After that dance came an intermission during which the ladies served sandwiches, cake, and pie. Henry Thurman made an announcement: “Folks, our friend from Globe only fetched eight freezers of ice-cream an’ it didn’t last.”

  “An’ say, Henry, this yere’s why,” bawled Tim Matthews. “W-Wess Thurman eat sixteen plates.”

  “Ho! Ho!” replied Wess. “I ain’t the only long-bellied galoot who’s full of ice-cream.”

  “Wal, thar’s others full of somethin’ stronger,” called out Enoch.

  But for the most part the talk was confined to those within easy speaking range. Now and then some one burst out boisterously, which broke rather coarsely upon the low hum of conversation. Every seat round the room was occupied, and many were standing. It was possible now for Mary to look about and see whom she recognized. She was really surprised at the pleasure of the moment. But for the undercurrent of suppressed feeling that had communicated itself to her, this dance would have been singularly happy. Still, she was happy anyhow, she argued with herself. But there was a bitter drop in her cup.

  Everybody seemed to act and talk with perfect naturalness, so that Mary could not help doubting fights were imminent. Cal sat with his Uncle Gard and appeared to be ignoring the feminine contingent. Hatfield had a window seat where he reclined between very attentive young ladies, strangers to Mary. Georgiana sat under the lamplight, which fact Mary believed was no accident, and she was not lacking attendants. Tuck Merry appeared to be most happily engaged, with no rivals near the lady he favored. If he had been in fights, he assuredly did not show it. Tim Matthews had a very red face and a very loose tongue. Apparently, however, he was still good-natured. He was with some boys near the door, all standing, and when he started to leave them, some one dragged him back. Enoch said there was a bottle in that crowd and if Tim touched it a few more times he would be ready to be thrown out. Mary had no difficulty discerning that most of these kindly boys were hanging on to Tim to keep him out of mischief. Not improbably Tim was the only person at the dance who had not remarked Hatfield’s attention to Georgiana.

  It was altogether a homely scene of backwoods life, yet it appealed strongly to Mary. Simplicity and virility had faded out of many walks of American life. But they abided here. Almost every one of these boys had seen service during the war, and some of them had been in France. What a record Boyd Thurman had brought back! Still, no one would have guessed it. Even the stress of a great war could not change these Arizonians. Their lives had been too free, too rough, too hard for war training to make any material change in them.

  Mary remembered well what Serge Thurman had said in reply to her query as to what he had gotten out of the war: “Wal, I reckon all I got was the flu an’ a knock on the haid.”

  Henry Thurman brought the intermission to an end with a twang of his fiddle.

  “Rustle yore pardners now,” he called. “I’m a fiddlin’ fool an’ I’m lookin’ to see some of these heah long-legged riders danced down.”

  A shout greeted Henry’s speech. Evidently it was a challenge put forward by the girls and accepted by the boys. The music started and the dancers took to the floor with a rush. Mary had that dance with Enoch, and the next she promised to Tuck Merry.

  He was so tall and so loosely-jointed, and he danced so atrociously out of time, that Mary found it strenuous work to last until the end of the number. Tuck was having a tremendously good time, and was absolutely oblivious to his demerits as a dancing partner. Mary enjoyed his pleasure, at any rate; and when the music ended and Tuck had found her a chair, she took advantage of the opportunity to question him.

  “Enoch said you’d been fighting. I hope it isn’t true. Is it?”

  “Now, Miss Mary, I wouldn’t call it that. I only skinned my knuckles,” he replied, with a grin, extending his huge hand for her to examine. Indeed, his knuckles were raw.

  “Then it’s true.... Tuck, I guess I’d better not tell Enoch,” said Mary, concernedly.

  “Enoch’s a fine old scout. He likes me and I like him. But he’s worried because all this talk makes him feel he’s got to lick me.”

  “Tuck, you don’t mean Enoch will deliberately pick a fight with you — just because he’s heard you’ve — you’ve punched fellows?” queried Mary, incredulously.

