Code of the West. Zane Grey
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Stockwell found the riders, nine of them, grouped before one of the wide doors of the barn. She had a singular feeling that these young Westerners had suddenly become more important and significant to her.
In a group these boys all looked strangely alike. It was necessary to pick one out and study him individually to see where he differed from his comrades. They were all tall, lean, rangy, with the round powerful limbs, the small hips, the slightly bowed legs of the born horseman. If they were of different complexions it could not be discerned then, for each of them was black from dust and brush. They wore huge sombreros, mostly black, some of them gray, and all were old, slouched, and grimy. Blue jeans, jumpers, and overalls seemed the favorite garb. Several had discarded their chaps, to reveal trousers stuffed into high-topped, high-heeled boots, shiny and worn, bearing long spurs with huge rowels.
They responded to Miss Stockwell’s greeting with the slow, drawling Texas speech that never failed to please her.
“Boys, I want one of you to do me an especial favor,” she said.
Enoch Thurman came from behind the group. He was the chief of this clan, a lofty-statured rider, the very sight of whom had always fascinated her.
“Wal, Miss Mary, if it’s takin’ you to the dance, I’m shore puttin’ up my bid,” he drawled. He had wonderfully clear light-gray eyes, and the piercing quality of their gaze was now softened by a twinkle. A smile, too, changed the rigidity of the dark lean face.
It occurred to Miss Stockwell that from the date of Georgiana’s arrival she would have to attend the dances. The prospect was alarming. The few functions of this kind in which she had participated had rendered her somewhat incapable for teaching the next day. For these boys had kept her dancing unremittingly from dark till dawn.
“I accept your kind invitation, Enoch, but that’s not the favor I mean,” she said, with a smile.
Then Boyd Thurman lunged up, smiling. He was stalwart, big-shouldered, of strong rugged face, hard as bronze, and his blue eyes were as frank as a child’s. He tipped back his sombrero, showing a shock of tow-colored hair.
“Teacher, what is this heah favor?” he inquired.
“Reckon we’re all a-rarin’ to do you any favor,” said Wess Thurman. He was a cousin of Boyd’s and Enoch’s, twenty-two, with the Thurman stature and wide-open eyes.
“It’s to go to Ryson tomorrow to meet my sister,” responded Miss Stockwell.
The announcement was not a trivial one in its content. Indeed, it seemed of tremendous importance. The boys reacted slowly to its significance.
“Tomorrow,” spoke up Enoch, regretfully. “Wal, I’m shore sorry. But I can’t go, Miss Mary. We rode Mescal Ridge today, an’ I drove some yearlin’s inside our drift fence. They belong to that Bar XX outfit, an’ shore there’s no love lost between us. I’m drivin’ them off our range tomorrow.”
Judging from the eagerness of the rest of the boys, with the exception of Cal Thurman, they all preferred meeting Miss Stockwell’s sister to driving cattle. And for several moments it appeared that Enoch would not have much help on the morrow.
“Goodness! I don’t want you all!” she protested. “One of you will do. If it’s such an occasion, you might draw lots.”
But this suggestion did not meet with the approval of the majority. They argued about it. Miss Stockwell had long been used to their simplicity, their earnestness and loquacity, and when opposed, their singular perversity to one another’s ideas and persistence in their own. They argued so determinedly that the teacher feared one of the quarrels which were of daily, almost hourly, occurrence. If one of these boys wanted to do something especially, that was a cue for the others to oppose him.
“Say, can she dance?” suddenly inquired Serge Thurman, brother of Wess. He was a yellow-haired young giant, sunburnt, with eyes reddened by heat and dust and wind. Serge was the most gallant, as well as the best dancer, of all the Thurmans. His query opened up a new train of thought, manifestly of intense interest to the boys.
Miss Stockwell had to laugh. Assuredly the advent of Georgiana would be worth seeing. “Why, I’m pretty sure she dances,” she replied, thoughtfully. It began to dawn upon her that she might repay these Thurmans for some of the innocent little tricks they had played on her.
More arguments followed this tentative admission by Miss Stockwell, and it was in no wise concluded when several of the boys asserted they were going to Ryson, and alone.
“Now, Miss Stockwell, what’s this heah sister of yourn like?” queried Pan Handle Ames. He was one of the several men employed by Enoch, like most of them of Texas stock, and a rider of the desert Pan Handle of Texas before he came to Arizona. He had a homely face and serious air. And his question precipitated such renewed interest that it seemed absolutely vital to the issue.
The teacher studied these friendly, queer young men, laughing to herself, thrilling for them, and slowly yielding to machinations of her own. How likable they were! They would spend hours over this simple matter, unless she settled it.
“I’ll tell you, boys,” she asserted. “I have a picture of her. I’ll fetch it—and then you can decide who really wants to meet her.”
That, at last, was one thing they approved of with instant unity. Miss Stockwell hurried to her room, and with growing consciousness of her opportunity, searched in her effects for the picture of a maiden aunt who was noted for her plain, severe face. She felt a twinge at thought of the use she meant to make of this likeness of the good aunt whom she loved, but did not let such trepidations dissuade her from her purpose. Armed with the photograph, she hurried back to the group of boys in the corral.
“There!” she exclaimed, holding it out.
All of them but Cal Thurman crowded round her, eager to see the likeness of her sister. Cal seemed amused at their actions. . . . He was Enoch’s youngest brother, a boy of nineteen, and apparently the only one of the clan not particularly interested in girls.
There was a moment of strained, silent attention, then one of them burst out:
“Aw, Miss Mary, she ain’t a bit like you.”
“Not much,” said Serge, decisively, with a finality the teacher did not fail to note.
“Wal, is this—is she really your sister?” queried Enoch, slowly, as if trying to remember. “Shore I thought you once showed me a picture.”
“Ahuh!” added Pan Handle Ames. “Nice sweet-appearin’ lady.” He said it with aloof nonchalance, with obvious insincerity.
Then, as a group they became silent, rather awkwardly and slowly realizing that the situation had subtly changed. They backed away from the teacher’s side and assumed former lounging positions, most of them calmly resorting to the inevitable cigarette. Enoch regarded his clan with undisguised mirth. They had placed themselves in an embarrassing position.
“Wal, I reckon you-all are rarin’ to chase them Bar XX steers in the mawnin’,” he drawled, with dry sarcasm. Enoch knew his clan.
The riders had drifted imperceptibly, as if by magic, back into that cool, easy serenity that usually characterized them. No hint of embarrassment or concern or consciousness of Enoch’s half-veiled scorn showed in look or action.
“Enoch, you cain’t drive that bunch of yearlin’s without me an’ Boyd,” asserted Serge, calmly.
Boyd nodded his assurance of this, and his big eyes shone with a glare as he spoke: “Reckon thet new Bar XX foreman won’t like you any better, Enoch. An’ considerin’ how much thet was, he’s goin’ to be riled when he finds out. He’s always achin’ to start a fight. An’ if you don’t drive thet bunch off our range he’ll swear we’re rustlin’.”
Enoch took this seriously, as if there was a good deal in it.
“Boyd, I was only doin’ Bloom a favor,” he replied. “It was near dark