Two Wyoming Girls and Their Homestead Claim Part 6

CHAPTER VIII

"BEST LAID PLANS"

Joe came home the next day, and his indignation, when Jessie told him of the fire, and of the manner--presumably--in which it originated, was nearly as scorching as the fire itself. Nothing in the whole affair seemed to rouse his wrath to such a pitch as did her recital of the theories that she and Mrs. Horton had evolved to account for the threatened disaster.

"W'at sort of fool talk dat?" he inquired, contemptuously, when Jessie had concluded.

"Why, Joe, the fire must have started in some such way!" Jessie insisted.

"Honey, yo's done got a forgibbin' sperrit; yo' not only forgibs yo'

inimy, like what de Bible say fur ter do, but yo' eben furgits dat yo'

has one!"

"Oh, Joe! Surely you cannot think that it was the work of an incendiary?"

"Ob a 'cindery? No, hit ain' dat."

"What do you think, then, Joe?"

"W'at I t'ink? Some low-down sneak sot hit afire. Dat's w'at I t'ink.

An' I wouldn' hab ter hunt long afore I done laid my han's on him, neider." Jessie looked so shocked, and so cast down, that, chancing to catch the old man's eye, I shook my head at him warningly. Joe understood. His beloved master Ralph's tactics had been those of silence and Joe was willing to follow them to the end. But he muttered scornfully: "'Cindery? Dat a likely idee; w'en I nebber lef' a heap o'

stuff like dat ag'in' n.o.body's house en all my life! Look like I'd go fur ter doin' hit now, w'en dish yer house hole my own fambly!"

He seated himself in the corner with a bit of harness that he had brought up to the house to mend, in his hand, but presently he began searching anxiously for some mislaid tool.

"What have you lost, Joe?" I asked.

"W'y I ain' right sh.o.r.e as I done los' anyt'ing, chile, but de needle an' t'read w'at I put in dis cheer, ag'in' I wanted 'em, 'pear to hab crope away some'ers; likewise dat ar leetle case knife w'at I cuts leather wiv'. Dey's gone, an' I doan see dat chile Ralph 'round'

nowhere's."

Just at this point the door was pushed a little farther open and a cheerful voice proclaimed: "Here me is, Doe!"

The voice was followed by its owner, little Ralph, but such a curious spectacle the boy presented that the occupants of the room stared at him a moment in amazed silence. Jessie was the first to recover her power of speech and remonstrance:

"Ralph! Oh, what have you been doing, you naughty, naughty boy!"

It was evident that the little trespa.s.ser had not realized that his recent occupation had been in any way objectionable. His lips began to quiver, but he stood his ground manfully.

"Me isn't a notty, notty b'y, Jeppie. Me is a yittle 'orse, an' 'ese are 'e yittle 'orse's ley bells."

"Sleigh bells! Didn't you know any better than to pull up all of Joe's cantaloupes and string them on to threads--how you could do it I can't imagine--to hang around your shoulders?"

"Dey isn't 'antelopes, Jeppie; dey's ley bells."

"How did you do it? Oh, you naughty--"

"Me did it wiv Doe's little knife an' Doe's needle an' t'read; an' me hurted me's han's, me did."

The recollection gave him the excuse that he was longing for. The string to one of his odd sets of sleigh-bells broke as he started across the room, with outstretched arms, for Joe, and he left a trail of small, hard, green melons as he ran. "Doe!" he cried, as the old man lifted him tenderly to his breast, "me hurted me han's!" The howl of anguish with which he repeated the statement was partially smothered by reason of the sufferer's face being buried in Joe's neck.

"Jeppie say me is notty, notty b'y!" he continued, sobbing.

"Miss Jessie," the old man said, with dignity, looking disapprovingly at his young mistress over the boy's shaking shoulders, "yo' means well, honey; I ain' a doubtin' ob dat, but yo' done got er heap ter learn 'bout managin' chillen. Yo's done hurted pore little Ralph's feelin's mighty bad!"

"His feelings ought to be hurt!" Jessie persisted, indignantly. "A boy who is old enough to do such a piece of mischief as that is old enough to know better. And, Joe, it isn't right for you to encourage him in it."

"Honey, hit ain' likely, now, is. .h.i.t, dat any one has dish yer pore little feller's good more at heart dan I has, now is. .h.i.t?"

"No, Joe, it isn't."

"Berry well, den; now yo' listen at me. Ef I had a t'ought ob hit w'en I was a plantin' dem dere little yeller seeds I'd put out a patch on purpose for dis chile ter 'a' had fur a marble quarry, or fur sleigh-bells, or w'atebber he tuck a notion fur. But I didn't t'ink of hit, an' de chile did. Dat's all!"

It was utterly useless to argue against such self-abnegation as this, but Jessie could not forbear saying: "Think of the trouble you have taken with that melon patch. You've scoured the whole valley, high and low, for tin cans to cover the vines when a frost was threatened, and you've spent days in hoeing and weeding them."

"And dere ain' a purtier patch ob melons, er a more promisin' one, in de whole State, ef I does say hit!" Joe declared with pride.

"Don't be too sure of that, Joe. You haven't seen it since Ralph has been over it."

Joe shifted the child's position, so that the tear-stained little white face rested against his own, to which it formed a wonderful and beautiful contrast. "W'at melons dese yer little han's been a-pullin'

up ain' no loss t' n.o.body," he said; "an' I wants de chile t' 'joy hisself."

A subsequent examination of the melon patch established the truth of Joe's words. At the moment, however, the idea that Ralph gathered was that he had done a rather commendable thing than otherwise. "Shall me pull up 'e rest of 'em?" he asked hopefully, snuggling closer to the black face. Joe stole a sheepish look at Jessie, whose eyes were dancing with amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Not jess yit, wouldn't go fur t' pull 'em, honey, chile. Wait twell dey's growed 'bout as big as er coffee-cup, an' den jess bring yo'

little toofies tergedder on de inside o' one of 'em. Yo's et oranges, an' yo's squalled hard w'en dey was gone, 'cause dere wan't no mo' of 'em. But yo' won't look at a orange when yo' kin git a cantaloupe."

"Den me lets 'em drow," Ralph declared magnanimously, and it is but fair to the child to say that he kept his word.

"Come and gather up all your sleigh-bells, then, Ralph," Jessie admonished him.

Climbing down from Joe's lap he set about the clearance, awkwardly enough. The abbreviated skirt of his little dress was about half filled--he had made a kind of bag of it by gathering the folds tightly in one hand while he picked up melons with the other--when there came a knock at the door. Dropping the spoil that he had already secured, Ralph ran across the room to admit the caller, the melons rolling in every direction. Joe glanced at them apprehensively, and then gave his undivided attention to the harness mending.

The visitor who entered the room on Ralph's hospitable invitation was our near neighbor, Caleb Wilson. Mr. Wilson glanced at the array of hard little spheres on the floor and laughed.

"I'll bet a cent you've been up to mischief, youngster," he said, nodding to me as I handed him a chair.

He looked smilingly at Ralph, who retreated to Joe's side, and made no answer.

"Ralph, do you hear Mr. Wilson?" Jessie sternly inquired.

"'Ess; me hears him."

"Why don't you answer him, then?"

"'Tause he didn't ask me nuffin'."

Joe's sombre face lighted up; his white ivories gleamed out suddenly like a flash of sunlight through a storm cloud. To Joe's mind few people had a right to question the doings of a Gordon, of any age or degree, and Mr. Wilson was not one of the favored few. Our genial neighbor laughed.