The Fighting Edge. William MacLeod Raine
demons glared at him out of her dark eyes. “Ain’t you got any sand in yore craw, Bob Dillon? Do you aim to let folks run on you all yore life? I’d fight ’em if ’t was the last thing I ever did.”
“Different here. I’d get my block knocked off about twice a week. You don’t see me in any scraps where I ain’t got a look-in. I’d rather let ’em boot me a few,” he said philosophically.
She frowned at him, in a kind of puzzled wonderment. “You’re right queer. If I was a man—”
The sentence died out. She was not a man. The limitations of sex encompassed her. In Jake Houck’s arms she had been no more than an infant. He would crush her resistance—no matter whether it was physical or mental—and fling out at her the cruel jeering laughter of one who could win without even exerting his strength. She would never marry him—never, never in the world. But—
A chill dread drenched her heart.
Young Dillon was sensitive to impressions. His eyes, fixed on the girl’s face, read something of her fears.
“This man—who is he?” he asked.
“Jake Houck. I never saw him till last night. My father knew him when—when he was young.”
“What’s the matter with this Houck? Why don’t you like him?”
“If you’d see him—how he looks at me.” She flashed to anger. “As if I was something he owned and meant to tame.”
“Oh, well, you know the old sayin’, a cat may look at a king. He can’t harm you.”
“Can’t he? How do you know he can’t?” she challenged.
“How can he, come to that?”
“I don’t say he can.” Looked at in cold blood, through the eyes of another, the near-panic that had seized her a few hours earlier appeared ridiculous. “But I don’t have to like him, do I? He acted—hateful—if you want to know.”
“How d’you mean—hateful?”
A wave of color swept through her cheeks to the brown throat. How could she tell him that there was something in the man’s look that had disrobed her, something in his ribald laugh that had made her feel unclean? Or that the fellow had brushed aside the pride and dignity that fenced her and ravished kisses from her lips while he mocked? She could not have put her feeling into words if she had tried, and she had no intention of trying.
“Mean,” she said. “A low-down, mean bully.”
The freckled boy watched her with a curious interest. She made no more sex appeal to him than he did to her, and that was none at all. The first thing that had moved him in the child was the friendlessness back of her spitfire offense. She knew no women, no other girls. The conditions of life kept her aloof from the ones she met casually once or twice a year. She suspected their laughter, their whispers about the wild girl on Piceance Creek. The pride with which she ignored them was stimulated by her sense of inferiority. June had read books. She felt the clothes she made were hideous, the conditions of her existence squalid; and back of these externals was the shame she knew because they must hide themselves from the world on account of the secret.
Bob did not know all that, but he guessed some of it. He had not gone very far in experience himself, but he suspected that this wild creature of the hills was likely to have a turbulent and perhaps tragic time of it. She was very much a child of impulse. Thirstily she had drunk in all he could tell her of the world beyond the hills that hemmed them in. He had known her frank, grateful, dreamy, shy, defiant, and once, for no apparent reason, a flaming little fury who had rushed to eager repentance when she discovered no offense was meant. He had seen her face bubbling with mirth at the antics of a chipmunk, had looked into the dark eyes when they were like hill fires blazing through mist because of the sunset light in the crotch of the range.
“I reckon Mr. Tolliver won’t let this Houck bully you none,” the boy said.
“I ain’t scared of him,” she answered.
But June knew there would be small comfort for her in the thought of her father’s protection. She divined intuitively that he would be a liability rather than an asset in any conflict that might arise between her and Jake Houck.
“If there was anything I could do—but o’ course there ain’t.”
“No,” she agreed. “Oh, well, I’m not worryin’. I’ll show him when he comes back. I’m as big as he is behind a gun.”
Bob looked at her, startled. He saw she was whistling to keep up her courage. “Are you sure enough afraid of him?”
Her eyes met his. She nodded. “He said he was coming back to marry me—good as said I could like it or lump it, he didn’t care which.”
“Sho! Tha’s jus’ talk. No girl has to marry a man if she don’t want to. You don’t need any gun-play. He can’t make his brags good if you won’t have him. It’s a free country.”
“If he told you to do something—this Jake Houck—you wouldn’t think it was so free,” the girl retorted without any life in her voice.
He jumped up, laughing. “Well, I don’t expect he’s liable to tell me to do anything. He ain’t ever met up with me. I gotta go peel the spuds for supper. Don’t you worry, June. He’s bluffin’.”
“I reckon,” she said, and nodded a careless good-bye.
CHAPTER IV
CLIPPED WINGS
The Cinderella of Piceance Creek was scrupulously clean even though ragged and unkempt. Every Saturday night she shooed Pete Tolliver out of the house and took a bath in the tub which usually hung suspended from a wooden peg driven into the outer wall of the log cabin. Regularly as Monday came wash day.
On a windy autumn day, with the golden flames of fall burning the foliage of the hill woods, June built a fire of cottonwood branches near the brook and plunged with fierce energy into the week’s washing. She was a strong, lithe young thing and worked rapidly. Her methods might not be the latest or the best, but they won results. Before the sun had climbed halfway to its zenith she had the clothes on the line.
Since she had good soapy suds and plenty of hot water left in the iron kettle, June decided to scrub the bed covers. Twenty minutes later, barefooted and barelegged, her skirts tucked up above the knees, the young washwoman was trampling blankets in the tub. She had no reason to suppose that anybody was within a mile of her. Wherefore, since the world was beautiful and mere life a joy, she improvised a child’s song of thanksgiving.
It was a foolish little thing without rhyme or reason. It began nowhere and finished at the same place. But it lifted straight from the heart and perhaps it traveled as far heavenward as most prayers. She danced among the suds as she sang it, brown arms, bare to the elbows, stretched to the sunlit hills.
| Wings—wings—wings! I can fly, ’way ’way ’way off, Over the creek, over the piñons. Goodness, yes! Like a meadow-lark. Over the hills, clear to Denver, Where the trains are. And it’s lovely—lovely—lovely. |
It was an unschooled, impulsive cry of the heart to the great soul of life and beauty that lies back of nature. No human eyes or ears were meant to see or hear the outburst. A shy girl’s first day-dreams of her lover ought no more to be dragged out to the public gaze than this.
Through