Prospector's Gold and Canyon Walls (1990) (12 page)

"I cain't say as you gave me any advice at all. But mebbe thet's because I'm stupid. Thanks, Mrs. Keetch, an' good night."

The painful hour of confused thinking which Monty put in that night, walking in the moonlight shadows under the canyon walls, resulted only in increasing his bewilderment. He ended it by admitting he was now in love with Rebecca, ten thousand times worse than he had ever loved any girl before, and that she could wind him around her little finger all she wanted to. If she knew! But he swore he would never let her find it out.

Next day seemed to bring the inauguration of a new regime at Canyon Walls. The ranch had received an impetus, like that given by water run over rich dry ground. Monty's hours were doubly full. Always there wa
s
Rebecca, singing on the porch at dusk. "In the gloaming, oh my darling," a song that carried Monty back to home in Iowa, and the zigzag rail fences; or she was at his elbow during the milking hour, an ever-growing task; or in the fields. She could work, that girl; and he told her mother it would not take long for her to earn the money she had squandered in town.

Sunday after Sunday passed, with the usual host of merry callers, and no word was ever spoken of Rebecca having passed a night on the desert with a gentile. So that specter died, except in an occasional mocking look she gave him, which he took to mean that she still could betray herself and him if she took the notion.

In June came the first cutting of alfalfa--fifty acres with an enormous yield. The rich, green, fragrant hay stood knee high. Monty tried to contain himself. But it did seem marvelous that the few simple changes he had made could produce such a rich harvest.

Monty worked late, and a second bell did not deter him. He wanted to finish this last great stack of alfalfa. Then he saw Rebecca running along the trail, calling. Monty let her call. It somehow tickled him, pretending not to hear. So she came out into the field and up to him.

"Sam, are you deaf ? Ma rang twice. And then she sent me."

"Wal, I reckon I been feelin' orful good about this alfalfa," he replied.

"Oh, it is lovely. So dark and green--so sweet to smell! . . . Sam, I'll just have to slide down that haystack."

"Don't you dare," called Monty in alarm. But she ran around to the lower side and presently appeared on top, her face flushed, full of fun and the desire to torment him. "Please, Rebecca, don't slide down. You'll topple it over, an' I'll have all the work to do over again."

"Sam, I just have to, the way I used to when I was a kid."

"You're a kid right now," he retorted. "An' go back an' get down careful."

She shrieked and let herself go and came sliding down, somewhat at the expense of modesty, Monty knew he was angry, but he feared that he was some other things too.

"There! You see how slick I did it? I could always beat the girls--and boys, too."

"Wal, let thet do," growled Monty.

"Just one more, Sam."

He dropped his pitchfork and made a lunge for her, catching only the air. How quick she was! He controlled an impulse to run after her. Soon she appeared on top again, with something added to her glee.

"Rebecca, if you slide down heah again you'll be sorry," he shouted warningly. "What'll you do?"

"I'll spank you."

"Sam Hill . . . You wouldn't dare."

"So help me heaven, I will."

She did not in the least believe him, but it was evident that his threat made her project only the more thrilling. There was at least a possibility of excitement.

"Look out. I'm acoming," she cried, with a wild, sweet trill of laughter.

As she slid down Monty leaped to intercept her. A scream escaped from Rebecca, but it was only because of her unruly skirts. That did not deter Monty. He caught her and stopped her high off the ground, and there he pinioned her.

Whatever Monty's intent had been it now escaped him. A winged flame flicked at every fiber of his being. He had her arms spread, and it took all his strength and weight to hold her there, feet off the ground. She was not in the least frightened at this close contact, though a wonderful look of speculation sparkled in her big gray eyes.

"You caught me. Now what?" she said challengingly.

Monty kissed her square on the mouth.

"Oh!" she cried, obviously startled. Then a wave of scarlet rushed up from the rich gold swell of her neck to her forehead. She struggled. "Let me down--you--you gentile cowpuncher!"

Monty kissed her again, longer, harder than before. Then when she tried to scream he stopped her lips again.

"You--little Mormon--devil!" he panted. "This heah--was shore--comin' to you!" "I'll kill you!"

