Santa Fe's Partner Part 4

"Oh, what I've done ain't nothing," Hart said, pulling himself together while she was kissing him. "Land's cheap, cheap as it can be, out here; and I give the Company such a lot of freight they're more'n willing to oblige me; and as to the melodeon--"

Hart sort of gagged when he got to the melodeon, and Santa Fe Charley--who'd come up while they all was talking away together--reached across the table and played his hand. "As to the melodeon, Mr.

Hart," Santa Fe put in, "you said that being in business you could get it at a discount off. But that does not appreciably lessen your generosity, Mr. Hart; and your aunt"--Santa Fe took off his hat and bowed handsome--"is justified in taking pride in your good deeds. I am glad to tell her that in her nephew our struggling church has its stanchest pillar and its strongest stay."

"Yes, that's the way it is about the melodeon, Aunt Maria," Hart said, kind of weak and mournful. "Being in business, I get melodeons at such a discount off that giving 'em away ain't nothing to me at all. And now I guess we'd better be getting along home. It's a mighty mean home to take you to, Aunt Maria; but there's one comfort--as you'll find out when I get the chance to talk to you--you won't have to stay in it long."

There was a lot of the boys standing round on the deepo platform watching the show, and they all took their hats off respectful--following the lead Santa Fe give 'em--as Hart started away up the track, to where his store was, with his aunt on his arm. The town looked like some place East keeping Sunday: the Committee having talked strong as to what they'd do if things wasn't quiet, and having rounded up--and coralled in a back room Denver Jones lent the use of--the few who'd got drunk as usual because they had to, and so had to be took care of that way. It was a June evening, and the sun about setting; and somehow it all was so sort of peaceful and uncommon--with everybody in sight sober, and no fighting anywhere, and that little old lady going along, believing Palomitas was like that always, instead of the h.e.l.l on earth it was--some of us more'n half believed we'd gone to sleep and got stuck in a dream.

Things was made dreamier by the looks and doings of the Sage-Brush Hen. She was the only lady of the town, the Hen was, who took part in the ceremonies--and likely it was just about as well, for the sake of keeping clear of surprises, the rest of 'em laid low. As Hart and his aunt went off together up the track, the Hen showed up coming along down it; and she was dressed that pretty and quiet--in the plainest sort of a white frock, and wearing a white sun-bonnet--and was looking so demure, like she could when she'd a mind to, n.o.body knowed at first who she was.

"Being the minister's wife, I've been taking the liberty, Mr. Hart,"

she said, smiling pleasant, when the three of 'em come together on the track, "of looking around a little up at your place to see that everything has been fixed for your company the way it should be." (She hadn't been nowheres near Hart's place, it turned out--but Gospel truth wasn't just what there was most of that day in Palomitas.) She went right on down the track without stopping, pa.s.sing on Hart's side, and saying to him: "My husband expects you as usual at the Friendly Aid meeting to-morrow evening, Mr. Hart. We never seem half to get along, you know, when you're not there."

Hart's aunt give a little jump, and said: "Why, William, that must be Mrs. Charles, the minister's wife. What a pleasant-spoken lady she is!

We met her husband just as we were driving into town."

Hart said he come pretty near saying back to her, "The h.e.l.l you did!"--Hart talked that careless way, sometimes--but he said he pulled up before it got out, and all he did say was, "Oh!"

"She must be at the head of the Dorcas Society that Mr. Hill was telling me about," Hart's aunt went on; "and like enough she manages the kindergarten, too. I suppose, William, it's not surprising you haven't said anything in your letters about the Dorcas Society--for all you were so liberal in helping it--but I do think you might have told me about the kindergarten, knowing what a hobby of mine kindergartens are. I want to go and see it to-morrow morning, the first thing."

"It's--it's not in running order just now," Hart said. "Most of the children was took sick with the influenza last week, and there's whooping-cough and measles about, and so the school committee closed it down. And they had to stop, anyway, because they're going to put a new roof on. I guess it won't blow in again for about a month--or maybe more. In fact, I don't know--you see, it wasn't managed well, and got real down unpopular--if it'll blow in again at all. I'm sorry you won't be able to get to it, Aunt Maria. Maybe it'll be running if you happen to come out again next year."

