Hale rode that night under a brilliant moon to the worm of a railroad
that had been creeping for many years toward the Gap. The head of it was
just protruding from the Natural Tunnel twenty miles away. There he
sent his horse back, slept in a shanty till morning, and then the train
crawled through a towering bench of rock. The mouth of it on the other
side opened into a mighty amphitheatre with solid rock walls shooting
vertically hundreds of feet upward. Vertically, he thought--with the
back of his head between his shoulders as he looked up--they were more
than vertical--they were actually concave. The Almighty had not only
stored riches immeasurable in the hills behind him--He had driven this
passage Himself to help puny man to reach them, and yet the wretched
road was going toward them like a snail. On the fifth night, thereafter
he was back there at the tunnel again from New York--with a grim mouth
and a happy eye. He had brought success with him this time and there was
no sleep for him that night. He had been delayed by a wreck, it was two
o'clock in the morning, and not a horse was available; so he started
those twenty miles afoot, and day was breaking when he looked down on
the little valley shrouded in mist and just wakening from sleep.
Things had been moving while he was away, as he quickly learned.
The English were buying lands right and left at the gap sixty miles
southwest. Two companies had purchased most of the town-site where he
was--HIS town-site--and were going to pool their holdings and form an
improvement company. But a good deal was left, and straightway Hale got
a map from his office and with it in his hand walked down the curve of
the river and over Poplar Hill and beyond. Early breakfast was ready
when he got back to the hotel. He swallowed a cup of coffee so hastily
that it burned him, and June, when she passed his window on her way to
school, saw him busy over his desk. She started to shout to him, but
he looked so haggard and grim that she was afraid, and went on, vaguely
hurt by a preoccupation that seemed quite to have excluded her. For two
hours then, Hale haggled and bargained, and at ten o'clock he went to
the telegraph office. The operator who was speculating in a small way
himself smiled when he read the telegram.
“A thousand an acre?” he repeated with a whistle. “You could have got
that at twenty-five per--three months ago.”
“I know,” said Hale, “there's time enough yet.” Then he went to his
room, pulled the blinds down and went to sleep, while rumour played with
his name through the town.
It was nearly the closing hour of school when, dressed and freshly
shaven, he stepped out into the pale afternoon and walked up toward the
schoolhouse. The children were pouring out of the doors. At the gate
there was a sudden commotion, he saw a crimson figure flash into the
group that had stopped there, and flash out, and then June came swiftly
toward him followed closely by a tall boy with a cap on his head. That
far away he could see that she was angry and he hurried toward her. Her
face was white with rage, her mouth was tight and her dark eyes were
aflame. Then from the group another tall boy darted out and behind
him ran a smaller one, bellowing. Hale heard the boy with the cap call
kindly:
“Hold on, little girl! I won't let 'em touch you.” June stopped with him
and Hale ran to them.
“Here,” he called, “what's the matter?”
June burst into crying when she saw him and leaned over the fence
sobbing. The tall lad with the cap had his back to Hale, and he waited
till the other two boys came up. Then he pointed to the smaller one and
spoke to Hale without looking around.
“Why, that little skate there was teasing this little girl and--”
“She slapped him,” said Hale grimly. The lad with the cap turned. His
eyes were dancing and the shock of curly hair that stuck from his absurd
little cap shook with his laughter.
“Slapped him! She knocked him as flat as a pancake.”
“Yes, an' you said you'd stand fer her,” said the other tall boy who was
plainly a mountain lad. He was near bursting with rage.
“You bet I will,” said the boy with the cap heartily, “right now!” and
he dropped his books to the ground.
“Hold on!” said Hale, jumping between them. “You ought to be ashamed of
yourself,” he said to the mountain boy.
“I wasn't atter the gal,” he said indignantly. “I was comin' fer him.”
The boy with the cap tried to get away from Hale's grasp.
“No use, sir,” he said coolly. “You'd better let us settle it now. We'll
have to do it some time. I know the breed. He'll fight all right and
there's no use puttin' it off. It's got to come.”
“You bet it's got to come,” said the mountain lad. “You can't call my
brother names.”
“Well, he IS a skate,” said the boy with the cap, with no heat at all in
spite of his indignation, and Hale wondered at his aged calm.
“Every one of you little tads,” he went on coolly, waving his hand at
the gathered group, “is a skate who teases this little girl. And you
older boys are skates for letting the little ones do it, the whole pack
of you--and I'm going to spank any little tadpole who does it hereafter,
and I'm going to punch the head off any big one who allows it. It's got
to stop NOW!” And as Hale dragged him off he added to the mountain boy,
“and I'm going to begin with you whenever you say the word.” Hale was
laughing now.
