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about on a level with their tin plates. At first glance Lucy saw that the
table was laden with food, with more still coming. Pans of smoking biscuits,
pans of potatoes, pans of beans, pans of meat and gravy, and steaming tin cups
of black coffee! Lucy noted the absence of milk, butter, sugar, green or
canned vegetables. She was hungry and she filled her plate. And despite the
coarseness of the food she ate heartily. Before she had finished, dusk had
settled down around the cabin, and when the meal ended it was quite dark.
"I hear Sam's hoss," said Dick, as he rose, clinking his spurs. "Reckon I'll
help him unpack."
Lucy sat down on the edge of the porch, peering out into the woods. The
children clustered round her. Mrs. Denmeade and her older daughters were
clearing off the supper table. A dim lamplight glimmered in the kitchen. Lucy
was aware of the tall form of Dick Denmeade standing to one side. He had not
yet spoken a word. Lucy addressed him once, but for all the answer she got he
might as well have been deaf. He shifted one of his enormous boots across the
other. In the dim light Lucy made out long spurs attached to them. Then Mrs.
Denmeade ordered the children off to bed. One by one they vanished. Mary's
pale face gleamed wistfully and was gone.
It dawned on Lucy, presently, that the air was cold. It had changed markedly
in an hour. Big white stars had appeared over the tips of the pines; the sky
was dark blue. The blackness of the night shadows had lighted somewhat or else
her eyes had become accustomed to it. Quiet settled over the cabin, broken
only by low voices and sounds from the kitchen. It struck Lucy as sad and
sombre, this mantle of night descending upon the lonely cabin, yet never
before had she felt such peace, such sweet solitude. By straining her ears she
caught a dreamy murmur of the stream down in the gorge, and a low mourn of
wind in the pines. Where were the coyotes, night hawks; whip-poor-wills, all
the noisy creatures she had imagined lived in the wilderness?
Pound of hoofs and clink of spurs became audible in the lane, approaching the
cabin. Lucy heard a laugh she recognised, and low voices, merry, subtle,
almost hoarse whisperings. Then the gate creaked, and the musical clink of
spurs advanced toward the porch. At last Lucy made out two dark forms. They
approached, and one mounted the steps, while the other stopped before Lucy.
She conceived an idea that this fellow could see in the dark.
"Wal, Miss Lucy, here's your bags without a scratch," said Sam Johnson's
drawling voice. "Shore I bet you was worried. How'd you find my hoss Buster?"
"Just fine, thank you," replied Lucy. "Full of spirit and go. Yet he obeyed
promptly. I never had a slip. Now were you not trying to frighten me a
little--or was it Mr. Jenks?--telling me he was some kind of a mustang?"
"Honest, Buster's gentle with girls," protested Sam. "Shore he pitches when
one of these long-legged Denmeades rake him. But don't you believe what anyone
tells you."
"Very well, I won't. Buster is a dandy little horse."
"Wal, then, you're invited to ride him again," said Sam, with subtle
inflection.
"Oh, thank you," replied Lucy. "I--I'll be pleased--if my work allows me any
spare time."
"Howdy, Sam!" interposed Allie, from the kitchen door. "Who're you goin' to
take to the dance?"
"Wal, I ain't shore, jest yet," he returned. "Reckon I know who I'd like to
take."
"Sadie told me you asked her."
"Did she?...Sent her word. But she didn't send none back," protested Sam
lamely.
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"Sam, take a hunch from me. Don't try to shenanegin out of it now," retorted
Allie, and retreated into the kitchen.
Lucy was both relieved and amused at Allie's grasp of the situation. No doubt
Sam had been approaching another invitation.
Denmeade's heavy footfall sounded on the porch, accompanied by the soft pad of
a dog trotting. "That you, Sam? How's yore folks?"
"Tip top," replied Sam shortly.
"Get down an' come in," drawled Denmeade as the other shuffled restlessly.
"Reckon I'll be goin'," said Sam. "I've a packhoss waitin'...Evenin', Miss
Lucy. Shore I hope to see you at the dance."
"I hardly think you will," replied Lucy. "Thank you for fetching my baggage."
Sam's tall form disappeared in the gloom. The gate creaked as if opened and
shut with forceful haste. Almost directly followed the sound of hoofs going
off into the darkness.
"Hey, Sam!" called Joe, coming out of the cabin, where he had carried Lucy's
grips.
"He's gone," said his father laconically.
"Gone! Why, the dinged galoot had somethin' of mine! Funny, him runnin' off.
He shore was rarin' to get here. Never saw him make such good time on a trail.
What riled him?"
"Wal, I have an idea," drawled Denmeade. "Allie give him a dig."
"I shore did," spoke up Allie, from the kitchen, where evidently she heard
what was going on outside. "It's a shame the way he treats Sadie."
Lucy began to gather snatches of the complexity of life up here. After all,
how like things at home! This girl Sadie had refused to marry Edd Denmeade.
There was an intimation that she was attached to Sam Johnson. On his part, Sam
had manifested a slight interest in a new-comer to the country.
Mrs. Denmeade came out of the kitchen carrying a lighted lamp, and she called
Lucy to accompany her into the other cabin. She set the lamp on the high
jutting shelf of the fire-place.
"You sleep in here with the children," she said simply.
"Yes--that will be nice," rejoined Lucy, peering around. Dan was asleep on the
floor in a corner, his bed a woolly sheep skin, his covering a rag quilt. Mary
and the twins were fast asleep in one of the beds. Lucy stepped close to peer
down at them. Liz and Lize lay at the foot, curly fair heads close together.
Their faces had been washed and now shone sweet and wan in the lamplight.
Their chubby hands were locked. Mary lay at the head of the bed, and her thin
face bore a smile as if she were having pleasant dreams.
"Where--shall I wash?" asked Lucy, with diffidence.
"You'll find water, basin, towel out on the porch...Good night. I reckon
you're tired. Hope you sleep good."
Lucy bade her hostess good night, and turned musingly to the opening of one of
her grips. She could hear the low breathing of the sleepers. Somehow, to be
there with them, under such circumstances, touched her deeply. It was for the
sake of such as they that she had forsaken personal comfort and better
opportunities. Despite a somewhat depressed spirit, Lucy could not regret her
action. If only she won their love and taught them fine, clean, wholesome ways
with which to meet their hard and unlovely futures! That would transform her
sacrifice into a blessing.
The room was cold. A fire in the big stone fireplace would have been much to
her liking. By the time she got ready for bed she was chilled through. Before
blowing out the lamp she took a last look at the slumbering children. They
seemed so still, so calm, so white and sweet. Lucy trembled for them, in a
vague realisation of life. Then, with some difficulty she opened one of the
windows. Once in bed, she stretched out in aching relief. That long ride,
especially on the horse, had cramped and chafed her. The bed was as cold and
hard as ice. There were no sheets. The blankets under her did not do much to
soften the feel of what she concluded was a mattress filled with corn husks.
It rustled like corn husks, though it might have been coarse straw. The
coverings were heavy rag quilts.
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Nevertheless, Lucy had never before been so grateful for a bed. If this bed
was good enough for those innocent and happy and unfortunate children, it was
good enough for her. Unfortunate! She pondered. She would have to learn as
much as she taught.
She heard heavy boots and the jangle of spurs on the porch, the unrolling of
one of the canvas packs, faint voices from the kitchen, and then footsteps
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