Cressy

“Why, didn’t she tell ye?” echoed Mrs. McKinstry in languid surprise.

“SHE certainly did,” said the master with slight embarrassment, “but”—

“Ef SHE said so,” interrupted Mrs. McKinstry abstractedly, “she oughter know, and you kin tie to what she says.”

“But as I’m responsible to PARENTS and not to scholars for the discipline of my school,” returned the young man a little stiffly, “I thought it my duty to hear it from YOU.”

“That’s so,” said Mrs. McKinstry meditatively; “then I reckon you’d better see Hiram. That ar’ Seth Davis engagement was a matter of hern and her father’s, and not in MY line. I ‘spose that Hiram nat’rally allows to set the thing square to you and inquirin’ friends.”

“I hope you understand,” said the master, slightly resenting the classification, “that my reason for inquiring about the permanency of your daughter’s attendance was simply because it might be necessary to arrange her studies in a way more suitable to her years; perhaps even to suggest to you that a young ladies’ seminary might be more satisfactory”—

“Sartain, sartain,” interrupted Mrs. McKinstry hurriedly, but whether from evasion of annoying suggestion or weariness of the topic, the master could not determine. “You’d better speak to Hiram about it. On’y,” she hesitated slightly, “ez he’s got now sorter set and pinted towards your school, and is a trifle worrited with stock and them Harrisons, ye might tech it lightly. He oughter be along yer now. I can’t think what keeps him.” Her eye wandered again with troubled preoccupation to the corner where her husband’s Sharps’ rifle stood. Suddenly she raised her voice as if forgetful of Mr. Ford’s presence.

“O Cressy!”

“O Maw!”

The response came from the inner room. The next moment Cressy appeared at the door with an odd half-lazy defiance in her manner, which the master could not understand except upon the hypothesis that she had been listening. She had already changed her elaborate toilet for a long clinging, coarse blue gown, that accented the graceful curves of her slight, petticoat-less figure. Nodding her head towards the master, she said, “Howdy?” and turned to her mother, who practically ignored their personal acquaintance. “Cressy,” she said, “Dad’s gone and left his Sharps’ yer, d’ye mind takin’ it along to meet him, afore he passes the Boundary corner. Ye might tell him the teacher’s yer, wantin’ to see him.”

“One moment,” said the master, as the young girl carelessly stepped to the corner and lifted the weapon. “Let ME take it. It’s all on my way back to school and I’ll meet him.”

Mrs. McKinstry looked perturbed. Cressy opened her clear eyes on the master with evident surprise. “No, Mr. Ford,” said Mrs. McKinstry, with her former maternal manner. “Ye’d better not mix yourself up with these yer doin’s. Ye’ve no call to do it, and Cressy has; it’s all in the family. But it’s outer YOUR line, and them Harrison whelps go to your school. Fancy the teacher takin’ weppins betwixt and between!”

“It’s fitter work for the teacher than for one of his scholars, and a young lady at that,” said Mr. Ford gravely, as he took the rifle from the hands of the half-amused, half-reluctant girl. “It’s quite safe with me, and I promise I shall deliver it into Mr. McKinstry’s hands and none other.”

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be ez likely to be gin’rally noticed ez it would if one of US carried it,” murmured Mrs. McKinstry in confidential abstraction, gazing at her daughter sublimely unconscious of the presence of a third party.

“You’re quite right,” said the master composedly, throwing the rifle over his shoulder and turning towards the door. “So I’ll say good-afternoon, and try and find your husband.”

Mrs. McKinstry constrainedly plucked at the folds of her coarse gown. “Ye’ll like a drink afore ye go,” she said, in an ill-concealed tone of relief. “I clean forgot my manners. Cressy, fetch out that demijohn.”

“Not for me, thank you,” returned Mr. Ford smiling.

“Oh, I see—you’re temperance, nat’rally,” said Mrs. McKinstry with a tolerant sigh.

“Hardly that,” returned the master, “I follow no rule, I drink sometimes—but not to-day.”

Mrs. McKinstry’s dark face contracted. “Don’t you see, Maw,” struck in Cressy quickly. “Teacher drinks sometimes, but he don’t USE whiskey. That’s all.”

Her mother’s face relaxed. Cressy slipped out of the door before the master, and preceded him to the gate. When she had reached it she turned and looked into his face.

“What did Maw say to yer about seein’ me just now?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“To your seein’ me and Joe Masters on the trail?”

“She said nothing.”

“Humph,” said Cressy meditatively. “What was it you told her about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you DIDN’T see us?”

