Books: Lonesome Land

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"'Course I c'n walk all righ'. Shertainly I can walk. Wha's makes you think
I can't walk? Want to inshult me? 'Sall my friends here--no secrets from my
friends. Wha's want tell me? Shay it here."

Kent was a big man; that is to say, he was tall, well-muscled and active.
But so was Manley. Kent tried the power of persuasion, leaving force as a
last, doubtful result. In fifteen minutes or thereabouts he had succeeded
in getting Manley outside the door, and there he balked.

"Wha's matter wish you?" he complained, pulling back. "C'm on back 'n' have
drink. Wha's wanna tell me?"

"You wait. I'll tell you all about it in a minute. I've got something to
show you, and I don't want the bunch to get next. Savvy?"

He had a sickening sense that the subterfuge would not have deceived a
five-year-old child, but it was accepted without question.

He led Manley stumbling up the street, evading a direct statement as to his
destination, pulled him off the board walk, and took him across a vacant
lot well sprinkled with old shoes and tin cans. Here Manley fell down, and
Kent's patience was well tested before he got him up and going again.

"Where y' goin'?" Manley inquired pettishly, as often as he could bring his
tongue to the labor of articulation.

"You wait and I'll show you," was Kent's unvaried reply.

At last he pushed open a door and led his victim into the darkness of a
small, windowless building. "It's in here--back against the wall, there,"
he said, pulling Manley after him. By feeling, and by a good sense of
location, he arrived at a rough bunk built against the farther wall, with a
blanket or two upon it.

"There you are," he announced grimly. "You'll have a sweet time getting
anything to drink here, old boy. When you're sober enough to face your wife
and have some show of squaring yourself with her, I'll come and let you
out." He had pushed Manley down upon the bunk, and had reached the door
before the other could get up and come at him. He pulled the door shut
with a slam, slipped a padlock into the staple, and snapped it just before
Manley lurched heavily against it. He was cursing as well as he could--was
Manley, and he began kicking like an unruly child shut into a closet.

"Aw, let up," Kent advised him, through a crack in the wall. "Want to know
where you are? Well, you're in Hawley's ice house; you know it's a fine
place for drunks to sober up in; it's awful popular for that purpose. Aw,
you can't do any business kicking--that's been tried lots of times. This
is sure well built, for an ice house. No, I can't let you out. Couldn't
possibly, you know. I haven't got the key--old lady Hawley has got it, and
she's gone to bed hours ago. You go to sleep and forget about it. I'll talk
to you in the morning. Good night, and pleasant dreams!"

The last thing Kent heard as he walked away was Manley's profane promise to
cut Kent's heart out very early the next day.

"The darned fool," Kent commented, as he stopped in the first patch of
lamplight to roll a cigarette. "He ain't got another friend in town that'd
go to the trouble I've gone to for him. He'll realize it, too, when all
that whisky quits stewing inside him."

CHAPTER XII

A LESSON IN FORGIVENESS

"Well, old-timer, how you coming? You sure do sleep sound--this is the
third time I've come to tell you breakfast is ready and then some. You'll
get the bottom of the coffeepot, for fair, if you don't hustle." Kent left
the door of the ice house wide open behind him, so that the warmth of
mid-morning swept in to do battle with the chill and damp of wet sawdust
and buried ice.

Manley rolled over so that he faced his visitor, and his reply was abusive
in the extreme. Kent waited, with an air of impersonal interest, until
he was done and had turned his face away as though the subject was quite
exhausted.

"Well, now you've got that load off your mind, come on over and get a cup
of coffee. But while you're thinking about whether you want anything but my
heart's blood, I'm going to speak right up and tell you a few things that
commonly ain't none of my business.

"Do you know your wife came within an ace of burning to death yesterday?"
Manley sat up with a jerk and glared at him. "Do you know you're burned
out, slick and clean--all except the shack? Hay, stables, corral, wagons,
chickens--" Kent spread his hands in a gesture including all minor details.
"I rode over there when I saw the fire coming, and it's lucky I did,
old-timer. I back-fired and saved the house--and your wife--from going up
in smoke. But everything else went. Let that sink into your system, will
you? And just see if you can draw a picture of what woulda happened if
nobody had showed up--if that fire had hit the coulee with nobody there but
your wife. Why, I run onto her half-way up the bluff, packing a wet sack,
to fight it at the fire guards I Now, Man, it ain't any credit to, _you_
that the worst didn't happen. I'd sure like to tell you what I think of a
fellow that will leave a woman out there, twenty miles from town and ten
from the nearest neighbor--and them not at home--to take a chance on a
thing like that; but I can't. I never learned words enough.

