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diff --git a/78410-0.txt b/78410-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ede610b --- /dev/null +++ b/78410-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,690 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78410 *** + + + +[Illustration: “Ploughin’ ain’t nothin’ to her! An I’ve saw her rope +and tie a steer quick as any man.”] + + THE MAN FROM OREGON + + By Mary Arbuckle + Illustrated by Frank Hoffman + + Far beyond the rim of cities these things happen, + for in the midst of loneliness realities often + lie just over the edge of dreams. + + +The Brownlie woman and her children were at supper, eating in their +usual depressing silence. Kendall left the table and plunged into the +sunset glamor of the out-of-doors. The small yard gate, weighted with +a wired stone, slammed behind him. He paused and looked out over the +canyon, drawing a deep breath at its beauty. + +“A landscape in a dream,” thought Kendall. But from infinite distance +to the dream’s very edge, encroached the dun, incredibly level plains. +And that forlorn and hideous little house from which he was fleeing! It +squatted there, a toad on the brink of this wonder. + +He straightened his shoulders, thrust his hands deep into the +pockets of his new riding breeches and swung off on the road leading +out of the horse pasture. A spare, graying man, wearing eyeglasses +and an expression of worry. He had the nervous and kindly face of a +schoolmaster, which, in fact, he was. He must, he decided, get away +from this place for a few days. He had been tempted to clear out +entirely, but he had paid a month’s board in advance and couldn’t +afford to lose the remaining three weeks. + +His convalescent, city-worn nerves had craved the open. The remnants +of his savings and of his vacation, which illness had not consumed, he +had come to spend on this ranch in the Southwest. He had hoped, when +planning the trip, that the region possessed at least some tinge of +that charm so lavishly depicted in western novels and moving pictures. +Of course, he admitted to himself, he had known it wouldn’t _really_ +be like that. But to have it turn out so humdrum, so devoid of color +... It was all like a grim, practical joke at his expense; coming to +this forlorn place run by a hag of a woman. + +Kendall came to a pause at the big gate that opened into the pasture and +stood with his arms on the top rail. He felt himself prey to piercing +melancholy, and started walking quickly back to the house. He would see +the woman and arrange to go on the thirty mile drive to Tulia in the +morning. He would stay in the town a day or two, get his mail, buy a +stock of papers and magazines and, thus fortified, return, and try to +live out the rest of his month. With an inward sigh, he relinquished the +last vestige of his dream of cowboys, roundups and romance. + +The ever-changing beauty of the canyon had more than offset coarse food +and a hard bed; the pure air admirably fitted the doctor’s prescription; +yet it was no antidote to this atmosphere of human hopelessness. He had +wished to be among the plains people of romance; and instead he was +daily confronted with their tragedy as epitomized in Mrs. Brownlie and +her children. Her strident voice assailed him before he had reached the +yard: “Here you, Andy! Run out them hogs--they’re rooten’ in the garden! +Ain’t I told you to keep watchin’ out?” + +Andy, the youngest of the three boys, leaped into action: a scrawny, +small figure in blue overalls. + +With the help of two dogs there followed a commotion of shouting, +barking and squealing; and the invasion was put to rout. + +The incident was typical, thought Kendall, of the harassing inefficiency +of the place: the fences had been unrepaired for so long that an endless +driving out of the hogs had come to be the accepted means of restricting +them. The cattle and a cultivated field east of the house, known as “the +feed patch” were the dominant points of interest in the lives of these +people; and so completely did the care of these drain their strength +that they appeared hardly conscious that there could be other demands in +life. + +As Kendall opened the gate, the little girl, Lily, was sitting on +the porch steps nibbling half-heartedly at the last bit of her +supper--a biscuit soaked in molasses. The brown molasses streaked +her small, delicately pretty face, and she brushed back yellow curls +with sticky fingers. Lily was the only member of the family on whom +the curse of toil had not fallen; her problem was a superfluity of +leisure and a dearth of playmates. The mother’s consistent, fierce +refusals to allow the child to help about the house, even when she +cried to do so, were to Kendall a much-pondered anomaly. It must be +that in the shrunken woman--with whom it was difficult to connect +even a tradition of beauty--some memory, some realization had kept +alive and created this complex which made her exclude Lily from even +the lightest of manual work. + +“No, you cain’t peel them potatoes,” the mother would say; “it’ll +spoil your hands.” And: “Don’t let me ketch you weedin’ in that garden +again--you’re tanned enough a’ready!” + +But Lily was not tanned. The few freckles across her snub nose only +served to accentuate the transparency of her delicate little face. + +She was kept perpetually “dressed up.” Kendall noted the daintiness of +her blue linen frock, white socks and kid slippers; incongruous in this +environment. She responded dimly to the friendly smile he gave her. + +He walked to the back of the house and stood in the doorway of the hot +kitchen which was filled with the hum of swarming