"Why, how queer that is, William!" Hart's aunt said. "Mr. Hill told me it was the best kindergarten in New Mexico. But of course you know.

Anyhow, I can see the schoolroom and the school fixtures, and Mrs.

Charles can tell me about it when I go to the Dorcas Society--and that'll do most as well. Of course I must get to the Dorcas Society.

Mrs. Charles will take me, I'm sure. It meets, Mr. Hill says, every Thursday afternoon."

"Did he say where it was meeting now?" Hart asked. He was getting about desperate, he told Cherry afterwards; and what he wanted most was a chance to mash Hill's fool head for putting him in such a lot of holes.

"Of course he did, William," said Hart's aunt; "and I'm surprised you have to ask--seeing what an interest you take in the Society, and how you've helped it along. It was just lovely of you to give them all those goods out of your store to make up into clothes."

"That--that wasn't anything to do," Hart said. "What's in the store comes with a big discount--same as melodeons. Sometimes I feel as if I was saving money giving things away."

"You can talk about your generosity just as you please, William," she went on. "_I_ think it's n.o.ble of you. And Mr. Hill said that Mrs.

Major Rogers--who keeps the Forest Queen Hotel, he said, and lets the Society have a room to meet in for nothing--said it was n.o.ble of you, too. I want to get to know Mrs. Major Rogers right off. She must be a very fine woman. She's an officer's widow, Mr. Hill says, and a real lady, for all she makes her living keeping a hotel out here on the frontier. If she's a bit like that sweet-looking Mrs. Charles I know we'll get along. I'm surprised, William, you've never told me what pleasant ladies live here. It must make all the difference in the world. Don't you think it would do for me not to be formal, but just to go to Mrs. Major Rogers' hotel to-morrow and call?"

"I guess--well, I guess you hadn't better go right off the first thing in the morning, Aunt Maria," Hart said. Thinking of his aunt going calling at the Forest Queen and running up against Tenderfoot Sal, he said, gave him the regular cold shakes. "And come to think of it," he said, "it's no use your going to-morrow at all. Mrs.--Mrs. Major Rogers, as I happen to know, went up to Denver yesterday; and she won't be back, she told me, before some time on in the end of next week--likely as not, she said, she wouldn't come then."

By that time they'd got along to Hart's store, and Hart said: "Here's where I live, Aunt Maria. You see what sort of a place it is. But I've done my best to fix things for you as well as I know how. Come right along in--and when we've had supper we've got to have a talk."

Along about ten o'clock that night Hart come down to the Forest Queen looking pale and haggard, and he was that broke up he had to get three drinks in him before he could say a word. Everybody was so interested, wanting to hear what he had to tell 'em, he didn't need to ask to have the game stopped--it just stopped of its own accord.

When he'd had his third drink, and was beginning to feel better, he said he couldn't thank everybody enough for the way they'd behaved; and that his aunt had gone to bed tired out; and he'd been talking with her steady for two hours getting things settled; and she'd ended by agreeing she'd start back East with him the next night--he having made out he'd smash in his business if he waited a minute longer--and they was going by the Denver train. And he'd got her fixed he said, so she'd keep quiet through the morning--as she was going right at mending his stockings and things the first thing when she got up; and after that she was full of getting to work with canned peaches and making him a pie.

"But what's going to happen in the afternoon," he said, "the Lord only knows! That blasted fool of a Ben Hill"--Hart spoke just that bitter way about it--"hasn't had no more sense 'n to go and tell her this town's full of kindergartens, and she's so worked up there's no holding her, as kindergartens happens to be the fullest hand she holds. I've allowed we have one--things being as they was, I had to--but I've told her it's out of order, and the children laid up with whooping-cough, and the teacher sick a-bed, and the outfit damaged by a fire we had, and--and the Lord knows what I haven't told her about the d.a.m.n thing." (Hart was that nervous he couldn't help speaking that way.) "But all I've said hasn't made no difference. She's just dead set on getting to what's left of that kindergarten, and I can't budge her. See it she will, she says; and I guess the upshot of Hill's chuckle-headed talk'll be to waste all the trouble we've took by landing us in the biggest give-away that ever was!" And Hart called for another drink, and had to set down to take it--looking pale.