"There's another thing. Old lady Hawley took more interest in her than
you did; she drove out there to see how about it, as soon as the fire
had burned on past and left the trail safe. And it didn't look good to
her--that little woman stuck out there all by herself. She made her pack up
some clothes, and brought her to town with her. She didn't want to come;
she had an idea that she ought to stay with it till you showed up. But the
only original Hawley is sure all right! She talked your wife plumb outa the
house and into the rig, and brought her to town. She's over to the hotel
now."

"Val at the hotel? How long has she been there?" Manley began smoothing his
hair and his crumpled clothes with his hands, "Good heavens! You told her
I'd gone on out, and had missed her on the trail, didn't you, Kent? She
doesn't know I'm in town, does she? You always were a good fellow--I
haven't forgotten how you--"

"Well, you can forget it now. I didn't tell her anything like that. I
didn't think of it, for one thing. She knew all the time that you were in
town. I'm tired of lying to her. I told her the truth. I told her you were
drunk."

Manley's jaw dropped. "You--you told her--"

"Ex-actly. I told her you were drunk." Kent nodded gravely, and his lips
curled as he watched the other cringe. "She called me a liar," he added,
with a certain reminiscent amusement.

Manley brightened. "That's Val--once she believes in a person she's loyal
as--"

"She ain't now," Kent interposed dryly. "When I let up she was plumb
convinced. She knows now what ailed you the day she came and you didn't
meet her."

"You dirty cur! And I thought you were a friend. You--"

"You thought right--until you got to rooting a little too deep in the mud,
old-timer. And let me tell you something. I was your friend when I told
her. She's got to know--you couldn't go on like this much longer without
having her get wise; she ain't a fool. The thing for you to do now is to
buck up and let her reform you. I've always heard that women are tickled
plumb to death when they can reform a man. You go on over there and make
your little talk, and then buckle down and live up to it. Savvy? That's
your only chance now. It'll work, too.

"You _ought_ to straighten up, Man, and act white! Not just to square
yourself with her, but because you're going downhill pretty fast, if you
only knew it. You ain't anything like you were two years ago, when we
bached together. You've got to brace up pretty sudden, or you'll be so far
gone you can't climb back. And when a man has got a wife to look after,
it seems to me he ought to be the best it's in him to be. You were a fine
fellow when you first hit the country--and she thought she was getting that
same fine fellow when she came away out here to marry you. It ain't any of
my business--but do you think you're giving her a square deal?" He waited a
minute, and spoke the next sentence with a certain diffidence. "I'll gamble
you haven't been disappointed in _her_."

"She's an angel--and I'm a beast!" groaned Manley, with the exaggerated
self-abasement which so frequently follows close upon the heels of
intoxication. "She'll never forgive a thing like that--the best thing I can
do is to blow my brains out!"

"Like Walt. And have your picture enlarged and put in a gold frame, and
hubby number two learning his morals from your awful example," elaborated
Kent, in much the same tone he had employed when Val, only the day before,
had rashly expressed a wish for a speedy death.

Manley sat up straighter and sent a look of resentment toward the man who
bantered when he should have sympathized. "It's all a big joke with you, of
course," he flared weakly. "You're not married--to a perfect woman; a woman
who never did anything wrong in her life, and can't understand how anybody
should want to, and can't forgive him when he does. She expects a man to be
a saint. Why, I don't even smoke in the house--and she doesn't dream I'd
ever swear, under any circumstances.

"Why, Kent, a fellow's _got_ to go to town and turn himself loose
sometimes, when he lives in a rarified atmosphere of refined morality, and
listens to Songs Without Words and weepy classics on the violin, and never
a thing to make your feet tingle. She doesn't believe in public dances,
either. Nor cards. She reads 'The Ring and the Book' evenings, and wants to
discuss it and read passages of it to me. I used to take some interest in
those things, and she doesn't seem to see I've changed. Why, hang it, Kent,
Cold Spring Coulee's no place for Browning--he doesn't fit in. All that
sort of thing is a thousand miles behind me--and I've got to--" He stopped
short and brooded, his eyes upon the dank sawdust at his feet.