“I saw you with some one—I don’t know whom.”

“And you didn’t tell Maw?”

“I did not. It was none of my business.”

He instantly saw the utter inconsistency of this speech in connection with the reason he believed he had in coming. But it was too late to recall it, and she was looking at him with a bright but singular expression.

“That Joe Masters is the conceitedest fellow goin’. I told him you could see his foolishness.”

“Ah, indeed.”

Mr. Ford pushed open the gate. As the girl still lingered he was obliged to hold it a moment before passing through.

“Maw couldn’t quite hitch on to your not drinkin’. She reckons you’re like everybody else about yer. That’s where she slips up on you. And everybody else, I kalkilate.”

“I suppose she’s somewhat anxious about your father, and I dare say is expecting me to hurry,” returned the master pointedly.

“Oh, dad’s all right,” said Cressy mischievously. “You’ll come across him over yon, in the clearing. But you’re looking right purty with that gun. It kinder sets you off. You oughter wear one.”

The master smiled slightly, said “Good-by,” and took leave of the girl, but not of her eyes, which were still following him. Even when he had reached the end of the lane and glanced back at the rambling dwelling, she was still leaning on the gate with one foot on the lower rail and her chin cupped in the hollow of her hand. She made a slight gesture, not clearly intelligible at that distance; it might have been a mischievous imitation of the way he had thrown the gun over his shoulder, it might have been a wafted kiss.

The master however continued his way in no very self-satisfied mood. Although he did not regret having taken the place of Cressy as the purveyor of lethal weapons between the belligerent parties, he knew he was tacitly mingling in the feud between people for whom he cared little or nothing. It was true that the Harrisons sent their children to his school, and that in the fierce partisanship of the locality this simple courtesy was open to misconstruction. But he was more uneasily conscious that this mission, so far as Mrs. McKinstry was concerned, was a miserable failure. The strange relations of the mother and daughter perhaps explained much of the girl’s conduct, but it offered no hope of future amelioration. Would the father, “worrited by stock” and boundary quarrels—a man in the habit of cutting Gordian knots with a bowie knife—prove more reasonable? Was there any nearer sympathy between father and daughter? But she had said he would meet McKinstry in the clearing: she was right, for here he was coming forward at a gallop!

CHAPTER III

When within a dozen paces of the master, McKinstry, scarcely checking his mustang, threw himself from the saddle, and with a sharp cut of his riata on the animal’s haunches sent him still galloping towards the distant house. Then, with both hands deeply thrust in the side pockets of his long, loose linen coat, he slowly lounged with clanking spurs towards the young man. He was thick-set, of medium height, densely and reddishly bearded, with heavy-lidded pale blue eyes that wore a look of drowsy pain, and after their first wearied glance at the master, seemed to rest anywhere but on him.

“Your wife was sending you your rifle by Cressy,” said the master, “but I offered to bring it myself, as I thought it scarcely a proper errand for a young lady. Here it is. I hope you didn’t miss it before and don’t require it now,” he added quietly.

Mr. McKinstry took it in one hand with an air of slightly embarrassed surprise, rested it against his shoulder, and then with the same hand and without removing the other from his pocket, took off his soft felt hat, showed a bullet-hole in its rim, and returned lazily, “It’s about half an hour late, but them Harrisons reckoned I was fixed for ‘em and war too narvous to draw a clear bead on me.”

The moment was evidently not a felicitous one for the master’s purpose, but he was determined to go on. He hesitated an instant, when his companion, who seemed to be equally but more sluggishly embarrassed, in a moment of preoccupied perplexity withdrew from his pocket his right hand swathed in a blood-stained bandage, and following some instinctive habit, attempted, as if reflectively, to scratch his head with two stiffened fingers.

“You are hurt,” said the master, genuinely shocked, “and here I am detaining you.”

“I had my hand up—so,” explained McKinstry, with heavy deliberation, “and the ball raked off my little finger after it went through my hat. But that ain’t what I wanted to say when I stopped ye. I ain’t just kam enough yet,” he apologized in the calmest manner, “and I clean forgit myself,” he added with perfect self-possession. “But I was kalkilatin’ to ask you”—he laid his bandaged hand familiarly on the master’s shoulder—“if Cressy kem all right?”

“Perfectly,” said the master. “But shan’t I walk on home with you, and we can talk together after your wound is attended to?”

“And she looked purty?” continued McKinstry without moving.

“Very.”

“And you thought them new store gownds of hers right peart?”