  “That’s about the size of it, Miss Mary,” laughed Tuck. “These Tonto fellows are the queerest ginks. But the finest, squarest, whitest boys I ever met. No wonder they made soldiers. Why, Miss Mary, a million American boys like them would make some army, believe me.”

  “I think so, too. But, Tuck, this fighting for — for mere — I don’t know what — why, it’s perfectly outrageous!” protested Mary.

  “Now see here, teacher,” replied Tuck, earnestly. “You’ve got it wrong. This fighting is the finest thing in the world.”

  “Oh, listen to you! Tuck, won’t you please avoid Enoch? He’s so big and strong. He might hurt you.”

  Tuck gave her the queerest, most kindly, and most humorous look imaginable. Mary conceived an idea that he was actually smothering a laugh.

  “That’s a good one to tell Cal,” he rejoined, with a broad smile. “Miss Mary, I promise to keep out of Enoch’s way all I can. Because I know you would feel dreadful if he beat me up. But I won’t run from him — and if I should happen somehow to disfigure his handsome face a little, you mustn’t blame me.”

  “Tuck, I’ll say the same about you that Enoch said about Cal.”

  “And what’s that?” queried Tuck, genially.

  “I don’t just exactly trust you — somehow. Maybe I’ll ‘get you,’ as Georgie calls it, if you’ll confess how you skinned your knuckles.”

  “Right-o. It was this way. No sooner had I gamboled on to this rural scene when I got tagged by three admirers of my girl. — The first one said, ‘I’m gonna lick you.’ . . . The second one said, ‘Mister Merry, you jest have to lick me, too.’ . . . And the third one said, ‘I reckon I’m not seein’ straight. So come on.’”

  “Well!” ejaculated Mary. “That’s not telling what happened.”

  “Teacher, I leave that to your imagination. If you go a little strong, you may hit it. And I’m telling you that the three cavaliers who disputed my right to dance are still out there in the woods.... Excuse me now, please. Old Henry had started another one of those twenty-round bouts they call tag.”

  Enoch came striding up to Mary. “Wal, I’ve been lookin’ everywhere for you. Reckon it’s my dance.”

  “This is that tag affair. I’ll be torn to pieces. Couldn’t you hang on to me, Enoch, instead of parceling me off to every Tom, Dick, and Harry here?”

  “Reckon I can stave off some of the boys.”

  But Enoch reckoned without due consideration for the accelerating warmth and spirit of the dance. Mary was more than ever a mark of approval. She was taken away from him at once and every time that he succeeded in getting her back, he did not have time to make one step before he got tagged again. Finally he gave up in disgust. Mary had a hectic time of it during this dance. It was a romp to music, and these riders, manifestly put on their mettle by the challenge of the girls to dance them down, were gay, persistent, and absolutely tireless. Mary danced until her head grew dizzy and her feet dead. Yet the fun of it was contagious.

  “Oh — it’s good — I don’t have — to walk to school — tomorrow,” she said, breathlessly, to her last partner, when the music finally stopped.

  “Sure you’ll be right heah,” he replied. “This dance won’t break up till breakfast. Your scholars are all present right now an’ most of them asleep.”

  From that hour Mary became a spectator. The dance went on and grew in every sense from the fiddling of old Henry to the action and endurance of the participants. Gradually, however, the married couples withdrew, leaving the floor to the young folk. All during the evening Mary had heard the occasional monotonous sing-song voice of the old fiddler as he called out something she could not distinguish. But now she had opportunity to listen, and she grew much interested and amused.

  “Cinch ’em tight

  An’ swing all night —

  Tee dell de tee dell de.”

  Every few moments Henry would break out with one of his improvisations. Manifestly they were eagerly awaited and happily received.

  “Serge’s mad an’ I can see

  Trouble ahead ‘twixt him an’ Lee.”

  This brought forth shouts of approval and inspired Henry to greater heights.

  “Edd’s shore a-walkin’ on air

  An’ all the while trompin’ on Clair.”

  Edd Thurman was the giant of the assembly and danced like a lumbering rhinoceros. A huge laugh went up at his expense. Henry was quiet for a long time, his grizzled head bent over his fiddle, and he had a manner of profound meditation.