"I'm a beast," he repeated rather lugubriously. "She's an angel--an
Eastern-bred angel. And let me tell you, Kent, all that's pretty hard to
live up to!"

Kent looked down at him meditatively, wondering if there was not a good
deal of truth and justice in Manley's argument. But his sympathies had
already gone to the other side, and Kent was not the man to make an
emotional pendulum of himself.

"Well, what you going to do about it?" he asked, after a short silence.

For answer Manley rose to his feet with a certain air of determination,
which flamed up oddly above his general weakness, like the last sputter
of a candle burned down. "I'm going over and take my medicine--face the
music," he said almost sullenly, "She's too good for me--I always knew it.
And I haven't treated her right--I've left her out there alone too much.
But she wouldn't come to town with me--she said she couldn't endure the
sight of it. What could I do? _I_ couldn't stay out there all the time;
there were times when I had to come. She didn't seem to mind staying alone.
She never objected. She was always sweet sad good-natured--and shut up
inside of herself. She just gives you what she pleases of her mind, and the
rest she hides--"

Kent laughed suddenly. "You married men sure do have all kinds of trouble,"
he remarked. "A fellow like me can go on a jamboree any time he likes, and
as long as he likes, and it don't concern anybody but himself--and maybe
the man he's working for; and look at you, scared plumb silly thinking of
what your wife's going to say about it. If you ask me, I'm going to trot
alone; I'd rather be lonesome than good, any old time."

That, however, did not tend to raise Manley's spirits any. He entered the
hotel with visible reluctance, looked into the parlor, and heaved a sigh
of relief when he saw that it was empty, wavered at the foot of the steep,
narrow stairs, and retreated to the dining room, with Kent at his heels
knowing that the matter had passed quite beyond his help or hindrance and
had entered that mysterious realm of matrimony where no unwedded man or
woman may follow and yet is curious enough to linger.

Just inside the door Manley stopped so suddenly that Kent bumped against
him. Val, sweet and calm and cool, was sitting just where the smoke-dimmed
sunlight poured in through a window upon her, and a breeze came with it and
stirred her hair. She had those purple shadows under her eyes which betray
us after long, sleepless hours when we live with our troubles and the world
dreams around us; she had no color at all in her cheeks, and she had that
aloofness of manner which Manley, in his outburst, had described as being
shut up inside herself. She glanced up at them, just as she would have done
had they both been strangers, and went on sugaring her coffee with a dainty
exactness which, under the circumstances, seemed altogether too elaborate
to be unconscious.

"Good morning," she greeted them quietly. "I think we must be the laziest
people in town; at any rate, we seem to be the latest risers."

Kent stared at her frankly, so that she flushed a little under the
scrutiny. Manley consciously avoided looking at her, and muttered something
unintelligible while he pulled out a chair three places distant from her.

Val stole a sidelong, measuring look at her husband while she took a sip of
coffee, and then her eyes turned upon Kent. More than ever, it seemed to
him, they resembled the eyes of a lioness watching you quietly from the
corner of her cage. You could look at them, but you could not look into
them. Always they met your gaze with a baffling veil of inscrutability. But
they were darker than the eyes of a lioness; they were human eyes; woman
eyes--alluring eyes. She did not say a word, and, after a brief stare which
might have meant almost anything, she turned to her plate of toast and
broke away the burned edges of a slice and nibbled at the passable center
as if she had no trouble beyond a rather unsatisfactory breakfast.

It was foolish, it was childish for three people who knew one another very
well, to sit and pretend to eat, and to speak no word; so Kent thought,
and tried to break the silence with some remark which would not sound
constrained.

"It's going to storm," he flung into the silence, like chucking a rock into
a pond.

"Do you think so?" Val asked languidly, just grazing him with a glance,
in that inattentive way she sometimes had. "Are you going out home--or to
what's left of it--to-day, Manley?" She did not look at him at all, Kent
observed.

"I don't know--I'll have to hire a team--I'll see what--"

"Mrs. Hawley thinks we ought to stay here for a few days--or that I
ought--while you make arrangements for building a new stable, and all
that."

"If you want to stay," Manley agreed rather eagerly, "why, of course, you
can. There's nothing out there to--"

"Oh, it doesn't matter in the slightest degree where I stay. I only
mentioned it because I promised her I would speak to you about it." There
was more than languor in her tone.

