Grey Under the Tonto Rim

1. Auflage 2015
ISBN: 978-1-5183-1786-6
Verlag: Krill Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection

E-Book, Englisch, 368 Seiten

Zane Grey (1872 - 1939) was an American author best known for writing Western novels, with his most famous being Riders of the Purple Sage. That work is widely considered the greatest Western ever written, and Grey remains one of the most famous authors of the genre. Grey also wrote many other novels on fishing and baseball.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Grey, Zane

Leseproben

CHAPTER I
.................. LUCY WATSON DID NOT LEAVE home without regrets. For a long time she gazed at the desert scenery through tear-blurred eyes. But this sadness seemed rather for the past—the home that had been, before the death of her mother and the elopement of her younger sister with a cowboy. This escapade of Clara’s had been the last straw. Lucy had clung to the home in the hope she might save her sister from following in the footsteps of others of the family. Always she had felt keenly the stigma of being the daughter of a saloon-keeper. In her school days she had suffered, under this opprobrium, and had conceived an ideal to help her rise above the circumstances of her position. Clara’s deflection had left her free. And now she was speeding away from the town where she had been born, with an ache in her heart, and yet a slowly dawning consciousness of relief, of hope, of thrill. By the time she reached Oglethorpe, where she was to take a branch-line train, she was able to address all her faculties to a realisation of her adventures. Lucy had graduated from high school and normal school with honours. Of the several opportunities open to her she had chosen one of welfare work among backwoods people. It was not exactly missionary work, as her employers belonged to a department of the state government. Her duty was to go among the poor families of the wilderness and help them to make better homes. The significance of these words had prompted Lucy to make her choice. Better homes! It had been her ideal to help make her own home better, and so long as her mother lived she had succeeded. The salary offered was small, but that did not cause her concern. The fact that she had the welfare department of the state behind her, and could use to reasonable extent funds for the betterment of these primitive people, was something of far greater importance. When she had accepted this position two remarks had been made to her, both of which had been thought-provoking. Mr. Sands, the head of the department, had said: “We would not trust every young woman with this work. It is a sort of state experiment. But we believe in the right hands it will be a great benefit to these uncultivated people of the backwoods. Tact, cleverness, and kindliness of heart will be factors in your success.” Lucy had derived gratification from this indirect compliment. The other remark had aroused only Amusement. Mrs. Larabee, also connected with the welfare work, had remarked: “You are a good-looking woman, Miss Watson. You will cause something of a stir among the young men at Cedar Ridge. I was there last summer. Such strapping young giants I never saw! I liked them, wild and uncouth as they were. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them married you.” Oglethorpe was a little way station in the desert. The branch-line train, consisting of two cars and the engine, stood waiting on a side track. Mexicans in huge sombreros and Indians with coloured blankets stolidly watched Lucy carry her heavy bags from one train to the other, A young brakeman espied her and helped her aboard, not forgetting some bold and admiring glances. The coach was only partly filled with passengers, and those whom Lucy noticed bore the stamp of the range. Soon the train started over an uneven and uphill roadbed. Lucy began to find pleasure in gazing out of the window. The flat bare desert had given place to hills, fresh with spring greens. The air had lost the tang of the cattle range. Occasionally Lucy espied a black tableland rising in the distance, and this she guessed was timbered mountain country, whither she was bound. At noon the train arrived at its terminal stop, San Dimas, a hamlet of flat-roofed houses. Lucy was interested only in the stage-coach that left here for her destination, Cedar Ridge. The young brakeman again came to her assistance and carried her baggage. “Goin’ up in the woods, hey?” he queried curiously. “Yes, I think they did say woods, backwoods,” laughed Lucy. “I go to Cedar Ridge, and farther still.” “All alone—a pretty girl!” he exclaimed gallantly. “For two cents I’d throw up my job an’ go with you.” “Thank you. Do you think I need a—a protector?” replied Lucy. “Among those bee hunters an’ white-mule drinker I reckon you do, miss.” “I imagine they will not be any more