“Yes,” said the master. “Perhaps a little too fine for the school, you know,” he added insinuatingly, “and”—

“Not for her—not for her,” interrupted McKinstry. “I reckon thar’s more whar that cam from! Ye needn’t fear but that she kin keep up that gait ez long ez Hiram McKinstry hez the runnin’ of her.”

Mr. Ford gazed hopelessly at the hideous ranch in the distance, at the sky, and the trail before him; then his glance fell upon the hand still upon his shoulder, and he struggled with a final effort. “At another time I’d like to have a long talk with you about your daughter, Mr. McKinstry.”

“Talk on,” said McKinstry, putting his wounded hand through the master’s arm. “I admire to hear you. You’re that kam, it does me good.”

Nevertheless the master was conscious that his own arm was scarcely as firm as his companion’s. It was however useless to draw back now, and with as much tact as he could command he relieved his mind of its purpose. Addressing the obtruding bandage before him, he dwelt upon Cressy’s previous attitude in the school, the danger of any relapse, the necessity of her having a more clearly defined position as a scholar, and even the advisability of her being transferred to a more advanced school with a more mature teacher of her own sex. “This is what I wished to say to Mrs. McKinstry to-day,” he concluded, “but she referred me to you.”

“In course, in course,” said McKinstry, nodding complacently. “She’s a good woman in and around the ranch, and in any doin’s o’ this kind,” he lightly waved his wounded arm in the air, “there ain’t a better, tho’ I say it. She was Blair Rawlins’ darter; she and her brother Clay bein’ the only ones that kem out safe arter their twenty years’ fight with the McEntees in West Kaintuck. But she don’t understand gals ez you and me do. Not that I’m much, ez I orter be more kam. And the old woman jest sized the hull thing when she said SHE hadn’t any hand in Cressy’s engagement. No more she had! And ez far ez that goes, no more did me, nor Seth Davis, nor Cressy.” He paused, and lifting his heavy-lidded eyes to the master for the second time, said reflectively, “Ye mustn’t mind my tellin’ ye—ez betwixt man and man—that THE one ez is most responsible for the makin’ and breakin’ o’ that engagement is YOU!”

“Me!” said the master in utter bewilderment.

“You!” repeated McKinstry quietly, reinstalling the hand Ford had attempted to withdraw. “I ain’t sayin’ ye either know’d it or kalkilated on it. But it war so. Ef ye’d hark to me, and meander on a little, I’ll tell ye HOW it war. I don’t mind walkin’ a piece YOUR way, for if we go towards the ranch, and the hounds see me, they’ll set up a racket and bring out the old woman, and then good-by to any confidential talk betwixt you and me. And I’m, somehow, kammer out yer.”

He moved slowly down the trail, still holding Ford’s arm confidentially, although, owing to his large protecting manner, he seemed to offer a ridiculous suggestion of supporting HIM with his wounded member.

“When you first kem to Injin Spring,” he began, “Seth and Cressy was goin’ to school, boy and girl like, and nothin’ more. They’d known each other from babies—the Davises bein’ our neighbors in Kaintuck, and emigraten’ with us from St. Joe. Seth mout hev cottoned to Cress, and Cress to him, in course o’ time, and there wasn’t anythin’ betwixt the families to hev kept ‘em from marryin’ when they wanted. But there never war any words passed, and no engagement.”

“But,” interrupted Ford hastily, “my predecessor, Mr. Martin, distinctly told me that there was, and that it was with YOUR permission.”

“That’s only because you noticed suthin’ the first day you looked over the school with Martin. ‘Dad,’ sez Cress to me, ‘that new teacher’s very peart; and he’s that keen about noticin’ me and Seth that I reckon you’d better giv out that we’re engaged.’ ‘But are you?’ sez I. ‘It’ll come to that in the end,’ sez Cress, ‘and if that yer teacher hez come here with Northern ideas o’ society, it’s just ez well to let him see Injin Spring ain’t entirely in the woods about them things either.’ So I agreed, and Martin told you it was all right; Cress and Seth was an engaged couple, and you was to take no notice. And then YOU ups and objects to the hull thing, and allows that courtin’ in school, even among engaged pupils, ain’t proper.”

The master turned his eyes with some uneasiness to the face of Cressy’s father. It was heavy but impassive.