"Wal, it'll be worth--dyin' fer, I reckon." Then Monty kissed her again and again until she gasped for breath, and when she sagged limp and unresisting into his arms he kissed her cheeks, her eyes, her hair, and like a madman whose hunger had been augmented by what it fed on he went back to her red parted lips.

Suddenly the evening sky appeared to grow dark. A weight carried him down with the girl. The top of the alfalfa stack had slid down upon them. Monty floundered out and dragged Rebecca from under the fragrant mass of hay. She did not move. Her eyes were closed. With trembling hand he brushed the chaff and bits of alfalfa off her white face. But her hair was full of them. "My Gawd, I've played hob now," he whispered, as the enormity of his offense suddenly dawned upon him. Nevertheless, he felt a tremendous thrill of joy as he looked down at her. Only her lips bore a vestige of color. Suddenly her eyes opened wide. From the sheer glory of them Monty fled.

Chapter
5

HIS FIRST WILD IMPULSE, AS HE RAN, WAS TO GET
o
ut of the canyon, away from the incomprehensible forces that had worked such sudden havoc with his life. His second though
t
was to rush to Mrs. Keetch and confess everything to her, before Rebecca could dam
n
him forever in that good woman's estimation. Then by the time he had reached hi
s
cabin and thrown himself on the porc
h
bench, both of these impulses had give
n
place to still others. But it was not Monty'
s
nature to remain helpless for long. Presentl
y
he sat up, wringing wet with sweat, and stil
l
shaking.

"Aw, what could have come over me?" h
e
breathed hoarsely. And suddenly he realized that nothing so terrible had happened after all. He had been furious with Rebecca and meant to chastise her. But when he held her close and tight, with those challenging eyes and lips right before him, all else except the sweetness of momentary possession had been forgotten. He loved the girl and had not before felt any realization of the full magnitude of his love. He believed that he could explain to Mrs. Keetch, so that she would not drive him away. But of course he would be as dirt under Rebecca's feet from that hour on. Yet even in his mournful acceptance of this fate his spirit rose in wonderment over what this surprising Mormon girl must be thinking of him now.

Darkness had almost set in. Down the lane Monty saw a figure approaching, quite some distance away, and he thought he heard a low voice singing. It could not be Rebecca. Rebecca would be weeping.

"RE-BECCA," called Mrs. Keetch from the porch, in her mellow, far-reaching voice. "Coming, Ma," replied the girl.

Monty sank into the shadow of his little cabin. He felt small enough to be unseen, but dared not risk it. And he watched in fear and trepidation. Suddenly Rebecca's low contralto voice rang on the quiet sultry air.

In the gloaming, Oh my darling!

When the lights are dim and low-

And the quiet shadows falling, Softly come and softly go.

Monty's heart swelled almost to bursting. Did she realize the truth and was she mocking him? He was simply flabbergasted. But how the sweet voice filled the canyon and came back in echo from the walls!

Rebecca, entering the square between the orchards and the cottonwoods, gave Monty's cabin a wide berth.

"Isn't Sam with you?" called Mrs. Keetch from the porch.

"Sam? ... No, he isn't."

"Where is he? Didn't you call him? Supper is getting cold."

"I haven't any idea where Sam is. Last I saw of him he was running like mad," rejoined Rebecca with a giggle.

That giggle saved Monty from a stroke of apoplexy.

"Running? What for?" asked the mother, as Rebecca mounted the porch.

"Ma, it was the funniest thing. I called Sam, but he didn't hear. I went out to tell him supper was ready. He had a great high stack of alfalfa up. Of course I wanted to climb it and slide down. Well, Sam got mad and ordered me not to do any such thing. Then I had to do it. Such fun! Sam growled like a bear. Well, I couldn't resist climbing up for another slide. . . . Do you know, Mother, Sam got perfectly furious. He has
a
terrible temper. He commanded me not to slide off that stack. And when I asked him what he'd do if I did--he declared he'd spank me. Imagine!' I only meant to tease him. I wasn't going to slide at all. Then, you can see I had to. . . . So I did. . . . I--oh dear!--I fetched the whole top of the stack down on us--and when I got out from under the smothering hay--and could see--there was Sam running for dear life."