dangerous than cowboys on the range—or brakemen on trains,” replied Lucy, with a smile. “Anyway, I can take care of myself.” “I’ll bet you can,” he said admiringly. “Good luck.” Lucy found herself the sole passenger in the stage-coach and soon bowling along a good road. The driver, a weather-beaten old man, appeared to have a grudge against his horses. Lucy wanted to climb out in front and sit beside him, so that she could see better and have opportunity to ask questions about the country and the people. The driver’s language, however, was hardly conducive to nearer acquaintance; therefore Lucy restrained her inquisitive desires and interested herself in the changing nature of the foliage and the occasional vista that opened up between the hills. It seemed impossible not to wonder about what was going to happen to her; and the clinking of the harness on the horses, the rhythmic beat of their hoofs, and the roll of wheels all augmented her sense of the departure from an old and unsatisfying life toward a new one fraught with endless hopes, dreams, possibilities. Whatever was in store for her, the worthy motive of this work she had accepted would uphold her and keep her true to the ideal she had set for herself. The only instructions given Lucy were that she was to go among the families living in the backwoods between Cedar Ridge and what was called the Rim Rock and to use her abilities to the best advantage in teaching them to have better homes. She had not been limited to any method or restricted in any sense or hampered by any church or society. She was to use her own judgment and report her progress. Something about this work appealed tremendously to Lucy. The responsibility weighed upon her, yet stimulated her instinct for conflict. She had been given a hint of what might be expected in the way of difficulties. Her success or failure would have much to do with future development of this state welfare work. Lucy appreciated just how much these isolated and poor families might gain or lose through her. Indeed, though beset by humility and doubt, she felt that a glorious opportunity had been presented to her, and she called upon all the courage and intelligence she could summon. There was little or nothing she could plan until she got among these people. But during that long ride through the lonely hills, up and ever upward into higher country, she laboured at what she conceived to be the initial step toward success—to put into this work all her sympathy and heart. Presently she plucked up spirit enough to address the stage driver. “How far is it to Cedar Ridge?” “Wal, some folks calkilate it’s round twenty-five miles, then there’s tothers say it’s more,” he drawled. “But I don’t agree with nary of them.” “You would know, of course,” said Lucy appreciatingly. “How far do you call it?” “Reckon aboot twenty miles as a crow flies an’ shinnyin’ round forty on this uphill road.” Lucy felt rather bewildered at this reply, and did not risk incurring more confusion. She was sure of one thing, however, and it was that the road assuredly wound uphill. About the middle of the afternoon as stage reached the summit of what appeared rolling upland country, grassy in patches and brushy in others, and stretching away toward a bold black mountain level with a band of red rock shining in the sun. Lucy gazed westward across a wide depression, grey and green, to a range of ragged peaks, notched and sharp, with shaggy slopes. How wild and different they seemed to her! Farther south the desert mountains were stark and ghastly, denuded rock surfaces that glared inhospitably down upon an observer. But these mountains seemed to call in wild abandon. They stirred something buoyant and thrilling in Lucy. Gradually she lost sight of both ranges as the road began to wind down somewhat, obstructing her view. Next to interest her were clearings in the brush, fields and fences and cabins, with a few cattle and horses. Hard as she peered, however, Lucy did not see any people. The stage driver made fast time over this rolling country, and his horses trotted swingingly along, as if home and feed were not far off. For Lucy the day had been tiring; she had exhausted herself with unusual sensation. She closed her eyes to rest them and fell into a doze. Sooner or later the stage driver awoke her. “Say, miss, there’s Cedar Ridge, an’ thet green hill above is what gives the town its name,” he said. “It’s a good ways off yit, but I reckon we’ll pull in aboot dark.” Lucy’s eyes opened upon a wonderful valley, just now coloured by sunset haze. A cluster of cottages and houses nestled under a magnificent sloping ridge, billowy and soft with green foliage. The valley was pastoral and beautiful. This could not be the backwoods country into which she was going. Lucy gazed long with the most pleasing of impressions. Then her gaze shifted to the ridge from which the town...