown-up pupil
like a mischievous but graceful jay. But Mr. Ford's most distinct
impression was that, far from resenting the derogatory position and the
abuse that accompanied it, Uncle Ben not only beamed upon his persecutor
with unquenchable good humor, but with undisguised admiration, and
showed not the slightest inclination to accept his proposed resignation.
“Go slow, Roop,” he said cheerfully. “You was onct a boy yourself.
Nat'rally I kalkilate to stand all the damages. You've got ter waste
some powder over a blast like this yer, way down to the bed rock. Next
time I'll bring my own pens.”
“Do. Some from the Dobell school you uster go to,” suggested the darkly
ironical Rupert. “They was iron-clad injin-rubber, warn't they?”
“Never you mind wot they were,” said Uncle Ben good-humoredly. “Look at
that string of 'C's' in that line. There's nothing mean about THEM.”
He put his pen between his teeth, raised himself slowly on his legs, and
shading his eyes with his hand from the severe perspective of six feet,
gazed admiringly down upon his work. Rupert, with his hands in
his pockets and his back to the window, cynically assisted at the
inspection.
“Wot's that sick worm at the bottom of the page?” he asked.
“Wot might you think it wos?” said Uncle Ben beamingly.
“Looks like one o' them snake roots you dig up with a little mud stuck
to it,” returned Rupert critically.
“That's my name.”
They both stood looking at it with their heads very much on one side.
“It ain't so bad as the rest you've done. It MIGHT be your name. That
ez, it don't look like anythin' else,” suggested Rupert, struck with a
new idea that it was perhaps more professional occasionally to encourage
his pupil. “You might get on in course o' time. But what are you doin'
all this for?” he asked suddenly.
“Doin' what?”
“This yer comin' to school when you ain't sent, and you ain't got no
call to go--you, a grown-up man!”
The color deepened in Uncle Ben's face to the back of his ears. “Wot
would you giv' to know, Roop? S'pose I reckoned some day to make a
strike and sorter drop inter saciety easy--eh? S'pose I wanted to be
ready to keep up my end with the other fellers, when the time kem? To be
able to sling po'try and read novels and sich--eh?”
An expression of infinite and unutterable scorn dawned in the eyes of
Rupert. “You do? Well,” he repeated with slow and cutting deliberation,
“I'll tell you what you're comin' here for, and the only thing that
makes you come.”
“What?”
“It's--some--girl!”
Uncle Ben broke into a boisterous laugh that made the roof shake,
stamping about and slapping his legs till the crazy floor trembled.
But at that moment the master stepped to the perch and made a quiet but
discomposing entrance.