  “Them riders air weakenin’, girls, as I can see

  Their feet air draggin’, ‘twixt you an’ me.”

  Henry must have imagined the content of this last rhyme. There was no justification for it that Mary could see. As the hours wore toward dawn, these lengthy riders appeared to grow fresher. If any lagging showed at all, it was on the part of the girls.

  “Mere an’ Merth are pretty little twins.

  Go to it boys an’ see who wins.”

  That seemed to exhaust the old fiddler for a long spell. When at length he raised his head to call out again, it was in stronger voice:

  “I’m the fiddlenest fool

  Full of White Mule.”

  Then after a full pause, as if for effect, he roared out:

  “Listen, boys, an’ heah this verse.

  Some of you go out an’ fetch a hearse.

  Tuck Merry’s slammed three of our best;

  It’ll never do till he meets the rest.”

  At this hour, which was about three o’clock in the morning, the enjoyment and excitement of the dance appeared to be at its height. The dancing had become almost continuous. Henry Thurman gathered strength and enthusiasm as the hours wore away. The boys took turns beating with the little sticks upon the strings of his fiddle. Manifestly this beating was an important adjunct to the music. The laughter and gayety, however, diminished in proportion to the increased fervor of the dancers. It grew to be a contest. The riders who had just finished the fall round-up, the hardest week of the year, refused to be danced down by the ambitious girls. So it looked as if there would be a deadlock, with physical exhaustion for both sides as the outcome.

  Mary, happening to remember the untoward fears of the early evening, remarked to Enoch that apparently she had exaggerated the possibilities of trouble.

  “Wal, it’s only the shank of the evenin’ yet,” he replied, enigmatically.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Shore I cain’t say. But I’ve a hunch somethin’ is goin’ to come off. The longer it waits the worse it’ll be.... An’ now that you make me thoughtful, I want to tell you that none of us older folks like your sister’s dancin’.”

  “Oh!” cried Mary, in dismay. “I was — worried. But Georgiana has been dancing very — very decorously for her.”

  “Reckon she has up to this heah dance. Take a look at her.”

  Mary was not long in picking out her sister’s lithe, supple, wiggling form. Her partner was Dick Thurman, the youngest of the family, and he was one, Mary remembered, that Georgiana had coached in the new Eastern dances. How sadly out of place was the jazz dancing here in this backwoods school-house! Mary was fascinated as well as repelled. Georgiana was indeed a striking little figure. She bent, she swayed, she gyrated, and seemed to inspire her partner to be oblivious of all save her.

  “Wal, that wouldn’t be so damn bad if Georgie was dressed different,” muttered Enoch, as if correcting his own judgment.

  Mary endeavored to catch Georgiana’s eye. This appeared to be impossible. Georgiana apparently had no eyes for anybody except her partner. Yet of course she must have been aware of the sensation she was creating.

  “Wal, I’ll be dog-goned!” burst out Enoch. “She’s got some of the kids doin’ it. Mary, it’s all plain as print. Georgie has taught that dance to some of our crazy youngsters, an’ now they’re aboot to spring it on us. The nervy little devil!”

  When Mary verified the truth of Enoch’s observation her dismay increased. Three young couples had begun to dance in a way calculated to excite mirth and disgust. Their intentions were plain, but their execution was ridiculous. Georgiana’s dancing had grace, rhythm, and beauty despite the quality that was objectionable. Many couples left off dancing the better to watch this new and bewildering style. Gradually Georgiana and her pupils drew the attention of old and young alike. There was no mistaking the undisguised disapproval of the mothers and fathers present, nor any doubt about the young people being fascinated.

  That dance ended, to Mary’s infinite relief. Then she asked Enoch if it would not be wise for her to seek Georgiana, though not to compel attention, and advise against any further dancing of that kind.

  “Let her jump the corral bars!” ejaculated Enoch, with more force than elegance.

  His reply silenced Mary and made her more thoughtful than ever. It might be just as well to let the willful Georgiana have her own sweet way. Mary felt a growing anger toward her sister. More than that, she sensed something in Enoch’s ultimatum which was hard to define. Was it that Enoch knew his people and how they would react to this young firebrand from the East? Mary caught a glimpse of Cal’s face and that added to her pain. The boy showed the havoc that had been wrought in him.

