His sojourn with them strengthened his devotion to Esther Bright, and brought about several changes for the better in him.
When he was allowed to run and play with the children again, he returned to school and to Keith's saloon.
The men who had always called him the "little tough," now observed him with amazement. One observed:
"I'll be blowed ef the Angel o' the Gila can't do anythin' she wants ter. See that kid? He used ter cuss like a pirate. Do ye hear him cuss now? No, sir! For why? 'Cause he knows she don't like it. That's why. Ef she wuz ter be turned loose among the Apaches, she'd civilize 'em. An' they're the blankedest Indians there be. I don't know what it is about her. She sort o' makes a feller want ter be somebody. I reckon God Almighty knows more about 'er nor we do, 'n' she knows more about us 'n' we do ourselves. Leastways, she do about me."
Having delivered himself to this effect, he left the saloon, sober.
There is no doubt Esther Bright had sown good seed broadcast, and some had fallen on good ground. The awakening of the cowlasses had been a continual joy to her. She marveled that some one had not found them before. Each successive day the little school reached out further to enrich the life of the community.
One morning, while a class was in the midst of a recitation, there came a knock at the schoolhouse door.
"I'm Robert Duncan," said a Scotch miner, as Esther opened the door. He held by the hand a little boy of about three years.
"This is Bobbie," he continued. "I've brought me bairn tae school."
Could the mother spare such a baby? Ah, could she?