The Lonesome Trail and Other Stories, Page 2

  PART TWO

  Weary rode stealthily around the corner of the little, frameschool-house and was not disappointed. The schoolma'am was sittingunconventionally upon the doorstep, her shoulder turned to him and herface turned to the trail by which a man naturally would be supposed toapproach the place. Her hair was shining darkly in the sun and theshorter locks were blowing about her face in a downright tantalizingfashion; they made a man want to brush them back and kiss the spot theywere caressing so wantonly. She was humming a tune softly to herself.Weary caught the words, sung absently, under her breath:

  "Didn't make no blunder--yuh couldn't confuse him. A perfect wonder, yuh had to choose him!"

  The schoolma'am was addicted to coon songs of the period.

  She seemed to be very busy about something and Weary, craning his neckto see over her shoulder, wondered what. Also, he wished he knew whatshe was thinking about, and he hoped her thoughts were not remote fromhimself. Just then Glory showed unmistakable and malicious intentionsof sneezing, and Weary, catching a glimpse of something in MissSatterly's hand, hastened to make his presence known.

  "I hope yuh aren't limbering up that weapon of destruction on myaccount, Schoolma'am," he observed mildly.

  The schoolma'am jumped and slid something out of sight under herruffled, white apron. "Weary Davidson, how long have you been standingthere? I believe you'd come straight down from the sky or straight upfrom the ground, if you could manage it. You seem capable of doingeverything except coming by the trail like a sensible man." This withseverity.

  Weary swung a long leg over Glory's back and came lightly to earth,immediately taking possession of the vacant half of doorstep. Theschoolma'am obligingly drew skirts aside to make room for him--aninconsistent movement not at all in harmony with her eyebrows, whichwere disapproving.

  "Yuh don't like ordinary men. Yuh said so, once when I said I was justa plain, ordinary man. I've sworn off being ordinary since yuh gave methat tip," he said cheerfully. "Let's have a look at that cannonyou're hiding under your apron. Where did yuh resurrect it? Out ofsome old Indian grave?

  "Mamma! It won't go off sudden and unexpected, will it? What kind uhshells--oh, mamma!" He pushed his hat back off his forehead with agesture not left behind with his boyhood, held the object the length ofhis long arm away and regarded it gravely.

  It was an old, old "bull-dog" revolver, freckled with rust until itbore a strong resemblance to certain noses which Miss Satterly lookeddown upon daily. The cylinder was plugged with rolls of drab cottoncloth, supposedly in imitation of real bullets. It was obviouslyduring the plugging process that Miss Satterly had been interrupted,for a drab string hung limply from one hole. On the whole, the thingdid not look particularly formidable, and Weary's lips twitched.

  "A tramp stopped here the other day, and--I was frightened a little,"she was explaining, pink-cheeked. "So aunt Meeker found this up in theloft and she thought it would do to--to bluff with."

  Weary aimed carefully at a venturesome and highly inquisitive gopherand pulled, with some effort, the rusted trigger. The gopher stoodupon his hind feet and chipped derisively.

  "You see, it just insults him. Yuh could'nt scare a blind man withit-- Look here! If yuh go pouting up your lips like that again,something's going to happen 'em. There's a limit to what a man canstand."

  Miss Satterly hastily drew her mouth into a thin, untempting, redstreak, for she had not seen Weary Davidson, on an average, twice aweek for the last four months for nothing. He was not the man to bluff.

  "Of course," she said resentfully, "you can make fun of it--but all thesame, it's better than nothing. It answers the purpose."

  Weary turned his head till he could look straight into her eyes--athing he seemed rather fond of doing, lately. "What purpose? It sureisn't ornamental; it's a little the hardest looker I ever saw in theshape of a gun. And it won't scare anything. If you want a gun, why,take one that can make good. You can have mine; just watch what adifferent effect it has."

  He reached backward and drew a shining thing from his pocket, flippedit downward--and the effect was unmistakably different. The gopherleaped and rolled backward and then lay still, and Miss Satterly gave alittle, startled scream and jumped quite off the doorstep.

