Under the Tonto Rim (1991) (17 page)

"Shore. More trouble for us backwood boys!" he ejaculated, amicably, as he grinned.

"Trouble! What do you mean?" she asked, though she knew perfectly well.

"Another pretty girl ridin' in," he rejoined, with a hint of pathos, "an' one that wouldn't an' couldn't care a darn for the likes of us."

"Edd, that is unkind," protested Lucy, uncertain how to meet such speeches of his. There seemed only one course to pursue, and that called on all her courage.

"Reckon it is. I'm not as kind feelin' as I used to be."

"Indeed you're not," returned Lucy hastily. "And I want to talk to you about that. Not now. Some time when you're rested and cheerful...Come here. I want to show you what I have done during this last absence of yours."

She led him across the open clearing and along a new-cut path into the woods. It ended abruptly on the edge of the gully. A board walk had been erected on poles, extending some yards out over the gully, to a point just above the spring. By means of a pulley and rope a bucket could be lowered into the spring and hauled up full of water, at very little expenditure of energy. Lucy demonstrated it with ease, showing the great saving of time and effort. Mrs. Denmeade and Allie had been compelled to make many trips a day to this spring, going down the steep trail and climbing back.

"Now what do you say to me? I thought that out and had your father and Uncle Bill put it up," declared Lucy with pride.

Edd appeared to be either dumbfounded or greatly impressed. He sat down rather abruptly, as if this last manifestation of Lucy's practical sense had taken something out of him.

"Simple as A B C," he ejaculated. "Why didn't pa or me--or somebody think of that long ago? I reckon ma an' Allie are ashamed of us."

His torn black sombrero fell to the ground, and as he wiped his moist face with a soiled scarf his head drooped. How tremendously he seemed to be struggling with a stolid mind! He resembled a man learning to think. Finally he looked up squarely at her.

"Reckon I'm about licked," he declared. "I've been dyin' hard--Miss Lucy Watson from Felix. But thick as I am I'm shore no darned fool. This here job to make fetchin' water easy for ma an' Allie is shore enough to make me kick myself. It makes me understand what you mean. I was against you. Every time I came home ma showed me somethin' new. Shore that livin'-room, as they call it now, seemed no place for my boots an' spurs an' chaps--for me. But I couldn't help seein' a difference in ma an' Allie an' the kids. They began to look like that room, with its furniture an' curtains an' pictures an' rugs an' bright both day an' night. Reckon I can't tell you just how, but it felt so to me. Clean clothes, pretty things, must mean a lot to women an' kids...An' so I'm comin' down off my hoss an' I'm thankin' you."

"Then you really believe I'm helping to make your people live better and happier?" asked Lucy earnestly.

"It's hard for me to knuckle, but I do. I'm not blind. You've been a blessin' to us," he replied with emotion.

"But--Edd," she began hurriedly, "I--I haven't helped you."

"Me!...Wal, some fellows are beyond helpin'. I'm a savage. A big fool!...Only a wild-bee hunter!"

As his head drooped and his bitter reply ended Lucy divined the havoc that had been wrought by those hard words of hers, uttered long weeks before, in an anger she could not brook. He had taken them to heart. Lucy yearned to retract them, but that was impossible.

"Edd, judged by my standard for men, you were--what I called you," she said. "But I was unjust. I should have made allowance for you. I was hot-tempered. You insulted me. I should have slapped you good and hard."

"Wal, reckon I could have stood that," he replied. "You must have heard what Sadie an' other girls called me. An' you said it, too. Shore that was too much for me."

"If you'll promise not to--to talk the way you did then--never again, I'll forgive you," said Lucy hesitatingly.

"Wal, don't worry, I'll shore never do it again. But I'm not askin' you to forgive me," he returned bluntly, and rising, he stalked away toward the cabin.

