Lonesome Land Part 28

Presently something did turn up. She rushed breathlessly into Val's room and caught her by the arm.

"Now's your chancet, Val," she hissed in a loud whisper. "Man jest now rode into town; he's over in Pop's place--I seen him go in. He's good for the day, sure. I'll have Hank hitch right up, an' you can go down to the stable and start from there, so'st he won't see you. An' I'll keep an eye out, 'n'

if he leaves town I won't be fur behind, lemme tell you. He won't, though; there ain't one chancet in a hundred he'll leave that saloon till he's full--an' if he tries t' go then, I'll have somebody lock 'im up in the ice house till you git back. You want to hurry up that packin', an' git in here quick's you can."

She went to the stable with Val, her ap.r.o.n thrown over her head for want of a hat. "When Val was settling herself in the seat, Arline caught at the wheel.

"Say! How'n time you goin' to git your trunks loaded into the wagon?" she cried. "You can't do it alone." Val pa.r.s.ed her lips; she had not thought of that.

"But Polycarp will come, by the time I am ready," she decided. "You couldn't keep him away, Arline; he would be afraid he might miss something, because I suppose ours is the only ranch in the country where the wheels aren't turning smoothly. Polycarp and I can manage."

Hank, grinning under his ragged, brown mustache, handed her the lines.

"I've got my orders," he told her briefly. "I'll watch out the trail's kept clear."

"Oh, thank you. I've so many good friends," Val answered, giving him a smile to stir his sluggish blood. "Good-bye, Arline. Don't worry about me, there's a dear. I shall not be back before to-morrow night, probably."

Both Arline and Hank stood where they were and watched her out of sight before they turned back to the sordid tasks which made up their lives.

"She'll make it--she's the proper stuff," Hank remarked, and lighted his pipe. Arline, for a wonder, sighed and said nothing.

CHAPTER XXIII

CAUGHT!

After two nights and a day of torment unbearable, Kent bolted from his work, which would have taken him that day, as it had done the day before, in a direction opposite to that which his mind and his heart followed, and without apology or explanation to his foreman rode straight to Cold Spring Coulee. He had no very definite plan, except to see Val. He did not even know what he would say when he faced her.

Michael was steaming from nose to tail when he stopped at the yard gate, which shows how impatience had driven his master. Kent glanced quickly around the place as he walked up the narrow path to the house. Nothing was changed in the slightest particular, as far as he could see, and he realized then that he had been uneasy as well as anxious. Both doors were closed, so that he was obliged to knock before Val became visible. He had a fleeting impression of extreme caution in the way she opened the door and looked out, but he forgot it immediately in his joy at seeing her.

"Oh, it's you. Come in, and--you won't mind if I close the door? I'm afraid I'm the victim of nerves, to-day."

"Why?" Kent was instantly solicitous. "Has anything happened since I was here?"

Val shook her head, smiling faintly. "Nothing that need to worry _you_, pal. I don't want to talk about worries. I want to be cheered up; I haven't laughed, Kent, for so long I'm afraid my facial muscles are getting stiff.

Say something funny, can't you?"

Kent pushed his hat far back on his head and sat down upon a corner of the table. "Such is life in the far West--and the farther West you go, the livelier--" he began to declaim dutifully.

"The livelier it gets. Yes, I've heard that a million tunes, I believe. I can't laugh at that; I never did think it funny." She sighed, and twitched her shoulders impatiently because of it. "I see you brought back the gla.s.ses," she remarked inanely. "You certainly weren't in any great hurry, were you?"

"Oh, they had us riding over east of the home ranch, hazing in some outa the hills. I'm supposed to be over there right now--but I ain't. I expect I'll get the can, all right--"

"If you're going away, what do you care?" she taunted.

"H'm--sure, what do I care?" He eyed her from under his brows while he bent to light a match upon the sole of his boot. Val had long ago settled his compunctions about smoking in her presence. "You seem to be all tore up, here," he observed irrelevantly. "Cleaning house?"

"Yes--cleaning house." Val smiled ambiguously.

"Hubby in town?"

"Yes--he went in yesterday, and hasn't come back yet."

Kent smoked for a moment meditatively. "I found that calf, all right," he informed her at last. "It was too late to ride around this way and tell you that night. So you needn't worry any more about that."

"I'm not worrying about that." Val stooped and picked up a hairpin from the floor, and twirled it absently in her fingers. "I don't think it matters, any more. Yesterday afternoon Fred De Garmo and Polycarp Jenks came into the coulee with a bunch of cattle, and turned all the calves out of the river field with them; and, after a little, they drove the whole lot of them away somewhere--over that way." She waved a slim hand to the west.