“You don't seem to understand,” he said, “this is my affair.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, I don't understand.”
“Why, I'm taking care of this little girl.”
“Oh, well, you see I didn't know that. I've only been here two days.
But”--his frank, generous face broke into a winning smile--“you don't go
to school. You'll let me watch out for her there?”
“Sure! I'll be very grateful.”
“Not at all, sir--not at all. It was a great pleasure and I think I'll
have lots of fun.” He looked at June, whose grateful eyes had hardly
left his face.
“So don't you soil your little fist any more with any of 'em, but just
tell me--er--er--”
“June,” she said, and a shy smile came through her tears.
“June,” he finished with a boyish laugh. “Good-by sir.”
“You haven't told me your name.”
“I suppose you know my brothers, sir, the Berkleys.”
“I should say so,” and Hale held out his hand. “You're Bob?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I knew you were coming, and I'm mighty glad to see you. I hope you and
June will be good friends and I'll be very glad to have you watch over
her when I'm away.”
“I'd like nothing better, sir,” he said cheerfully, and quite
impersonally as far as June was concerned. Then his eyes lighted up.
“My brothers don't seem to want me to join the Police Guard. Won't you
say a word for me?”
“I certainly will.”
“Thank you, sir.”
That “sir” no longer bothered Hale. At first he had thought it a mark
of respect to his superior age, and he was not particularly pleased, but
when he knew now that the lad was another son of the old gentleman whom
he saw riding up the valley every morning on a gray horse, with
several dogs trailing after him--he knew the word was merely a family
characteristic of old-fashioned courtesy.
“Isn't he nice, June?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Have you missed me, June?”
June slid her hand into his. “I'm so glad you come back.” They were
approaching the gate now.
“June, you said you weren't going to cry any more.” June's head drooped.
“I know, but I jes' can't help it when I git mad,” she said seriously.
“I'd bust if I didn't.”
“All right,” said Hale kindly.
“I've cried twice,” she said.
“What were you mad about the other time?”
“I wasn't mad.”
“Then why did you cry, June?”
Her dark eyes looked full at him a moment and then her long lashes hid
them.
“Cause you was so good to me.”
Hale choked suddenly and patted her on the shoulder.
“Go in, now, little girl, and study. Then you must take a walk. I've got
some work to do. I'll see you at supper time.”
“All right,” said June. She turned at the gate to watch Hale enter the
hotel, and as she started indoors, she heard a horse coming at a gallop
and she turned again to see her cousin, Dave Tolliver, pull up in front
of the house. She ran back to the gate and then she saw that he was
swaying in his saddle.
“Hello, June!” he called thickly.
Her face grew hard and she made no answer.
“I've come over to take ye back home.”
She only stared at him rebukingly, and he straightened in his saddle
with an effort at self-control--but his eyes got darker and he looked
ugly.
“D'you hear me? I've come over to take ye home.”
“You oughter be ashamed o' yourself,” she said hotly, and she turned to
go back into the house.
“Oh, you ain't ready now. Well, git ready an' we'll start in the
mornin'. I'll be aroun' fer ye 'bout the break o' day.”
He whirled his horse with an oath--June was gone. She saw him ride
swaying down the street and she ran across to the hotel and found Hale
sitting in the office with another man. Hale saw her entering the door
swiftly, he knew something was wrong and he rose to meet her.
“Dave's here,” she whispered hurriedly, “an' he says he's come to take
me home.”
“Well,” said Hale, “he won't do it, will he?” June shook her head and
then she said significantly:
“Dave's drinkin'.”
Hale's brow clouded. Straightway he foresaw trouble--but he said
cheerily:
“All right. You go back and keep in the house and I'll be over by and
by and we'll talk it over.” And, without another word, she went. She had
meant to put on her new dress and her new shoes and stockings that night
that Hale might see her--but she was in doubt about doing it when she
got to her room. She tried to study her lessons for the next day, but
she couldn't fix her mind on them. She wondered if Dave might not get
into a fight or, perhaps, he would get so drunk that he would go
to sleep somewhere--she knew that men did that after drinking very
much--and, anyhow, he would not bother her until next morning, and then
he would be sober and would go quietly back home. She was so comforted
that she got to thinking about the hair of the girl who sat in front of
her at school. It was plaited and she had studied just how it was done
and she began to wonder whether she could fix her own that way. So
she got in front of the mirror and loosened hers in a mass about her
shoulders--the mass that was to Hale like the golden bronze of a wild
turkey's wing. The other girl's plaits were the same size, so that the
hair had to be equally divided--thus she argued to herself--but how did
that girl manage to plait it behind her back? She did it in front, of
course, so June divided the bronze heap behind her and pulled one half
of it in front of her and then for a moment she was helpless. Then
she laughed--it must be done like the grass-blades and strings she had
plaited for Bub, of course, so, dividing that half into three parts, she
did the plaiting swiftly and easily. When it was finished she looked at
the braid, much pleased--for it hung below her waist and was much longer
than any of the other girls' at school. The transition was easy now, so
interested had she become. She got out her tan shoes and stockings
and the pretty white dress and put them on. The millpond was dark with
shadows now, and she went down the stairs and out to the gate just as
Dave again pulled up in front of it. He stared at the vision wonderingly
and long, and then he began to laugh with the scorn of soberness and the
silliness of drink.
