The Complete Short Stories. O. Hooper Henry

It was nice, too, to have as good a match as Mr. Johnson paying you attentions and to see the other girls fluttering the curtains at their windows to see you go by with him.

      Dry Valley bought a buggy with yellow wheels and a fine trotter in San Antonio. Every day he drove out with Panchita. He was never seen to speak to her when they were walking or driving. The consciousness of his clothes kept his mind busy; the knowledge that he could say nothing of interest kept him dumb; the feeling that Panchita was there kept him happy.

      He took her to parties and dances, and to church. He tried — oh, no man ever tried so hard to be young as Dry Valley did. He could not dance; but he invented a smile which he wore on these joyous occasions, a smile that, in him, was as great a concession to mirth and gaiety as turning handsprings would be in another. He began to seek the company of the young men in the town — even of the boys. They accepted him as a decided damper, for his attempts at sportiveness were so forced that they might as well have essayed their games in a cathedral. Neither he nor any other could estimate what progress he had made with Panchita.

      The end came suddenly in one day, as often disappears the false afterglow before a November sky and wind.

      Dry Valley was to call for the girl one afternoon at six for a walk. An afternoon walk in Santa Rosa was a feature of social life that called for the pink of one’s wardrobe. So Dry Valley began gorgeously to array himself; and so early that he finished early, and went over to the O’Brien cottage. As he neared the porch on the crooked walk from the gate he heard sounds of revelry within. He stopped and looked through the honeysuckle vines in the open door.

      Panchita was amusing her younger brothers and sisters. She wore a man’s clothes — no doubt those of the late Mr. O’Brien. On her head was the smallest brother’s straw hat decorated with an ink-striped paper band. On her hands were flapping yellow cloth gloves, roughly cut out and sewn for the masquerade. The same material covered her shoes, giving them the semblance of tan leather. High collar and flowing necktie were not omitted.

      Panchita was an actress. Dry Valley saw his affectedly youthful gait, his limp where the right shoe hurt him, his forced smile, his awkward simulation of a gallant air, all reproduced with startling fidelity. For the first time a mirror had been held up to him. The corroboration of one of the youngsters calling, “Mamma, come and see Pancha do like Mr. Johnson,” was not needed.

      As softly as the caricatured tans would permit, Dry Valley tiptoed back to the gate and home again.

      Twenty minutes after the time appointed for the walk Panchita tripped demurely out of her gate in a thin, trim white lawn and sailor hat. She strolled up the sidewalk and slowed her steps at Dry Valley’s gate, her manner expressing wonder at his unusual delinquency.

      Then out of his door and down the walk strode — not the polychromatic victim of a lost summertime, but the sheepman, rehabilitated. He wore his old grey woolen shirt, open at the throat, his brown duck trousers stuffed into his run-over boots, and his white felt sombrero on the back of his head. Twenty years or fifty he might look; Dry Valley cared not. His light blue eyes met Panchita’s dark ones with a cold flash in them. He came as far as the gate. He pointed with his long arm to her house.

      “Go home,” said Dry Valley. “Go home to your mother. I wonder lightnin’ don’t strike a fool like me. Go home and play in the sand. What business have you got cavortin’ around with grown men? I reckon I was locoed to be makin’ a he poll-parrot out of myself for a kid like you. Go home and don’t let me see you no more. Why I done it, will somebody tell me? Go home, and let me try and forget it.”

      Panchita obeyed and walked slowly toward her home, saying nothing. For some distance she kept her head turned and her large eyes fixed intrepidly upon Dry Valley’s. At her gate she stood for a moment looking back at him, then ran suddenly and swiftly into the house.

      Old Antonia was building a fire in the kitchen stove. Dry Valley stopped at the door and laughed harshly.

      “I’m a pretty looking old rhinoceros to be gettin’ stuck on a kid, ain’t I, ‘Tonia?” said he.

      “Not verree good thing,” agreed Antonia, sagely, “for too much old man to likee muchacha.”

      “You bet it ain’t,” said Dry Valley, grimly. “It’s dum foolishness; and, besides, it hurts.”

      He brought at one armful the regalia of his aberration — the blue tennis suit, shoes, hat, gloves and all, and threw them in a pile at Antonia’s feet.

      “Give them to your old man,” said he, “to hunt antelope in.”

      Just as the first star presided palely over the twilight Dry Valley got his biggest strawberry book and sat on the back steps to catch the last of the reading light. He thought he saw the figure of someone in his strawberry patch. He laid aside the book, got his whip and hurried forth to see.

      It was Panchita. She had slipped through the picket fence and was halfway across the patch. She stopped when she saw him and looked at him without wavering.

      A sudden rage — a humiliating flush of unreasoning wrath — came over Dry Valley. For this child he had made himself a motley to the view. He had tried to bribe Time to turn backward for himself; he had — been made a fool of. At last he had seen his folly. There was a gulf between him and youth over which he could not build a bridge even with yellow gloves to protect his hands. And the sight of his torment coming to pester him with her elfin pranks — coming to plunder his strawberry vines like a mischievous schoolboy — roused all his anger.

      “I told you to keep away from here,” said Dry Valley. “Go back to your home.”

      Panchita moved slowly toward him.

      Dry Valley cracked his whip.

      “Go back home,” said Dry Valley, savagely, “and play theatricals some more. You’d make a fine man. You’ve made a fine one of me.”

      She came a step nearer, silent, and with that strange, defiant, steady shine in her eyes that had always puzzled him. Now it stirred his wrath.

      His whiplash whistled through the air. He saw a red streak suddenly come out through her white dress above her knee where it had struck.

      Without flinching and with the same unchanging dark glow in her eyes, Panchita came steadily toward him through the strawberry vines. Dry Valley’s trembling hand released his whip handle. When within a yard of him Panchita stretched out her arms.

      “God, kid!” stammered Dry Valley, “do you mean — ?”

      But the seasons are versatile; and it may have been Springtime, after all, instead of Indian Summer, that struck Dry Valley Johnson.

Christmas By Injunction

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      Cherokee was the civic father of Yellowhammer. Yellowhammer was a new mining town constructed mainly of canvas and undressed pine. Cherokee was a prospector. One day while his burro was eating quartz and pine burrs Cherokee turned up with his pick a nugget, weighing thirty ounces. He staked his claim and then, being a man of breadth and hospitality, sent out invitations to his friends in three States to drop in and share his luck.

      Not one of the invited guests sent regrets. They rolled in from the Gila country, from Salt River, from the Pecos, from Albuquerque and Phoenix and Santa Fe, and from the camps intervening.

      When a thousand citizens had arrived and taken up claims they named the town Yellowhammer, appointed a vigilance committee, and presented Cherokee with a watch-chain made of nuggets.

      Three hours after the presentation ceremonies Cherokee’s claim played out. He had located a pocket instead of a vein. He abandoned it and staked others one by one. Luck had kissed her hand to him. Never afterward did he turn up enough dust in Yellowhammer to pay his bar bill. But his thousand invited guests were mostly prospering, and Cherokee