"They're going to start the fireworks pretty quick," Kent mentally
diagnosed the situation and rose hurriedly. "Well, I've got to hunt a
horse, myself, and pull out for the Wishbone," he explained gratuitously.
"Ought to've gone last night. Good-bye." He closed the door behind him and
shrugged his shoulders. "Now they can fight it out," he told himself. "Glad
_I_ ain't a married man!"

However, they did not fight it out then. Kent had no more than reached the
office when Val rose, hoped that Manley would please excuse her, and left
the room also. Manley heard her go up-stairs, found out from Arline what
was the number of Val's room, and followed her. The door was locked, but
when he rapped upon it Val opened it an inch and held it so.

"Val, let me in. I want to talk with you. I--God knows how sorry I am--"

"If He does, that ought to be sufficient," she answered coldly. "I don't
feel like talking now--especially upon the subject you would choose. You're
a man, supposedly. You must know what it is your duty to do. Please let us
not discuss it--now or ever.

"But, Val--"

"I don't want to talk about it, I tell you! I won't--I _can't_. You must do
without the conventional confession and absolution. You must have some sort
of conscience--let that receive your penitence." She started to close the
door, but he caught it with his hand.

"Val--do you hate me?"

She looked at him for a moment, as if she were trying to decide. "No," she
said at last, "I don't think I do; I'm quite sure that I do not. But I'm
terribly hurt and disappointed." She closed the door then and turned the
key.

Manley stood for a moment rather blankly before it, then put his hands as
deep in his pockets as they would go, and went slowly down the stairs. At
that moment he did not feel particularly penitent. She would not listen to
"the conventional confession!"

"That girl can be hard as nails!" he muttered, under his breath.

He went into the office, got a cigar, and lighted it moodily. He glanced at
the bottles ranged upon the shelves behind the bar, drew in his breath for
speech, let it go in a sigh, and walked out. He knew perfectly well what
Val had meant. She had deliberately thrown him back upon his own strength.
He had fallen by himself, he must pick himself up; and she would stand
back and watch the struggle, and judge him according to his failure or his
success. He had a dim sense that it was a dangerous experiment.

He looked for Kent, found him just as he was mounting at the stables, and
let him go almost without a word. After all, no one could help him. He
stood there smoking after Kent had gone, and when his cigar was finished he
wandered back to the hotel. As was always the case after hard drinking, he
had a splitting headache. He got a room as close to Val's as he could,
shut himself into it, and gave himself up to his headache and to gloomy
meditation. All day he lay upon the bed, and part of the time he slept. At
supper time he rapped upon Val's door, got no answer, and went down alone,
to find her in the dining room. There was an empty chair beside her, and he
took it as his right. She talked a little--about the fire and the damage it
had done. She said she was worried because she had forgotten to bring the
cat, and what would it find to eat out there?

"Everything's burned perfectly black for miles and miles, you know," she
reminded him.

They left the room together, and he followed her upstairs and to her door.
This time she did not shut him out, and he went in and sat down by the
window, and looked out upon the meager little street. Never, in the years
he had known her, had she been so far from him. He watched her covertly
while she searched for something in her suit case.

"I'm afraid I didn't bring enough clothes to last more than a day or two,"
she remarked. "I couldn't seem to think of anything that night. Arline did
most of the packing for me. I'm afraid I misjudged that woman, Manley;
there's a good deal to her, after all. But she _is_ funny."

"Val, I want to tell you I'm going to--to be different. I've been a beast,
but I'm going to--" So much he had rushed out before she could freeze him
to silence again.

"I hope so," she cut in, as he hesitated, "That is something you must judge
for yourself, and do by yourself. Do you think you will be able to get a
team tomorrow?"

"Oh--to hell with a team!" Manley exploded.

Val dropped her hairbrush upon the floor. "Manley Fleetwood! Has it come
to that, also? Isn't it enough to--" She choked. "Manley, you can be a--a
drunken sot, if you choose--I've no power to prevent you; but you shall
not swear in my presence. I thought you had some of the instincts of a
gentleman, but--" She set her teeth hard together. She was white around the
mouth, and her whole, slim body was aquiver with outraged dignity.

There was something queer in Manley's eyes as he looked at her, the length
of the tiny room between them.