“YOU ain't June, air ye?” The girl never moved. As if by a preconcerted
signal three men moved toward the boy, and one of them said sternly:
“Drop that pistol. You are under arrest.' The boy glared like a wild
thing trapped, from one to another of the three--a pistol gleamed in the
hand of each--and slowly thrust his own weapon into his pocket.
“Get off that horse,” added the stern voice. Just then Hale rushed
across the street and the mountain youth saw him.
“Ketch his pistol,” cried June, in terror for Hale--for she knew what
was coming, and one of the men caught with both hands the wrist of
Dave's arm as it shot behind him.
“Take him to the calaboose!”
At that June opened the gate--that disgrace she could never stand--but
Hale spoke.
“I know him, boys. He doesn't mean any harm. He doesn't know the
regulations yet. Suppose we let him go home.”
“All right,” said Logan. “The calaboose or home. Will you go home?”
In the moment, the mountain boy had apparently forgotten his captors--he
was staring at June with wonder, amazement, incredulity struggling
through the fumes in his brain to his flushed face. She--a Tolliver--had
warned a stranger against her own blood-cousin.
“Will you go home?” repeated Logan sternly.
The boy looked around at the words, as though he were half dazed, and
his baffled face turned sick and white.
“Lemme loose!” he said sullenly. “I'll go home.” And he rode silently
away, after giving Hale a vindictive look that told him plainer than
words that more was yet to come. Hale had heard June's warning cry, but
now when he looked for her she was gone. He went in to supper and sat
down at the table and still she did not come.
“She's got a surprise for you,” said Mrs. Crane, smiling mysteriously.
“She's been fixing for you for an hour. My! but she's pretty in them new
clothes--why, June!”
June was coming in--she wore her homespun, her scarlet homespun and the
Psyche knot. She did not seem to have heard Mrs. Crane's note of wonder,
and she sat quietly down in her seat. Her face was pale and she did not
look at Hale. Nothing was said of Dave--in fact, June said nothing at
all, and Hale, too, vaguely understanding, kept quiet. Only when he went
out, Hale called her to the gate and put one hand on her head.
“I'm sorry, little girl.”
The girl lifted her great troubled eyes to him, but no word passed her
lips, and Hale helplessly left her.
June did not cry that night. She sat by the window--wretched and
tearless. She had taken sides with “furriners” against her own people.
That was why, instinctively, she had put on her old homespun with a
vague purpose of reparation to them. She knew the story Dave would take
back home--the bitter anger that his people and hers would feel at
the outrage done him--anger against the town, the Guard, against Hale
because he was a part of both and even against her. Dave was merely
drunk, he had simply shot off his pistol--that was no harm in the
hills. And yet everybody had dashed toward him as though he had stolen
something--even Hale. Yes, even that boy with the cap who had stood up
for her at school that afternoon--he had rushed up, his face aflame with
excitement, eager to take part should Dave resist. She had cried out
impulsively to save Hale, but Dave would not understand. No, in his eyes
she had been false to family and friends--to the clan--she had sided
with “furriners.” What would her father say? Perhaps she'd better go
home next day--perhaps for good--for there was a deep unrest within her
that she could not fathom, a premonition that she was at the parting of
the ways, a vague fear of the shadows that hung about the strange new
path on which her feet were set. The old mill creaked in the moonlight
below her. Sometimes, when the wind blew up Lonesome Cove, she could
hear Uncle Billy's wheel creaking just that way. A sudden pang of
homesickness choked her, but she did not cry. Yes, she would go home
next day. She blew out the light and undressed in the dark as she did
at home and went to bed. And that night the little night-gown lay apart
from her in the drawer--unfolded and untouched.