"They let out the calves in the corral, too. I saw them from the window, but I didn't ask them any questions. I really didn't need to, did I?" She grazed him with a glance. "I thought perhaps you had failed to find that calf; I'm glad you did, though--so it wasn't that started them hunting around here--Polycarp and Fred I mean."

Kent looked at her queerly. Her voice was without any emotion whatever, as if the subject held no personal interest for her. He finished his cigarette and threw the stub out into the yard before either of them spoke another word. He closed the door again, stood there for a minute making up his mind, and went slowly over to where she was sitting listlessly in a chair, her hands folded loosely in her lap. He gripped with one hand the chairback and stared down at her high-piled, yellow hair.

"How long do you think I'm going to stand around and let you be dragged into trouble like this?" he began abruptly. "You know what I told you the other day--I could say the same thing over again, and a lot more; and I'd mean more than I could find words for. Maybe you can stand this sort of thing--I can't. I'm not going to try. If you're bound to stick to that--that gentleman, I'm going to get outa the country where I can't see you killed by inches. Every time I come, you're a little bit whiter, and a little bigger-eyed--I can't stand it, I tell you!

"You weren't made for a h.e.l.l like you're living. You were meant to be happy--and I was meant to make you happy. Every morning when I open my eyes--do you know what I think? I think it's another day we oughta be happy in, you and me." He took her suddenly by the shoulder and brought her up, facing him, where he could look into her eyes.

"We've only got just one life to live, Val!" he pleaded. "And we could be happy together--I'd stake my life on that. I can't go on forever just being friends, and eating my heart out for you, and seeing you abused--and what for? Just because a preacher mumbled some words over you two! Only for that, you wouldn't stay with him over-night, and you know it! Is _that_ what ought to tie two human beings together--without love, or even friendship? You hate him; you can't look me in the eyes and say you don't.

And he's tired of you. Some other woman would please him better. And I could make you happy!"

Val broke away from his grasp, and retreated until the table was between them. Her listlessness was a thing forgotten. She was panting with the quick beating of her heart.

"Kent--don't, pal! You mustn't say those things--it's wicked."

"It's true," he cried hotly. "Can you look at me and say it ain't the truth?"

"You've spoiled our friendship, Kent!" she accused, while she evaded his question. "It meant so much to me--just your dear, good friendship."

"My love could mean a whole lot more," he declared st.u.r.dily.

"But you mustn't say those things--you mustn't feel that way, Kent!"

"Oh!" He laughed grimly. "Mustn't I? How are you going to stop me?" He stared hard at her, his face growing slowly rigid. "There's just one way to stop me from saying such wicked things," he told her. "You can tell me you don't care anything about me, and never could, not even if that down-east conscience of yours didn't b.u.t.t into the game. You can tell me that, and swear it's the truth, and I'll leave the country. I'll go so far you'll newer see me again, so I'll never bother you any more. I can't promise I'll stop loving you--but for my own sake I'll sure try hard enough." He set his teeth hard together and stood quiet, watching her.

Val tied to answer him. Evidently she could not manage her voice, for he saw her begin softly beating her lips with her fist, fighting to get back her self-control. Once or twice he had seen her do that, when, womanlike, the tears would come in spite of her.

"I don't want you to go a-away," she articulated at last, with a hint of stubbornness.

"Well, what _do_ you want? I can't stay, unless--" He did not attempt to finish the sentence. He knew there was no need; she understood well enough the alternative.

For long minutes she did not speak, because she could not. Like many women, she fought desperately against the tears which seemed a badge of her femininity. She sat down in a chair, dropped her face upon her folded arms, and bit her lips until they were sore. Kent took a step toward her, reconsidered, and went over to the window, where he stood staring moodily out until she began speaking. Even then, he did not turn immediately toward her.

"You needn't go, Kent," she said with some semblance of calm. "Because I'm going. I didn't tell you--but I'm going home. I'm going to get free, by the same law that tied me to him. You are right--I have a 'down-east'

conscience. I think I was born with it. It demands that I get my freedom honestly; I can't steal it--pal. I couldn't be happy if I did that, no matter how hard I might try--or you."

He turned eagerly toward her then, but she stopped him with a gesture.

"No--stay where you are. I want to solve my problem and--and leave you out of it; you're a complication, pal--when you talk like--like you've just been talking. It makes my conscience wonder whether I'm honest with myself.

I've got to leave you out, don't you see? And so, leaving you out, I don't feel that any woman should be expected to go on like I'm doing. You don't know--I couldn't tell you just how--impossible--this marriage of mine has become. The day after--well, yesterday--no, the day before yesterday--he came home and found out--what I'd done. He--I couldn't stay here, after that, so--"

"What did he do?" Kent demanded sharply. "He didn't dare to lay his hands on you--did he? By--"