All the boys felt terrible bad about the hole Hart was in; and they felt worse because none of 'em hadn't no notion what a kindergarten did--when it did anything--and that made 'em more ashamed Palomitas hadn't one to show. Only Becker--Becker'd happened to come over from Santa Cruz that night--sized it up right; and Becker shook his head sort of dismal and said there wasn't no use even thinking about it--and that looked like a settler, because Becker seemed to know.

n.o.body didn't say nothing for a minute or two; and then Ike Williams spoke up--he was the boss carpenter on the freight-house job, Ike was--and said if what was wanted could be made out of boards, and made in a hurry, he'd lay off the freight-house gang the next morning and engage to have one ready by noon.

Santa Fe Charley'd been sitting still thinking, not saying a word.

He let out a big cuss--and Charley wasn't given to cussing--when Ike made his offer; and then he banged his hand down on the table so hard he set the chips to flying, and he said: "Mr. Hart, don't you worry--we're going to put this job through!"

Everybody jumped up at that--some of 'em scrambling for the dropped chips--asking Santa Fe what he meant to do. But Charley wouldn't answer 'em. "Just you trust to Ike and me, Bill," he said. "We'll fix your kindergarten all right--only you keep on telling your aunt it ain't a good one, and how most of it got burned up in the fire. It's luck you let on to her there'd been a fire--that makes it as easy as rolling off a log. All you've got to do is to bring her down here at four o'clock to-morrow afternoon--you'd better till then keep her in the house, mending you up and making you all the pies she has a mind to--and when she gets here the kindergarten'll be here, too!"

"Bring her here--to the Forest Queen?" Hart said, speaking doubtful.

"Bring her here--right here to the Forest Queen," Santa Fe said back to him. "You know pretty well I do things when I say I'll do 'em--and this thing'll be done! Come to think of it," he said, "maybe it'll be better if I go to your place and fetch her along myself. It'll help if I do a little talking to her on the way down. Yes, we'll fix it that way. You and she be ready at four o'clock, and I'll come for you.

That'll give her an hour here, and an hour to go home and eat her supper--and that'll get us to train-time, and then the circus'll close down. Now you go home and go to bed, Bill. You're all beat out. Just you leave things to Ike and me and go right home."

Charley wouldn't say another word--so Hart had one more drink, for luck, and then he went home. He looked real relieved.

When Santa Fe went to Hart's place, next afternoon, he had on his best black clothes, with a clean s.h.i.+rt and a fresh white tie; and he was that serious-looking you'd have sized him up for a sure-enough fire-escape anywhere on sight. Hart hadn't had no trouble, it turned out, keeping his aunt to home--she'd been working double tides ever since she got up, he said, making him things to eat and fussing over his clothes. They was all ready when Santa Fe come along, and the three of 'em stepped off down the track together--Hart having his aunt on his arm, and Santa Fe walking on ahead over the ties. Most of the boys was standing about watching the procession; but the girls--the Hen, likely, having told 'em to--was keeping on keeping quiet, and got what they could of it peeping through c.h.i.n.ks in the windows and doors.

"Why, where _are_ all the ladies, Mr. Charles?" Hart's aunt asked.

"Except that sweet young wife of yours, it's just the mortal truth I haven't seen a single lady since I came into this town!"

"They usually keep in-doors at this time of day, madam," Charley said.

"They're attending to their domestic duties--and--and most of them, about now, are wont to be enjoying the tenderest happiness of motherhood in nursing their little babes."

"It's very creditable they're such good housewives, I'm sure," said Hart's aunt; "only I do wish I could have met some of 'em and had a good dish of talk. But we'll be finding your wife at the kindergarten, I s'pose, and I'll have the pleasure of a talk with her. I've been looking forward all day to meeting her, Mr. Charles. She has one of the very sweetest faces I ever saw."