“I don’t mind tellin’ you, now that it’s over, what happened. The trouble with me, Mr. Ford, is—I ain’t kam! and YOU air, and that’s what got me. For when I heard what you’d said, I got on that mustang and started for the school-house to clean you out and giv’ you five minutes to leave Injin Spring. I don’t know ez you remember that day. I’d kalkilated my time so ez to ketch ye comin’ out o’ school, but I was too airly. I hung around out o’ sight, and then hitched my hoss to a buckeye and peeped inter the winder to hev a good look at ye. It was very quiet and kam. There was squirrels over the roof, yellow-jackets and bees dronin’ away, and kinder sleeping-like all around in the air, and jay-birds twitterin’ in the shingles, and they never minded me. You were movin’ up and down among them little gals and boys, liftin’ up their heads and talkin’ to ‘em softly and quiet like, ez if you was one of them yourself. And they looked contented and kam. And onct—I don’t know if YOU remember it—you kem close up to the winder with your hands behind you, and looked out so kam and quiet and so far off, ez if everybody else outside the school was miles away from you. It kem to me then that I’d given a heap to hev had the old woman see you thar. It kem to me, Mr. Ford, that there wasn’t any place for ME thar; and it kem to me, too—and a little rough like—that mebbee there wasn’t any place there for MY Cress either! So I rode away without disturbin’ you nor the birds nor the squirrels. Talkin’ with Cress that night, she said ez how it was a fair sample of what happened every day, and that you’d always treated her fair like the others. So she allowed that she’d go down to Sacramento, and get some things agin her and Seth bein’ married next month, and she reckoned she wouldn’t trouble you nor the school agin. Hark till I’ve done, Mr. Ford,” he continued, as the young man made a slight movement of deprecation. “Well, I agreed. But arter she got to Sacramento and bought some fancy fixin’s, she wrote to me and sez ez how she’d been thinkin’ the hull thing over, and she reckoned that she and Seth were too young to marry, and the engagement had better be broke. And I broke it for her.”

“But how?” asked the bewildered master.

“Gin’rally with this gun,” returned McKinstry with slow gravity, indicating the rifle he was carrying, “for I ain’t kam. I let on to Seth’s father that if I ever found Seth and Cressy together again, I’d shoot him. It made a sort o’ coolness betwixt the families, and hez given some comfort to them low-down Harrisons; but even the law, I reckon, recognizes a father’s rights. And ez Cress sez, now ez Seth’s out o’ the way, thar ain’t no reason why she can’t go back to school and finish her eddication. And I reckoned she was right. And we both agreed that ez she’d left school to git them store clothes, it was only fair that she’d give the school the benefit of ‘em.”

The case seemed more hopeless than ever. The master knew that the man beside him might hardly prove as lenient to a second objection at his hand. But that very reason, perhaps, impelled him, now that he knew his danger, to consider it more strongly as a duty, and his pride revolted from a possible threat underlying McKinstry’s confidences. Nevertheless he began gently:

“But you are quite sure you won’t regret that you didn’t avail yourself of this broken engagement, and your daughter’s outfit—to send her to some larger boarding-school in Sacramento or San Francisco? Don’t you think she may find it dull, and soon tire of the company of mere children when she has already known the excitement of”—he was about to say “a lover,” but checked himself, and added, “a young girl’s freedom?”

“Mr. Ford,” returned McKinstry, with the slow and fatuous misconception of a one-ideaed man, “when I said just now that, lookin’ inter that kam, peaceful school of yours, I didn’t find a place for Cress, it warn’t because I didn’t think she OUGHTER hev a place thar. Thar was that thar wot she never had ez a little girl with me and the old woman, and that she couldn’t find ez a grownd up girl in any boarding-school—the home of a child; that kind o’ innocent foolishness that I sometimes reckon must hev slipped outer our emigrant wagon comin’ across the plains, or got left behind at St. Joe. She was a grownd girl fit to marry afore she was a child. She had young fellers a-sparkin’ her afore she ever played with ‘em ez boy and girl. I don’t mind tellin’ you that it wern’t in the natur of Blair Rawlins’ darter to teach her own darter any better, for all she’s been a mighty help to me. So if it’s all the same to you, Mr. Ford, we won’t talk about a grownd up school; I’d rather Cress be a little girl again among them other children. I should be a powerful sight more kam if I knowed that when I was away huntin’ stock or fightin’ stakes with them Harrisons, that she was a settin’ there with them and the birds and the bees, and listenin’ to them and to you. Mebbee there’s been a little too many scrimmages goin’ on round the ranch sence she’s been a child; mebbee she orter know suthin’ more of a man than a feller who sparks her and fights for her.”

