The Angel of the Gila.

by Cora Marsland.

CHAPTER I

THE MINING CAMP

It was an October day in Gila,[1] Arizona. The one street of the mining camp wound around the foothills, and led eastward to Line Canyon, which, at that point, divides Arizona from New Mexico. Four saloons, an opium den, a store of general merchandise,--owned and operated by the mining company,--a repair shop, one large, pretentious adobe house,--the headquarters of the company, where superintendent, a.s.sayers, and mining engineers boarded,--several small dwelling houses, and many miners' shacks, const.i.tuted the town.

[1] p.r.o.nounced he la.

A little further to the eastward, around a bend in the foothills, and near Line Canyon, lay Clayton Ranch,--the most historic, as well as the most picturesque spot in that region. Near the dwelling house, but closer to the river than the Clayton home, stood a little adobe schoolhouse.

The town, facing south, overlooked Gila River and its wooded banks.

Beyond the Gila, as in every direction, stretched foothills and mountains. Toward the south towered Mt. Graham, the highest peak of the Pinaleno range, blue in the distance, and crowned with snow.

Up a pathway of the foothills, west of the town, bounding forward as if such a climb were but joy to her, came a slight, girlish figure.

She paused now and then to turn her face westward, watching the changing colors of sunset.

At last she reached a bowlder, and, seating herself, leaned against it, removed her sombrero hat, pushed back the moist curls from her forehead, and turned again to the sunset. The sun, for one supreme moment, poised on a mountain peak, then slowly sank, flashing its message of splendor into the majestic dome of the sky, over snow-capped mountains, over gigantic cliffs of red sandstone, over stretches of yellow foothills, and then caught the white-robed figure, leaning against the bowlder, in its rosy glow. The girl lifted her fine, sensitive face. Again she pushed the curls from her forehead. As she lifted her arm, her sleeve slipped back, revealing an arm and hand of exquisite form, and patrician to the tips of the fingers.

She seemed absorbed in the scene before her, unconscious that she was the loveliest part of it. But if she was unconscious of the fact, a horseman who drew rein a short distance away, and who watched her intently a few moments, was not. At last the girl stirred, as though to continue on her way. Instantly the horseman gave his horse a sharp cut with his whip, and went cantering up the ascent before her.

The sudden sound of a horse's hoofs startled her, and she glanced up to see the horseman and his thoroughbred speeding toward the town.

She swung her sombrero hat over her shoulder, and gathered up her flowers; then, with a lingering glance to westward, turned and walked rapidly toward Gila.

By the time she had reached the one long street, many cowboys and miners had already congregated about the saloons. She dreaded to pa.s.s there at this hour, but this she must do in order to reach Clayton Ranch, nearly a mile beyond.

As she drew near one saloon, she heard uproarious laughter. The voices were loud and boisterous. It was impossible for her to escape hearing what was said. It was evident to her that she herself was at that moment the topic of conversation.

"She'll git all the Bible school she wants Sunday afternoon, or my name's not Pete Tompkins," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed a bar-tender as he stepped to the bar of a saloon.

"What're ye goin' ter do, Pete?" asked a young miner. "I'm in f'r y'r game, or my name ain't Bill Hines."

"I?" answered the individual designated as Pete Tompkins, "I mean ter give 'er a reception, Bill, a _reception_." Here he laughed boisterously. "I repeat it," he said. "I'll give 'er a reception, an'

conterive ter let 'er understan' that no sech infernal business as a Bible school 'll be tol'ated in these yere parts o' Arizony. Them as wants ter join me in smashin' this cussed Sunday business step ter the bar. I'll treat the hull blanked lot o' ye."

The girl pa.s.sing along the street shuddered. The brutal voice went on:

"Set up the gla.s.ses o' whiskey, Keith. Here, Jess an' Kate. We want yer ter have a hand in smashin' this devilish Bible school. Another gla.s.s fur Jess, Keith, an' one fur Kate."

The pedestrian quickened her pace, but still the voice followed her.

"Here's ter y'r healths, an' ter the smashin' o' the Bible school, an'

ter the reception we'll give the new schoolma'am."

The stranger heard the clink of gla.s.ses, mingled with the uproar of laughter. Then she caught the words:

"Ye don't jine us, Hastings. P'r'aps y're too 'ristercratic, or p'r'aps y're gone on the gal! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

The saloon rang with the laughter of the men and women.

The girl who had just pa.s.sed quickened her pace, her cheeks tingling with indignation. As she hastened on, the man addressed as Hastings replied haughtily:

"I am a _man_, and being a man I cannot see insult offered to any woman, especially when that woman is making an effort to do some good in this G.o.dless region."

"He's gone on 'er, sure, Bill. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Imagine me, Pete Tompkins, gone on the schoolma'am! Ha-ha-ha-ha!"

His companions joined in his laughter.

"What'ud she think o' my figger, Bill?" he asked, as he strutted across the saloon. "How 'ud I look by 'er side in Virginny reel, eh?

I'm afeared it 'ud be the devil an' angel in comp'ny. Ha-ha-ha!"

"Y're right thar," replied one of the men. "Ye certain are a devil, an' she do look like a angel."

"Say, fellers," said Bill Hines, "me an' Pete an' all o' ye ought ter git some slime from the river, an' throw on them white dresses o'

hern. I don't like n.o.body settin' theirselves up to be better'n we be, even in clo'es, do ye, Jess?"

Jess agreed with him.

"What's all this noise about?" interrupted a new comer.

"h.e.l.lo, Mark Clifton, is that you? Well, me an' Bill an' Jess an' the other kids is plannin' ter smash schoolma'am's Bible school, Sunday.

We're goin' ter give 'er a reception."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Clifton.

"Ye kin jine the party an' we'll show yer."

"Let me urge you to leave Miss Bright alone. She has not harmed you.

Leave the Bible school alone, too, and attend to your own business."

"Oh, he's a saint, ain't he! He is!" sneered Pete Tompkins. "What about this gal as he has with him here? More whiskey! Fill up the gla.s.ses, Keith. Come, Jess. Come, Kate Harraday." And the half-intoxicated man swung one woman around and tried to dance a jig, failing in which, he fell to the floor puffing and swearing.

Mark Clifton's face darkened. He grasped a chair and stepped forward, as if to strike the speaker. He hesitated. As he did so, a handsome cowboy entered, followed by a little Indian boy of perhaps six years of age.

"What's the row, Hastings?" asked the cowboy in a low voice.

"Pete Tompkins and Bill Hines and their ilk are planning to give Miss Bright, the new teacher, some trouble when she attempts to start a Bible school to-morrow afternoon. Clifton remonstrated, and they taunted him about Carla Earle. That enraged him."

"What do they plan ter do?"

"I fancy they'll do every blackguard thing they can think of. They are drunk now, but when they are sober they may reconsider. At any rate, the decent men of the camp ought to be on the spot to protect that girl, Harding."

"I'll be there fur one, Hastings. Have yer seen 'er?"