Bunch Grass | Page 2

JAP'S LILY
X. WILKINS AND HIS DINAH
XI. A POISONED SPRING
XII. THE BABE
XIII. THE BARON
XIV. JIM'S PUP
XV. MARY
XVI. OLD MAN BOBO'S MANDY

XVII. MINTIE
XVIII. ONE WHO DIED
XIX. A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS
XX. DENNIS
* * * * *

I
ALETHEA-BELLE
In the early eighties, when my brother Ajax and I were raising cattle in
the foothills of Southern California, our ranch-house was used as a
stopping-place by the teamsters hauling freight across the Coast Range;
and after the boom began, while the village of Paradise was evolving
itself out of rough timber, we were obliged to furnish all comers with
board and lodging. Hardly a day passed without some "prairie
schooner" (the canvas-covered wagon of the squatter) creaking into our
corral; and the quiet gulches and cañons where Ajax and I had shot
quail and deer began to re-echo to the shouts of the children of the
rough folk from the mid-West and Missouri. These "Pikers," so called,
settled thickly upon the sage-brush hills to the south and east of us, and
took up all the land they could claim from the Government. Before
spring was over, we were asked to lend an old adobe building to the
village fathers, to be used as a schoolhouse, until the schoolhouse
proper was built. At that time a New England family of the name of
Spafford was working for us. Mrs. Spafford, having two children of her
own, tried to enlist our sympathies.
"I'm kinder sick," she told us, "of cookin' an' teachin'; an' the hot
weather's comin' on, too. You'd oughter let 'em hev that old adobe."
"But who will teach the children?" we asked.

"We've fixed that," said Mrs. Spafford. "'Tain't everyone as'd want to
come into this wilderness, but my auntie's cousin, Alethea-Belle
Buchanan, is willin' to take the job."
"Is she able?" we asked doubtfully.
"She's her father's daughter," Mrs. Spafford replied. "Abram Buchanan
was as fine an' brave a man as ever preached the Gospel. An' clever, too.
My sakes, he never done but one foolish thing, and that was when he
merried his wife."
"Tell us about her," said that inveterate gossip, Ajax.
Mrs. Spafford sniffed.
"I seen her once--that was once too much fer me. One o' them
lackadaisical, wear-a-wrapper-in-the-mornin', soft, pulpy Southerners.
Pretty--yes, in a spindlin', pink an' white soon-washed-out pattern, but
without backbone. I've no patience with sech."
"Her daughter won't be able to halter-break these wild colts."
"Didn't I say that Alethea-Belle took after her father? She must hev
consid'able snap an' nerve, fer she's put in the last year, sence Abram
died, sellin' books in this State."
"A book agent?"
"Yes, sir, a book agent."
If Mrs. Spafford had said road agent, which means highwayman in
California, we could not have been more surprised. A successful book
agent must have the hide of a rhinoceros, the guile of a serpent, the
obstinacy of a mule, and the persuasive notes of a nightingale.
"If Miss Buchanan has been a book agent, she'll do," said Ajax.
* * * * *

She arrived at Paradise on the ramshackle old stage-coach late one
Saturday afternoon. Ajax and I carried her small hair-trunk into the
ranch-house; Mrs. Spafford received her. We retreated to the corrals.
"She'll never, never do," said Ajax.
"Never," said I.
Alethea-Belle Buchanan looked about eighteen; and her face was white
as the dust that lay thick upon her grey linen cloak. Under the cloak we
had caught a glimpse of a thin, slab-chested figure. She wore thread
gloves, and said "I thank you" in a prim, New England accent.
"Depend upon it, she's had pie for breakfast ever since she was born,"
said Ajax, "and it's not agreed with her. She'll keep a foothill school in
order just about two minutes--and no longer!"
At supper, however, she surprised us. She was very plain-featured, but
the men--the rough teamsters, for instance--could not keep their eyes
off her. She was the most amazing mixture of boldness and timidity I
had ever met. We were about to plump ourselves down at table, for
instance, when Miss Buchanan, folding her hands and raising her eyes,
said grace; but to our first questions she replied, blushing, in timid
monosyllables.
After supper, Mrs. Spafford and she washed up. Later, they brought
their sewing into the sitting-room. While we were trying to thaw the
little schoolmarm's shyness, a mouse ran across the floor. In an instant
Miss Buchanan was on her chair. The mouse ran round the room and
vanished; the girl who had been sent to Paradise to keep in order the
turbulent children of the foothills stepped down from her chair.
"I'm scared to death of mice," she confessed. My brother Ajax scowled.
"Fancy sending that whey-faced little coward--here!" he