"Well, for the land's sake!" exclaimed Mrs. Keetch dubiously, and then she laughed. "You drive the poor fellow wild with your pranks. Rebecca, will you never grow up?"

Whereupon she came out to the porch rail and called, "Sam."

Monty started up, opened his door to let it slam and replied, in what he thought a perfectly normal voice, "Hello?"

"Hurry to supper."

Monty washed his face and hands, brushed his hair, while his mind whirled. Then he sat down bewildered. "Doggone me!--Can you beat thet gurl? She didn't give me away--she didn't lie, yet she never tole. . . . She's not goin' to tell. . . . Must have been funny to her. . . . But shore it's a daid safe bet she never got kissed thet way before. . . . I jist cain't figger her out."

Presently he went to supper and was grateful for the dim light. Still he felt the girl's eyes on him. No doubt she was now appreciating him at last as a real Arizon
a
cowboy. He pretended weariness, and soon hurried away to his cabin, where he spent a night of wakefulness and of conflicting emotions. Remorse, however, had died a natural death after hearing Rebecca's story to her mother.

With dawn came the blessed work into which Monty plunged, finding relief in tasks which kept him away from the ranch house.

For two whole weeks Rebecca did not speak a single word to him. Mrs. Keetch finally noticed the strange silence and reproved her daughter for her attitude.

"Speak to him?" asked Rebecca, with a sniff. "Maybe--when he crawls on his knees!" "But, daughter, he only threatened to spank you. And I'm sure you gave him provocation. You must always forgive. We cannot live at enmity here," she said. "Sam is a good man, and we owe him much."

Then she turned to Monty.

"Sam, you know Rebecca had passed eighteen and she feels an exaggerated sense of her maturity. Perhaps if you'd tell her you were sorry--"

"What about?" asked Monty, when she hesitated.

"Why, about what offended Rebecca."

"Aw, shore. I'm orful sorry," drawled Monty, his keen eyes on the girl. "Turrible sorry--but it's about not sayin' an doin' more--an' then spankin' her to boot."

Mrs. Keetch looked aghast, and when Rebecca ran away from the table hysterical with mirth, the good woman seemed positively nonplused.

"That girl! Why, Sam, I thought she was furious with you. But she's not. It's all sham."

"Wal, I reckon she's riled all right, but it doesn't matter. An' see heah, ma'am," he went on, lowering his voice. "I'm confidin' in you, an' if you give me away--wal, I'll leave the ranch. . . . I reckon you've forgot how once you told me I'd lose my haid over Rebecca. Wal, I've lost it, clean an' plumb an' otherwise. An' sometimes I do queer things. Jist remember thet's why. This won't make no difference. I'm happy heah. Only I want you to understand me."

"Sam Hill!" she whispered in amazement. "So that's what ails you. . . . Now all will be well."

"Wal, I'm glad you think so," replied Monty shortly. "An' I reckon it will be--when I get over these growin' pains."

She leaned toward him. "My son, I understand now. Rebecca has been in love with you for a long time. Just let her alone. All will be well."

Monty gave her one mute, incredulous stare and then he fled. In the darkness of his cabin he persuaded himself of the absurdity of the sentimental Mrs. Keetch's claim. That night he could sleep. But when day came again he found that the havoc had been wrought. He found himself living in a kin
d
of dream, and he was always watching for Rebecca.

Straightway he began to make some discoveries. Gradually she appeared to come out of her icy shell. She worked as usual, and apparently with less discontent, especially in the mornings when she had time to sew on the porch. She would fetch lunch to the men out in the fields. Once or twice Monty saw her on top of a haystack, but he always quickly looked away. She climbed the wall trail; she gathered armloads of wild flowers; she helped where her help was not needed. On Sunday mornings she went to church at White Sage and in the afternoon entertained callers. But it was noticeable that her Mormon courters grew fewer as the summer advanced. Monty missed in her the gay allure, the open coquetry, the challenge that had once been so marked.