  "Don't yuh see? You couldn't raise any such a dust with yours. If yuhpack a gun, you always want to pack one that's ready and willing to dobusiness on short notice. I'll let yuh have this, if you're sure it'ssafe with yuh. I'd hate to have you shooting yourself accidental."

  Weary raised innocent eyes to her face and polished the gun caressinglywith his handkerchief. "Try it once," he urged.

  The schoolma'am was fond of boasting that she never screamed atanything. She had screamed just now, over a foolish little thing, andit goes without saying she was angry with the cause. She did not sitdown again beside him, and she did not take the gun he was holding upinvitingly to her. She put her hands behind her and stood accusinglybefore him with the look upon her face which never failed to makesundry small Beckmans and Pilgreens squirm on their benches when sheassumed it in school.

  "Mr. Davidson"--not Weary Davidson, as she was wont to call him--"youhave killed my pet gopher. All summer I have fed him, and he would eatout of my hand."

  Weary cast a jealous eye upon the limp, little animal, searched hisheart for remorse and found none. Ornery little brute, to get familiarwith _his_ schoolma'am!

  "I did not think you could be so wantonly cruel, and I am astonishedand--and deeply pained to discover that fatal flaw in your character."

  Weary began to squirm, after the manner of delinquent Beckmans andPilgreens. One thing he had learned: When the schoolma'am rose toirreproachable English, there was trouble a-brew. It was a sign he hadnever known to fail.

  "I cannot understand the depraved instinct which prompts a man brutallyto destroy a life he cannot restore, and which in no way menaces hisown--or even interferes with his comfort. You may apologize to me; youmay even be sincerely repentant"--the schoolma'am's tone at this pointimplied considerable doubt--"but you are powerless to return the lifeyou have so heedlessly taken. You have revealed a low, brutal traitwhich I had hoped your nature could not harbor, and I am--am deeplyshocked and--and grieved."

  Just here a tiny, dry-weather whirlwind swept around the corner, caughtruffled, white apron and blue skirt in its gyrations and, pushing themwickedly aside, gave Weary a brief, delicious glimpse of two small,slippered feet and two distracting ankles. The schoolma'am blushed andretreated to the doorstep, but she did not sit down. She still stoodstraight and displeased beside him. Evidently she was still shockedand grieved.

  Weary tipped his head to one side so that be might look up at her fromunder his hat-brim. "I'll get yuh another gopher; six, if yuh say so,"he soothed, "The woods is full of 'em."

  The angry, brown eyes of Miss Satterly swept the barren hillscontemptuously. She would not even look at him. "Pray do notinconvenience yourself, Mr. Davidson. It is not the gopher that I carefor so much--it is the principle."

  Weary sighed and slid the gun back into his pocket. It seemed to himthat Miss Satterly, adorable as she always was, was also ratherunreasonable at times. "All right, I'll get yuh another principle,then."

  "Mr. Davidson," she said sternly, "you are perfectly odious!"

  "Is that something nice, Girlie?" Weary smiled trustfully up at her.

  "Odious," explained the schoolma'am haughtily, "is not something nice.I'm sorry your education has been so neglected. Odious, Mr. Davidson,is a synonym for hateful, obnoxious, repulsive, disagreeable,despicable--"

  "I never did like cinnamon, anyhow," put in Weary, cheerfully.

  "I did not mention cinnamon. I said--"

  "Say, yuh look out uh sight with your hair fixed that way. I wishyou'd wear it like that all the time," he observed irrelevantly,looking up at her with his sunniest smile.

  "I wish to goodness I were really out of sight," snapped theschoolma'am.
"You make me exceedingly weary."

  "_Mrs._ Weary," corrected he, complacently. "That's what I'm sureaiming at."

  "You aim wide of the mark, then," she retorted valiantly, thoughconfusion waved a red flag in either cheek.

  "Oh, I don't know. A minute ago you were roasting me because my aimwas too good," he contended mildly, glancing involuntarily toward thegopher stretched upon its little, yellow back, its four small feetturned pitifully up to the blue.

  "If you had an atom of decency you'd be ashamed to mention that tributeto your diabolical marksmanship."

  "Oh, mamma!" ejaculated Weary under his breath, and began to makehimself a smoke. His guardian angel was exhorting him to silence, butit preached, as usual, to unsentient ears.