"Oh, I beg your pardon. I remember, now, your Fern Hill ethics. I may _go_
to hell, for all of you--you will simply hold back your immaculate, moral
skirts so that I may pass without smirching them; but I must not mention my
destination--that is so unrefined!" He got up from the chair, with a laugh
that was almost a snort. "You refuse to discuss a certain subject, though
it's almost a matter of life and death with me; at least, it was. Your
happiness and my own was at stake, I thought. But it's all right--I needn't
have worried about it. I still have some of the instincts of a gentleman,
and your pure ears shall not be offended by any profanity or any
disagreeable 'conventional confessions.' The absolution, let me say, I
expected to do without." He started, full of some secret intent, for the
door.

Val humanized suddenly. By the time his fingers touched the door knob she
had read his purpose, had readied his side, and was clutching his arm with
both her hands.

"Manley Fleetwood, what are you going to do?" She was actually panting with
the jump of her heart.

He turned the knob, so that the latch clicked. "Get drunk. Be the drunken
sot you expect me to be. Go to that vulgar place which I must not mention
in your presence. Let go my arm, Val."

She was all woman, then. She pulled him away from the door and the unnamed
horror which lay outside. She was not the crying sort, but she cried, just
the same--heartbrokenly, her head against his shoulder, as if she herself
were the sinner. She clung to him, she begged him to forgive her hardness.

She learned something which every woman must learn if she would keep a
little happiness in her life: she learned how to forgive the man she loved,
and to trust him afterward.

CHAPTER XIII

ARLINE GIVES A DANCE

A house, it would seem, is almost the least important part of a ranch;
one can camp, with frying pan and blankets, in the shade of a bush or the
shelter of canvas. But to do anything upon a ranch, one must have many
things--burnable things, for the most part, as Manley was to learn by
experience when he left Val at the hotel and rode out, the next day, to
Cold Spring Coulee.

To ride over twenty miles of blackness is depressing enough in itself,
but to find, at the end of the journey, that one's work has all gone
for nothing, and one's money and one's plans and hopes, is worse than
depressing. Manley sat upon his horse and gazed rather blankly at the heap
of black cinders that had been his haystacks, and at the cold embers where
had stood his stables, and at the warped bits of iron that had been his
buckboard, his wagon, his rake and mower--all the things he had gathered
around him in the three years he had spent upon the place.

The house merely emphasized his loss. He got down, picked up the cat, which
was mewing plaintively beside his horse, snuggled it into his arm, and
remounted. Val had told him to be sure and find the cat, and bring it back
with him. His horses and his cattle--not many, to be sure, in that land of
large holdings--were scattered, and it would take the round-up to gather
them together again. So the cat, and the horse he rode, the bleak coulee,
and the unattractive little house with its three rooms and its meager
porch, were all that he could visualize as his worldly possessions. And
when he thought of his bank account he winced mentally. Before snow fell he
would be debt-ridden, the best he could do. For he must have a stable, and
corral, and hay, and a wagon, and--he refused to remind himself of all the
things he must have if he would stay on the ranch.

His was not a strong nature at best, and now he shrank from facing his
misfortune and wanted only to get away from the place. He loped his horse
half-way up the hill, which was not merciful riding. The half-starved cat
yowled in his arms, and struck her claws through his coat till he felt the
prick of them, and he swore; at the cat, nominally, but really at the trick
fate had played upon him.

For a week he dallied in town, without heart or courage though Val urged
him to buy lumber and build, and cheered him as best she could. He did make
a half-hearted attempt to get lumber to the place, but there seemed to be
no team in town which he could hire. Every one was busy, and put him off.
He tried to buy hay of Blumenthall, of the Wishbone, of every man he met
who had hay. No one had any hay to sell, however. Blumenthall complained
that he was short, himself, and would buy if he could, rather than sell.
The Wishbone foreman declared profanely--that hay was going to be worth a
dollar a pound to _them_, before spring. They were all sorry for Manley,
and told him he was "sure playing tough luck," but they couldn't sell any
hay, that was certain.

"But we must manage somehow to fix the place so we can live on it this
winter," Val would insist, when he told her how every move seemed blocked.
"You're very brave, dear, and I'm proud of the way you are holding out--but
Hope is not a good place for you. It would be foolish to stay in town.
Can't you buy enough hay here in town--baled hay from the store--to keep
our horses through the winter?"

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