The master was silent. Had this dull, narrow-minded partisan stumbled upon a truth that had never dawned upon his own broader comprehension? Had this selfish savage and literally red-handed frontier brawler been moved by some dumb instinct of the power of gentleness to understand his daughter’s needs better than he? For a moment he was staggered. Then he thought of Cressy’s later flirtations with Joe Masters, and her concealment of their meeting from her mother. Had she deceived her father also? Or was not the father deceiving him with this alternate suggestion of threat and of kindliness—of power and weakness. He had heard of this cruel phase of Southwestern cunning before. With the feeble sophistry of the cynic he mistrusted the good his scepticism could not understand. Howbeit, glancing sideways at the slumbering savagery of the man beside him, and his wounded hand, he did not care to show his lack of confidence. He contented himself with that equally feeble resource of weak humanity in such cases—good-natured indifference. “All right,” he said carelessly; “I’ll see what can be done. But are you quite sure you are fit to go home alone? Shall I accompany you?” As McKinstry waived the suggestion with a gesture, he added lightly, as if to conclude the interview, “I’ll report progress to you from time to time, if you like.”

“To ME,” emphasized McKinstry; “not over THAR,” indicating the ranch. “But p’rhaps you wouldn’t mind my ridin’ by and lookin’ in at the school-room winder onct in a while? Ah—you WOULD,” he added, with the first deepening of color he had shown. “Well, never mind.”

“You see it might distract the children from their lessons,” explained the master gently, who had however contemplated with some concern the infinite delight which a glimpse of McKinstry’s fiery and fatuous face at the window would awaken in Johnny Filgee’s infant breast.

“Well, no matter!” returned McKinstry slowly. “Ye don’t keer, I s’pose, to come over to the hotel and take suthin’? A julep or a smash?”

“I shouldn’t think of keeping you a moment longer from Mrs. McKinstry,” said the master, looking at his companion’s wounded hand. “Thank you all the same. Good-by.”

They shook hands, McKinstry transferring his rifle to the hollow of his elbow to offer his unwounded left. The master watched him slowly resume his way towards the ranch. Then with a half uneasy and half pleasurable sense that he had taken some step whose consequences were more important than he would at present understand, he turned in the opposite direction to the school-house. He was so preoccupied that it was not until he had nearly reached it that he remembered Uncle Ben. With an odd recollection of McKinstry’s previous performance, he approached the school from the thicket in the rear and slipped noiselessly to the open window with the intention of looking in. But the school-house, far from exhibiting that “kam” and studious abstraction which had so touched the savage breast of McKinstry, was filled with the accents of youthful and unrestrained vituperation. The voice of Rupert Filgee came sharply to the master’s astonished ears.

“You needn’t try to play off Dobell or Mitchell on ME—you hear! Much YOU know of either, don’t you? Look at that copy. If Johnny couldn’t do better than that, I’d lick him. Of course it’s the pen—it ain’t your stodgy fingers—oh, no! P’r’aps you’d like to hev a few more boxes o’ quills and gold pens and Gillott’s best thrown in, for two bits a lesson? I tell you what! I’ll throw up the contract in another minit! There goes another quill busted! Look here, what YOU want ain’t a pen, but a clothes-pin and a split nail! That’ll about jibe with your dilikit gait.”

The master at once stepped to the window and, unobserved, took a quick survey of the interior. Following some ingenious idea of his own regarding fitness, the beautiful Filgee had induced Uncle Ben to seat himself on the floor before one of the smallest desks, presumably his brother’s, in an attitude which, while it certainly gave him considerable elbow-room for those contortions common to immature penmanship, offered his youthful instructor a superior eminence, from which he hovered, occasionally swooping down upon his grown-up pupil like a mischievous but graceful jay. But Mr. Ford’s most distinct impression was that, far from resenting the derogatory position and the abuse that accompanied it, Uncle Ben not only beamed upon his persecutor with unquenchable good humor, but with undisguised admiration, and showed not the slightest inclination to accept his proposed resignation.

“Go slow, Roop,” he said cheerfully. “You was onct a boy yourself. Nat’rally I kalkilate to stand all the damages. You’ve got ter waste some powder over a blast like this yer, way down to the bed rock. Next time I’ll bring my own pens.”

“Do. Some from the Dobell school you uster go to,” suggested the darkly ironical Rupert. “They was iron-clad injin-rubber, warn’t they?”

“Never you mind wot they were,” said Uncle Ben good-humoredly. “Look at that string of ‘C’s’ in that line. There’s nothing mean about THEM.”