  There was the usual short intermission, in the middle of which Bid Hatfield swaggered across the empty floor and went straight to Georgiana, manifestly to claim her for the next dance.

  “Wal, I reckon Bid ain’t to be blamed much, but it’s sort of hard luck for him,” spoke up Enoch.

  “Why — hard luck?” faltered Mary. When had she ever seen Enoch’s eyes flash like gray lightning or his lean jaw bulge and set hard as flint?

  “Mary, you know we Thurmans fight among ourselves — at a toss-up — just for the fun of it. But we’re shore slow to fight with outsiders. Hatfield has gotten away with a lot of stunts — slapped right in our faces. Reckon we all think Cal’s no better than anybody else, but it looks like Georgie has given him a dirty deal. So has Hatfield.... Wal, to come to the point. Georgie an’ Hatfield have got pretty thick an’ it’s offensive to us Thurmans. If they have the nerve to dance that — that nigger stuff together, it’ll break up — —”

  The loud discordant twang of old Henry’s fiddle interrupted the conclusion of Enoch’s statement. Mary did not need to hear it. She was distressed, yet somehow she was resentfully and thrillingly awaiting the issue. This time, for some strange reason, the couples were slow to get into the dance. Couple by couple they started out as if impelled to dance because the music had begun. But plain it was that they would rather have watched. This tardiness gave Georgiana and Hatfield an opportunity they were not slow to grasp. They started off in a close embrace and with swaying motion Mary knew had never before been seen on that floor. Critically she watched them. Either Hatfield had been more carefully instructed or had taken to this style of dancing more skillfully than the others who had essayed it. For he presented an admirable partner for Georgiana. They both did very well indeed what never should have been done at all. Hatfield was not cool, but he was defiant. No doubt, he realized infinitely more than Georgiana the sensation they were creating. As for Georgiana, her face was hot and her eyes were wicked. Youth, pride, vanity, and mistaken sense of conquest had brought her to a risk she did not realize.

  Mary looked up at Enoch and was relieved to find him smiling as he watched. He was as broad-minded and kindly as he was forceful. Then Mary glanced from Enoch to the older Thurmans near at hand. She could not discern any difference in their demeanor. But presently, the stalwart Gard Thurman, the uncle of Cal, got up and strode along between the dancers and the wall until he reached old Henry.

  Suddenly the fiddling stopped so shortly that everybody seemed startled into an expectant pause. Gard Thurman stood up on a box, high above the dancers. His square shoulders appeared aggressively wide. He had a strong dark visage, weather-beaten and rugged, with deep-set fiery eyes and grizzled locks.

  “Folks an’ friends,” he began in a sonorous drawl, “before we go any farther with this heah dance, I’ve got a word to say.... We’ve had good times heah in this old school-house, an’ many an’ many a dance. They’re shore been aboot all the fun us Tonto folks can look to.... Wal, I reckon these dances hevn’t been much to brag aboot, but they’ve always been decent an’ they’re always goin’ to be decent. An’ I’m statin’ flat thet no outsider can come in heah an’ make our dances indecent.... Thet’s all. I’m sayin’ this as a gentleman an’ allowin’ fer the foolishness of young folks. But there won’t no more be said.”

  A blank silence followed the conclusion of Gard Thurman’s speech. He stood there a moment, a powerful figure, menacing yet with all friendliness, his deep gaze fixed upon the guilty dancers. Then he stepped down and his brother Henry began to fiddle valiantly, as if to make up for lost time and an embarrassing moment. Again the dancers fell into their shuffling, rhythmic movements.

  But Georgiana and her partner did not dance again. Mary’s keen eye followed them out of the throng to the comparative seclusion of a far corner, where they evidently talked with their backs to the dancers. Soon Georgiana wheeled about and came hurriedly down the room, to the corner where the coats and wraps had been left. Hatfield followed her. Mary saw him spread wide his hands as if expostulating or appealing. Georgiana apparently paid no attention to him. She was in a hurry.