Lucy realised that somehow she had been too impulsive, too hasty in her approach toward friendliness. Perhaps the old lofty superiority had unwittingly cropped out again. Nevertheless, something had been gained, if only her deeper insight into this wild-bee hunter. He was vastly ignorant of an infinite number of things Lucy knew so well. Somehow she had not accorded him a depth of emotion, a strength of individuality, the same that abided in her. Because he was a backwoodsman she had denied him an intimate personal sense of himself. She had not tried to enter into his way of looking at life or people or things. As far as he was concerned she had been a poor judge of humanity, a poor teacher. No easy task would it be to change him. Her reflection brought out the fact that the brief conversation with him had only added to her concern. His confession gratified her exceedingly. She had wanted more than she knew to have him see that she was helping his people to a better and happier life. How powerfully this motive of hers had seized hold of her heart! It had become a passion. He had called her a blessing to his family. That was sweet, moving praise for Lucy. No matter how he had been hurt in his crude sensitiveness, he surely was grateful to her. He was not wholly unapproachable. Only she must be tactful, clever, sincere. The last seemed the most important. Perhaps Edd Denmeade would see through tact and cleverness. Lucy pondered and revolved in mind the complexity of the situation. It must be made so that it was no longer complex. The solution did not dawn on her then, but she divined that she could learn more about him through his love of bees and the forest where he roamed.

Mary Denmeade espied Lucy sitting by the path to the spring, and, as always, she ran to her. The children could not get enough of Lucy's companionship. Through her their little world had widened wonderfully. Games and books, work and play, had already made incalculable differences. These backwoods children were as keen mentally as any children Lucy had been associated with in the city and vastly easier to interest.

"Here you are," cried Mary excitedly, her eyes wide. "Edd is scolding Mertie. She's awful mad. So's ma. But ma is mad at Mertie and Mertie's mad at Edd."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mary. Perhaps I had better not go in yet," returned Lucy. "What's the trouble? Isn't it very strange for Edd to scold anyone, much less Mertie?"

"Strange? I don't know. He never scolds any of us but Mertie. Ma says it's because he loves her best...Miss Lucy, Edd's not like he used to be. He stays away more an' when he does come home he's no time for us. Mertie said he was moony about you."

"Was that what caused the trouble?" asked Lucy quickly.

"Oh, no. Mertie said that a long time ago...I wasn't in the kitchen, but I peeped in and heard him say: 'Mert, you've been ridin' with Bud Sprall again.' An' Mertie said: 'I've no such thing. But It'd be no business of yours if I had.' An' Edd said: 'Don't lie to me. Someone saw you.' Then Mertie had one of her bad spells. She raved an' cried. Ma took her part Edd got hold of Mertie an' said he'd choke the truth out of her. He looked awful. Ma made him let Mertie go. An' Edd said: 'Wal, you stayed last night at Claypool's. Now what time did you get there after school?' Mertie said she couldn't remember. She had the reddest spots in her cheeks an' she couldn't look at Edd."

"Mary, did you listen to all that?" asked Lucy disapprovingly, as the child halted to catch her breath.

"I couldn't help hearing," went on Mary. "But I did peep in the door. But they didn't see me. Edd said: 'I had a hunch before, Mert Denmeade. An' yesterday when I was told by someone who seen you I just rode down to Claypool's, an' I found out you didn't get there till near dark. Took you three hours to ride from school to Amy's home! I asked Amy when she seen you last. She looked darn queer, but I made her tell. You went off down the road with Sadie Perdue.' Then ma pitched into Mertie so mad that I run."

Lucy soothed the excited child and importuned her not to tell anyone else about the family quarrel and that perhaps it was not so much against Mertie as it looked. Mary shook her head dubiously, and presently, finding Lucy preoccupied, she gravitated toward the other children playing in the yard.

This was not the first time Lucy had been cognisant of an upset among the Denmeades owing to Mertie's peculiar ways of being happy. She had been the idol of the family, solely, no doubt, because of her prettiness. Lucy considered Mertie a vain little ignoramus with not enough character to be actually bad. Nevertheless, Lucy reflected, she might be as mistaken in Mertie as she had been in Edd. Of all the Denmeades, this second daughter was the easiest to influence because of her vanity. Lucy had won the girl's regard with a few compliments, a few hours of instruction in dressmaking, and perhaps that was why Lucy did not value it very highly. Still, for Edd's sake, and, more seriously considered, for the girl's sake also, Lucy was now prepared to go to any pains to bring about a happier relation between brother and sister.

Perhaps, however, before she could be accused of meddling in personal affairs she had better wait until her kind offices were invited.

