The minister had decided to preach in Ashland, and on the following
Sabbath. It became apparent that if he wished to have any notice at all
from the haughty new teacher he must do something at once to establish
his superiority in her eyes. He had carefully gone over his store of
sermons that he always carried with him, and decided to preach on "The
Dynamics of Altruism."
Notices had been posted up in saloons and stores and post-office. He had
made them himself after completely tabooing Mr. Tanner's kindly and
blundering attempt, and they gave full information concerning "the Rev.
Frederick West, Ph.D., of the vicinity of New York City, who had kindly
consented to preach in the school-house on 'The Dynamics of Altruism.'"
Several of these elaborately printed announcements had been posted up on
big trees along the trails, and in other conspicuous places, and there
was no doubt but that the coming Sabbath services were more talked of
than anything else in that neighborhood for miles around, except the new
teacher and her extraordinary way of making all the scholars fall in
love with her. It is quite possible that the Reverend Frederick might
not have been so flattered at the size of his audience when the day
came if he could have known how many of them came principally because
they thought it would be a good opportunity to see the new teacher.
However, the announcements were read, and the preacher became an object
of deep interest to the community when he went abroad. Under this
attention he swelled, grew pleased, bland, and condescending, wearing an
oily smile and bowing most conceitedly whenever anybody noticed him. He
even began to drop his severity and silence at the table, toward the end
of the week, and expanded into dignified conversation, mainly addressed
to Mr. Tanner about the political situation in the State of Arizona. He
was trying to impress the teacher with the fact that he looked upon her
as a most insignificant mortal who had forfeited her right to his smiles
by her headstrong and unseemly conduct when he had warned her about
"that young ruffian."
Out on the trail Long Bill and Jasper Kemp paused before a tree that
bore the Reverend Frederick's church notice, and read in silence while
the wide wonder of the desert spread about them.
"What d'ye make out o' them cuss words, Jap?" asked Long Bill, at
length. "D'ye figger the parson's goin' to preach on swearin' ur
gunpowder?"
"Blowed ef I know," answered Jasper, eying the sign ungraciously; "but
by the looks of him he can't say much to suit me on neither one. He
resembles a yaller cactus bloom out in a rain-storm as to head, an' his
smile is like some of them prickles on the plant. He can't be no
'sky-pilot' to me, not just yet."
"You don't allow he b'longs in any way to _her_?" asked Long Bill,
anxiously, after they had been on their way for a half-hour.
"B'long to _her_? Meanin' the schoolmarm?"
"Yes; he ain't sweet on her nor nothin'?"
"Wal, I guess not," said Jasper, contentedly. "She's got eyes sharp's a
needle. You don't size her up so small she's goin' to take to a sickly
parson with yaller hair an' sleek ways when she's seen the Kid, do you?"
"Wal, no, it don't seem noways reasonable, but you never can tell. Women
gets notions."
"She ain't that kind! You mark my words, _she ain't that kind_. I'd lay
she'd punch the breeze like a coyote ef he'd make up to her. Just you
wait till you see him. He's the most no-'count, measleyest little thing
that ever called himself a man. My word! I'd like to see him try to ride
that colt o' mine. I really would. It would be some sight for sore eyes,
it sure would."
"Mebbe he's got a intellec'," suggested Long Bill, after another mile.
"That goes a long ways with women-folks with a education."
"No chance!" said Jasper, confidently. "'Ain't got room fer one under
his yaller thatch. You wait till you set your lamps on him once before
you go to gettin' excited. Why, he ain't one-two-three with our
missionary! Gosh! I wish _he'd_ come back an' see to such goin's-on--I
certainly do."
"Was you figgerin' to go to that gatherin' Sunday?"
"I sure was," said Jasper. "I want to see the show, an', besides, we
might be needed ef things got too high-soundin'. It ain't good to have a
creature at large that thinks he knows all there is to know. I heard
him talk down to the post-office the day after that little party we had
when the Kid shot out the lights to save Bunchy from killin' Crapster,
an' it's my opinion he needs a good spankin'; but I'm agoin' to give him
a fair show. I ain't much on religion myself, but I do like to see a
square deal, especially in a parson. I've sized it up he needs a
lesson."
"I'm with ye, Jap," said Long Bill, and the two rode on their way in
silence.
Margaret was so busy and so happy with her school all the week that she
quite forgot her annoyance at the minister. She really saw very little
of him, for he was always late to breakfast, and she took hers early.
She went to her room immediately after supper, and he had little
opportunity for pursuing her acquaintance. Perhaps he judged that it
would be wise to let her alone until after he had made his grand
impression on Sunday, and let her "make up" to him.