  "_I_ never mentioned all those things," he denied meekly. "It's youthat keeps on mentioning. I wish yuh wouldn't. I like to hear youtalk, all right, and flop all those big words easy as roping a calf;but I wish you'd let me choose your subject for yuh. I could easy nameone where you could use words just as high and wide and handsome, and aheap more pleasant than the brand you've got corralled. Try admirationand felicitation and exhilarating, ecstatic osculation--" He stoppedto run the edge of paper along his tongue, and perhaps it was as wellhe did; there was no need of making her any angrier. Miss Satterlyhated to feel that she was worsted, and it was quite clear that Wearyhad all along been "guying" her.

  "If you came here to make me _hate_ you, you have accomplished yourerrand admirably; it would be advisable now for you to hike."

  Weary, struck by that incongruous last word, did an unforgivable thing.He laughed and laughed, while the match he had just lighted flared,sent up a blue thread of brimstone smoke, licked along the white woodand scorched his fingers painfully before he remembered his cigarette.

  Miss Satterly turned abruptly and went into the house, put on her hatand took up the little, tin lard-pail in which her aunt Meeker alwayspacked her lunch. She was back, had the key turned in the lock and wasslowly pulling on her gloves by the time Weary recovered from his mirth.

  "Since you will not leave the place, I shall do so. I want to sayfirst, however, that I not only think you odious, but all the synonymsI mentioned besides. You need not come for me to go to the Labor Daydance, because I will not go with you. I shall go with Joe."

  Weary gave her a startled glance and almost dropped his cigarette.This seemed going rather far, he thought--but of course she didn'treally mean it; the schoolma'am, he heartened himself with thinking,was an awful, little bluffer.

  "Don't go off mad, Girlie. I'm sorry I killed your gopher--on thedead, I am. I just didn't think, That's a habit I've got--not thinking.

  "Say! You stay, and we'll have a funeral. It isn't every common,scrub gopher that can have a real funeral with mourners and music whenhe goes over the Big Divide. He--he'll appreciate the honor; I would,I know, if it was me."

  The schoolma'am took a few steps and stopped, evidently in somedifficulty with her glove. From the look of her, no human being waswithin a mile of her; she certainly did not seem to hear anything Wearywas saying.

  "Say! I'll sing a song over him, if you'll wait a minute. I know twowhole verses of 'Bill Bailey,' and the chorus to 'Good Old Summertime.'I can shuffle the two together and make a full deck. I believe they'dgo fine together.

  "Say, you never heard me sing, did yuh? It's worth waiting for--onlyyuh want to hang tight to something when I start. Come on--I'll letyou be the mourner."

  Since Miss Satterly had been taking steps quite regularly while Wearywas speaking, she was now several rods away--and she had, more thanever, the appearance of not hearing him and of not wanting to hear.

  "Say, Tee-e-cher!"

  The schoolma'am refused to stop, or to turn her head a fraction of aninch, and Weary's face sobered a little. It was the first time thatinimitable "Tee-e-cher" of his had failed to bring the smile back intothe eyes of Miss Satterly. He looked after her dubiously. Hershoulders were thrown well back and her feet pressed their imprintfirmly into the yellow dust of the trail. In a minute she would bequite out of hearing.

  Weary got up, took a step and grasped Glory's trailing bridle-rein andhurried after her much faster than Glory liked and which he reprovedwith stiffened knees and a general pulling back on the reins.

  "Say! You wouldn't get mad at a little thing like that, would yuh?"expostulated Weary, when he overtook her. "You know I didn't meananything, Girlie."

  "I do not consider it a little thing," said the schoolma'am, icily.

  Thus rebuffed, Weary walked silently beside her up the hill--silently,that is, save for the subdued jingling of his spurs. He was beginningto realize that there was an uncomfortable, heavy feeling in his chest,on the side where his heart was. Still, he was of a hopeful nature andpresently tried again.

  "How many times must I say I'm sorry, Schoolma'am? You don't look sopretty when you're mad; you've got dimples, remember, and yuh ought togive 'em a chance. Let's sit down on this rock while I square myself.Come on." His tone was wheedling in the extreme.