On her way back to her tent she heard the gate chain clank violently, and upon turning she espied Edd stalking away, black as a thundercloud. Should she let him go or halt him? Inspirations were not altogether rare with Lucy, but she had one now that thrilled her. This was her opportunity. She called Edd. As he did not appear to hear, she raised her voice. Then he wheeled to approach her.

"My, but you were tramping away fast and furiously!" said Lucy amiably.

"Reckon I was. What you want?"

"Are you in any great hurry?"

"No, I can't say I am. Fact is I don't know where I'm goin'. But I'm a-rarin' to go, just the same." His voice was strained with spent passion and his lean face seemed working back to its intent, still expression.

"Come over in the shade and talk with me," said Lucy, and led him into the pines to a nook overlooking the gully, where she often sat. Plain it was that Edd followed her under compulsion. But this rather stimulated than inhibited Lucy.

"Don't go away angry," she began, and seating herself on the clean, brown pine mats, she clasped her knees and leaned back to look up at him.

"Reckon it's not with you," he rejoined, drawing his breath hard.

"Of course not. I know what's wrong. Mary heard you quarrelling with Mertie. She told me...Now, Edd, I wouldn't for worlds meddle in your affairs. But my job is as wide as your woods. It's hard for me to tell where to leave off. The question is, if I can be good for Mertie, you want me to, don't you?"

"Wul, I shore do," he declared forcibly. "More'n once I had a hunch to ask you. But I--I just couldn't."

"You should have. I'm sorry I've been so--so offish. It's settled, then. Now tell me what you think is wrong with Mertie."

"Reckon I don't think. I know," he replied heavily. "Mertie is just plain no good. All she thinks of is her face an' of somethin' to deck herself in so she'll attract the boys. Any boy will do, though she sticks up her nose at most of them, just the same. She's got one beau, Bert Hall, who lives in Cedar Ridge. Bert is sweet on Mertie an' I know she likes him best of all the fellows who run after her. Bert owns a ranch an' he's got a share in his father's sawmill. Course he wants to marry Mertie an' Mertie wants to run wild. Dance an' ride! I reckon Sadie Purdue hasn't helped her none...Wal, this summer Mertie has taken on airs. She says if she's old enough to be asked to dances an' to marry, she's her own boss. Pa an' ma can't do nothin' with Mertie. I used to hold her down. But shore--I've a hunch my time is past."

"Well?" queried Lucy, as he ended haltingly. "I understand. What about this Bud Sprall?"

"Mertie always liked that black-faced pup!" declared Edd darkly. "She's been meetin' him on the sly. Not alone yet, but with Sadie, who's got the same kind of interest in Bud's pard, a hoss-wrangler who lives over Winbrook way. Mertie lied about it...Wal, if I can't break it up one way I can another."

"You mean you'll go to Bud Sprall?" queried Lucy instantly.

"I shore do," he said tersely.

"You two will fight--perhaps spill blood," went on Lucy intensely. "That might be worse than Mertie's affair with Bud, whatever it is. Edd, surely it is just a flirtation."

"Reckon I fooled myself with ideas like that," returned Edd bluntly "Boys an' girls up here do their flirtin' at dances. Straight out, Miss Lucy, this here sneakin' has a bad look. I know Sadie Purdue. She jilted me because I was too slow. Reckon she'd never have married me. Funny thing is she never would, even if she'd wanted to, because I found her out. Nobody but you knows that. Wal, Mertie is thick with Sadie. An' they're meetin' these boys. Reckon you know how it will end, unless we stop it. Bert's an easy-goin' boy. But Mertie could go too far...You see, Miss Lucy, you haven't guessed yet just how--how thick many of us backwoods boys an' girls get. Not me! That's one reason why I'm a big boob...An' I always hoped an' prayed I could keep Mertie different. Shore it goes kind of hard to see I'm failin'."

"Edd, you've failed yourself," asserted Lucy ringingly. "You're on the down grade yourself. You've taken to the bottle and to fights. How can you expect to influence your sister to go straight if you're no good yourself?"

"By God! that shore's been--eatin' into me!" he ejaculated huskily, and hid his sombre face in his grimy hands.