It was not until Sunday morning that she suddenly recalled that he was
to preach that day. She had indeed seen the notices, for a very large
and elaborate one was posted in front of the school-house, and some
anonymous artist had produced a fine caricature of the preacher in red
clay underneath his name. Margaret had been obliged to remain after
school Friday and remove as much of this portrait as she was able, not
having been willing to make it a matter of discipline to discover the
artist. In fact, it was so true to the model that the young teacher felt
a growing sympathy for the one who had perpetrated it.
Margaret started to the school-house early Sunday morning, attended by
the faithful Bud. Not that he had any more intention of going to
Sunday-school than he had the week before, but it was pleasant to be the
chosen escort of so popular a teacher. Even Jed and Timothy had walked
home with her twice during the week. He did not intend to lose his place
as nearest to her. There was only one to whom he would surrender that,
and he was too far away to claim it often.
Margaret had promised to help in the Sunday-school that morning, for the
woman who taught the little ones was still away with her sick neighbor,
and on the way she persuaded Bud to help her.
"You'll be secretary for me, won't you, William?" she asked, brightly.
"I'm going to take the left-front corner of the room for the children,
and seat them on the recitation-benches, and that will leave all the
back part of the room for the older people. Then I can use the
blackboard and not disturb the rest."
"Secretary?" asked the astonished Bud. He was, so to speak, growing
accustomed to surprises. "Secretary" did not sound like being "a nice
little Sunday-school boy."
"Why, yes! take up the collection, and see who is absent, and so on. I
don't know all the names, perhaps, and, anyhow, I don't like to do that
when I have to teach!"
Artful Margaret! She had no mind to leave Bud floating around outside
the school-house, and though she had ostensibly prepared her lesson and
her blackboard illustration for the little children, she had hidden in
it a truth for Bud--poor, neglected, devoted Bud!
The inefficient old man who taught the older people that day gathered
his forces together and, seated with his back to the platform, his
spectacles extended upon his long nose, he proceeded with the questions
on the lesson-leaf, as usual, being more than ordinarily unfamiliar with
them; but before he was half through he perceived by the long pauses
between the questions and answers that he did not have the attention of
his class. He turned slowly around to see what they were all looking at,
and became so engaged in listening to the lesson the new teacher was
drawing on the blackboard that he completely forgot to go on, until Bud,
very important in his new position, rang the tiny desk-bell for the
close of school, and Margaret, looking up, saw in dismay that she had
been teaching the whole school.
While they were singing a closing hymn the room began to fill up, and
presently came the minister, walking importantly beside Mr. Tanner, his
chin flattened upward as usual, but bent in till it made a double roll
over his collar, his eyes rolling importantly, showing much of their
whites, his sermon, in an elaborate leather cover, carried conspicuously
under his arm, and the severest of clerical coats and collars setting
out his insignificant face.
Walking behind him in single file, measured step, just so far apart,
came the eight men from the bunk-house--Long Bill, Big Jim, Fiddling
Boss, Jasper Kemp, Fade-away Forbes, Stocky, Croaker, and Fudge; and
behind them, looking like a scared rabbit, Mom Wallis scuttled into the
back seat and sank out of sight. The eight men, however, ranged
themselves across the front of the room on the recitation-bench,
directly in front of the platform, removing a few small children for
that purpose.
They had been lined up in a scowling row along the path as the minister
entered, looking at them askance under his aristocratic yellow eyebrows,
and as he neared the door the last man followed in his wake, then the
next, and so on.
Margaret, in her seat half-way back at the side of the school-house near
a window, saw through the trees a wide sombrero over a pair of broad
shoulders; but, though she kept close watch, she did not see her friend
of the wilderness enter the school-house. If he had really come to
meeting, he was staying outside.
The minister was rather nonplussed at first that there were no
hymn-books. It almost seemed that he did not know how to go on with
divine service without hymn-books, but at last he compromised on the
long-meter Doxology, pronounced with deliberate unction. Then, looking
about for a possible pipe-organ and choir, he finally started it
himself; but it is doubtful whether any one would have recognized the
tune enough to help it on if Margaret had not for very shame's sake
taken it up and carried it along, and so they came to the prayer and
Bible-reading.
These were performed with a formal, perfunctory style calculated to
impress the audience with the importance of the preacher rather than the
words he was speaking. The audience was very quiet, having the air of
reserving judgment for the sermon.
Margaret could not just remember afterward how it was she missed the
text. She had turned her eyes away from the minister, because it somehow
made her feel homesick to compare him with her dear, dignified father.
Her mind had wandered, perhaps, to the sombrero she had glimpsed
outside, and she was wondering how its owner was coming on with his
resolves, and just what change they would mean in his life, anyway. Then
suddenly she awoke to the fact that the sermon had begun.