  Miss Satterly, not replying a word, kept straight on up the hill; andWeary, sighing heavily, followed.

  "Don't you want to ride Glory a ways? He's real good, to-day. He putin the whole of yesterday working out all the cussedness that's beenaccumulating in his system for a week, so he's dead gentle. I'll leadhim, for yuh."

  "Thank you," said Miss Satterly. "I prefer to walk."

  Weary sighed again, but clung to his general hopefulness, as was hisnature. It took a great deal to rouse Weary; perhaps the schoolma'amwas trying to find just how much.

  "Say, you'd a died laughing if you'd seen old Glory yesterday; he likedto scared Slim plumb to death. We were working in the big corral andSlim got down on one knee to fix his spur. Glory saw him kneel down,and gave a running jump and went clear over Slim's head. Slim hit forthe closest fence, and he never looked back till he was clean over onthe other side. Mamma! I was sure amused. I thought Glory had doneabout everything there was to do--but I tell yuh, that horse has got animagination that will make him famous some day."

  For the first time since the day of his spectacular introduction toher, Miss Satterly displayed absolutely no interest in theeccentricities of Glory. Slowly it began to dawn upon Weary that shedid not intend to thaw that evening. He glanced at her sidelong, andhis eyes had a certain gleam that was not there five minutes before.He swung along beside her till they reached the top of the hill, fellbehind without a word and mounted Glory.

  When he overtook Miss Satterly, he lifted his hat to her nonchalantly,touched up Glory with his spurs, and clattered away down the coulee,leaving the schoolma'am in a haze of yellow dust and bewilderment farin the rear.

  The next morning Miss Satterly went very early to the school-house--forwhat purpose she did not say. A meadow-lark on the doorstep greetedher with his short, sweet ripple of sound and then flew to a nearbysage bush and watched her curiously. She looked about her halfexpectant, half disappointed.

  A little, fresh mound marked the spot where the dead gopher had been,and a narrow strip of shingle stood upright at the end. Someone hadscratched the words with a knife:

  GONE BUT NOT FORGOT.

  Probably the last word would have been given its full complement ofsyllables, had the shingle been wider; as it was, the "forgot" wascramped until it was barely intelligible.

  Miss Satterly, observing the mark of high-heeled boots in the immediatevicinity of the grave, caught herself wondering if the remains had beenlaid away to the tune of "Bill Bailey," with the chorus of "Good OldSummertime" shuffled in to make a full deck. She started to laugh andfound that laughter was quite impossible.

  Suddenly the schoolma'am did a strange thing. She glanced about tomake sure no one was in sight, knelt and patted the tiny mound verytenderly; then, stooping quickly, she pressed her lips impulsively uponthe rude lettering of the shingle. When she sprang up her cheeks werevery red, her eyes dewy and lovel
y, and the little laugh she gave atherself was all atremble. If lovers could be summoned as opportunelyin real life as they are in stories, hearts would not ache so often andlife would be quite monotonously serene.

  Weary was at that moment twenty miles away, busily engaged inchastising Glory, that had refused point-blank to cross a certainwashout. His mind being wholly absorbed in the argument, he was notsusceptible to telepathic messages from the Meeker school-house--whichwas a pity.

  Also, it was a pity he could not know that Miss Satterly lingered lateat the school-house that night, doing nothing but watch the trail whereit lay, brown and distinct and utterly deserted, on the top of the billa quarter of a mile away. It is true she had artfully scattered aprofusion of papers over her desk and would undoubtedly have beendiscovered hard at work upon them and very much astonished at beholdinghim--if he had come. It is probable that Weary would have found herquite unapproachable, intrenched behind a bulwark of dignity andcorrect English.

  When the shadow of the schoolhouse stretched somberly away to the veryedge of the coulee. Miss Satterly gathered up the studied confusion onher desk, bundled the papers inside, and turned the key with a snap,jabbed three hatpins viciously through her hat and her hair and wenthome--and perhaps it were well that Weary was not there at that time.

  The next night, papers strewed the desk as before, and the schoolma'amstood by the window, her elbows planted on the unpainted sill, andwatched the trail listlessly. Her eyes were big and wistful, like ahurt child's, and her cheeks were not red as usual, nor even pink. Butthe trail lay again brown, and silent, and lonesome, with no quickhoof-beats to send the dust swirling up in a cloud.