"I deeply regret to tell you, madam," said Santa Fe, "that my wife was called away suddenly last evening by a telegram. She had no choice in the matter. Her call was to minister to a sick relative in Denver, and of course she left immediately on the night train. Her disappointment at not meeting you was great. She had set her heart on showing you over our poor, half-ruined kindergarten--the fire did fearful damage--but her duty was too manifest to be ignored, and she had to leave that pleasant task to me."

"Now that is just too bad!" said Hart's aunt. "At least, Mr. Charles, I don't mean that exactly. It's very kind of you to take her place, and I'm delighted to have you. But I did so like your wife's looks, and I've been hoping she and I really'd have a chance to get to be friends."

That brought 'em to the Forest Queen, and Charley was more'n glad he was let out from making more excuses why his wife had shook her kindergarten job so sudden. "Here we are," he said. "But I must warn you again, madam, that our little kindergarten is only the ghost of what it was before the fire. We are hoping to get a new outfit shortly. On the very morning after the disaster a subscription was started--your nephew, as always, leading in the good work--and that afternoon we telegraphed East our order for fresh supplies. By the time that the epidemic of whooping-cough has abated--I am glad to say that all the children are doing well--we trust that our flock of little ones again can troop gladly to receive the elementary instruction that they delight in, and that my wife delights to impart."

"Why," said Hart's aunt, "the kindergarten's in Mrs. Major Rogers'

hotel--the Forest Queen!"

"After the fire, Mrs. Major Rogers most kindly gave us the free use of one of her largest rooms," Santa Fe said; "and we are installed here until our own building can be repaired. I have spared you the sight, madam, of that melancholy ruin. I confess that when I look at it the tears come into my eyes."

"I don't wonder, I'm sure," said Hart's aunt. "I think I'd cry over it myself. But what a real down good woman Mrs. Major Rogers must be! Mr.

Hill told me she gives the Dorcas Society the use of a room, too."

"She is a n.o.ble, high-toned lady, madam," Santa Fe said. "Since her cruel bereavement she has devoted to good works all the time that she can spare from the arduous duties by which she wins her livelihood.

Words fail me to say enough in her praise! Come right in, madam--but be prepared for a sad surprise!"

Hart said he didn't know how much surprised his aunt was--but he said when he got inside the Forest Queen, into the bar-room where Charley's faro layout usually was, he was so surprised himself he felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule!

There was the little tables for drinks, right enough; and out of the way in a corner with a cloth over it, same as usual, was the wheel.

(It was used so little, the wheel was--n.o.body but Mexicans, now and then, caring for it--Santa Fe owned up afterwards he'd forgot it clean!) That much of the place was just as it always was; and the big table, taking up half the room, looked so natural--with the chairs up to it, and layouts of chips at all the places--that Hart was beginning to think Santa Fe was setting up a rig on him: 'till he seen what a lot of queer things besides chips there was on the table--and knowed they wasn't no game layout, and so sized 'em up to be what Charley'd scrambled together when he set out to play his kindergarten hand. And when he noticed the bar was curtained off by sheets he said he stopped worrying--feeling dead certain Charley'd dealt himself all the aces he needed to take him through.

"You don't need to be told, madam, being such an authority on kindergartens," said Santa Fe, "how inadequate is our little outfit for educational purposes. But you must remember that the fire destroyed almost everything, and that we have merely improvised what will serve our purposes until the new supply arrives. We succeeded in saving from the conflagration our large table, and our chairs, and most of the small tables--used by individual children having backward intellects and needing especial care. But nearly all of the other appliances of the school were lost to us, and damage was done to much of what we saved. Here, you see, is a little table with only three legs left, the fourth having been burned." And, sure enough, Hart said, Santa Fe turned up one of the little tables for drinks and one of its legs _was_ burnt off! "All of our slates," he went ahead, "similarly were destroyed--and how much depends on slates in a kindergarten you know, madam, better than I do. Here is all that is left of one of them"--and he showed Hart's aunt a bit of burnt wood that looked like it had been part of a slate-frame afore it got afire.

"Dear me! Dear me!" said Hart's aunt. "It's just pitiful, Mr. Charles!

I wonder how you can get along at all."