  The shadows flowed into the coulee until it was full to the brim andthreatening the golden hilltop with a brown veil of shade before MissSatterly locked her door and went home. When she reached her auntMeeker's she did not want any supper and she said her head ached. Butthat was not quite true; it was not her head that ached so much; it washer heart.

  The third day, the schoolma'am fussed a long time with her hair, whichshe did in four different styles. The last style was the one whichWeary had pronounced "out uh sight"--only she added a white chiffon bowwhich she had before kept sacred to dances and which Weary alwaysadmired. At noon she encouraged the children to gather wild flowersfrom the coulee, and she filled several tin cans with water from thespring and arranged the bouquets with much care. Weary loved flowers.Nearly every time he came he had a little bunch stuck under hishat-band. A few she put in her hair, along with the chiffon bow. Sheurged the children through their work and dismissed them at elevenminutes to four and told them to go straight home.

  After she had swept the floor and dusted everything that could bedusted so that the school-room had the peculiar, immaculate emptinessand forlornness, like a church on a week day, and had taken a few ofthe brightest flowers and pinned them upon her white shirt-waist. MissSatterly tuned her guitar in minor and went out and sat upon the shadydoorstep and waited frankly, strumming plaintive little airs while shewatched the trail. To-morrow was Labor Day, and so he would certainlyride over to-night to see if she had really meant it (Miss Satterly didnot explain to herself what "it" was; surely, there was no need).

  At half-past five--Miss Satterly had looked at her watch seventeentimes during the interval--a tiny cloud of dust rose over the brow ofthe hill, and her heart danced in her chest until she could scarcebreathe.

  The cloud grew and grew and began drifting down the trail, and behindit a black something rose over the hilltop and followed it, soproclaiming itself a horseman galloping swiftly towards her. The colorspread from the schoolma'am's cheeks to her brow and throat. Herfingers forgot their cunning and plucked harrowing discords from thestrings, but her lips were parted and smiling tremulously. It waslate--she had almost given up looking--but he was coming! She knew bewould come. Coming at a breakneck pace--he must be pretty anxious,too. The schoolma'am recovered a bit of control and revolved in hermind several pert forms of greeting. She would not be too ready toforgive him--it would do him good to keep him anxious and uncertain fora while before she gave in.

  Now he was near the place where he would turn off the main road andgallop straight to her. Glory always made that turn of his own accord,lately. Weary had told her, last Sunday, how he could never get Glorypast that turn, any more, without a fight, no matter what might be theday or the hour.

  Now he would swing into the school-house trail. Miss Satterly raisedboth hands with a very feminine gesture and patted her hairtentatively, tucking in a stray lock here and there.

  Her hands dropped heavily to her lap, just as the blood dropped awayfrom her cheeks and the happy glow dulled in her eyes. It was notWeary. It was the Swede who worked for Jim Adams and who rode a sorrelhorse which, at a distance, resembled Glory.

  Mechanically she watched him go on down the trail and out of sight;picked up her guitar which had grown suddenly heavy, crept inside andclosed the door and locked it She looked around the clean, eerilysilent schoolroom, walked with echoing steps to the desk and laid herhead down among the cans of sweet-smelling, prairie flowers and criedsoftly, in a tired, heartbreaking fashion that made her throat ache,and her head.

  The shadows had flowed over the coulee-rim and the hilltops weresmothered in gloom when Miss Satterly went home that night, and heraunt Meeker sent her straight to bed and dosed her with horrible homeremedies.

  By morning she had recovered her spirit--her revengeful spirit, whichshe kept as the hours wore on and Weary did not come. She would teachhim a lesson, she told herself often. By evening, however, her moodsoftened. There were many things that could have kept him away againsthis will; he was not his own master, and it was shipping time.Probably he had been out with the roundup, or something. She decidedthat petty revenge is unwomanly besides giving evidence of a narrowmind and shallow, and if Weary could show a good and sufficient reasonfor staying away like that when there were matters to be settledbetween them, she would not be petty and mean about it; she would bedivine--and forgive.