flies and the clatter +of dish washing. “I’d like to go to Tulia tomorrow, Mrs. Brownlie. Could +you let me have the team?” + +She looked up from her dishpan vaguely. “I reckon.” Her voice was flat +and lifeless. + +“Could you spare it for two days?” + +“I reckon so,” she said as before, going on with her work. + +She hung the dishpan on a nail behind the stove and dragged from the +closet a barrel churn. The thing was heavy, unwieldy; and Kendall +stepped forward to take it. “Wouldn’t you like it outside where it’s +cooler?” he asked. + +“Well, yes,” she said indifferently. He set it on the ground and placed +a chair for her. When she had poured in the cream and was swinging the +churn by its handle, Kendall seated himself on the doorstep and watched +her. + +His mind reviewed the half-heeded gossip he had heard from the man +who had brought him out from town: “Worthless cuss, Emmet Brownlie +was,” Hastings had said. “’Bout as good dead as livin’, I reckon. +Helluva time the woman’s had a-raisin’ them four younguns an’ runnin’ +the ranch. She done nigh all the work about the place till the boys +got old enough to he’p her. Ploughin’ ain’t nothin’ to her! Why, I’ve +saw her rope an’ tie a steer quick as any man--an’ her not bigger’n a +minute neither. She cain’t quite make it when it comes to bulldoggin’ +’em, though.” + +Small wonder such feats had left her body warped and spent of +resiliency! Yet it was not the woman’s physical aspect alone that +made her charmless; she was soddenly unresponsive, with a queer blank +look, as of something dead, in her eyes. She directed the activities +of her sons with a passionless harshness; even her scolding was +mechanical. Only in her adamantine determination that Lily should not +work, did she show feeling; a fierceness entirely disproportionate to +the decision she clung to. Yet Kendall had never seen her caress the +child or even glance at her tenderly. + +Emmet came toward them from the sheds carrying the full milk pails. He +was sixteen, with a loose-hung body and dull, accepting eyes. + +“Takes after his father,” Hastings had told Kendall. + +The boy went into the kitchen and when he came out, his mother spoke +without glancing at him: “Keep up the roans tonight. Mr. Kendall’s +goin’ to Tulia to-morrer.” + +“All right,” said Emmet, and slouched back to the barn. + +The butter had “come”; and the woman ladled it out and put it away with +despatch. Then, emerging from the kitchen, she made for the wire fence +with her loping stride, and began to take down the wash she had that +morning strung there to dry. The coarser garments, overalls, shirts and +aprons, bordered two sides of the yard, while Lily’s dainty little +dresses had a space to themselves near the front gate. As the woman’s +bent figure moved along the fence in the fading light, stacking the +garments in her arms, she looked like a gnome fantastically overshadowed +by a huge burden. + +Kendall rose and, to escape the sight of her, walked to the windmill. +The stars had come out in a deepening sky. He could see the dark figures +of the boys moving about the sheds; they were throwing bundles of hay +over the fence to the horses in a lot. One of them was whistling--Oscar, +of course. The small figure of Andy, the eight-year-old, approached +Kendall on his way to the house. + +“Hello, there,” called Kendall, with forced cheeriness. The child +turned his head slightly, made an indistinguishable murmur, and padded +by in the dusk. It was uncanny for even children to be so queer and +unapproachable. They never played like real children; perhaps they +didn’t know how. They were all too busy to play, except Lily. Poor +Lily! Her lonely, time-swamped childhood was as tragic as the overwork +of her growing brothers. And the mother’s attitude toward her lent +that mother a tinge of mystery. + + * * * * * + +“Naw,” drawled “Old Man” Givens, Proprietor of the Tulia House; “ain’t +nothin’ in this here dry farmin’--Maw an’ me has tried it out. Looks +like the woman’s bound to get a raw deal in this country any way you fix +it. There’s that Miz Brownlie where you’re stoppin’. I reckon she’s had +it worse’n any. What with Emmet always ailin’ an’ the work of two men, +besides raisin’ them children--looks like it would a killed her.” + +“It has,” said Kendall. + +“How’s that?” Mr. Givens cupped his hand behind his ear. + +“How long has Mrs. Brownlie’s husband been dead?” asked Kendall, in a +louder tone. + +“Goin’ on three months now,” the old man answered, with the calm +satisfaction he always displayed when dispensing news. “Lung trouble he +had. Was in pore health for years. Used to work for the Bar V’s till +they fired him. But she stuck by him. They got that place they’re at now +by her managin’. Mebbe you wouldn’t believe it, but Miz Brownlie used to +be a good-lookin’ woman. Yessir, about the purtiest in these parts. They +don’t stay that way long out here. It’s a hard old country--‘hard on +women an’ horses’, as the sayin’ goes.” + +Mr. Givens let his chair tilt back; his feet on the railing, spare old +body humped into a bow, he gazed from under beetling brows. The +nondescript small-town street, which held his keen gaze, became, at a +point not far away, a gleaming prairie road. He was reviewing, Kendall +fancied, the perfidies of this land which lured men into settling on +its plains, only to make sport of them. + +Suddenly he realized that it rested him, body and soul--the sun-soaked +monotony of this baffling treeless earth; the desultory noises of the +tiny town; the bare directness of this high land, that lifted itself +strangely in pictures against this sky. Too bad nothing ever happened +here! Givens had told him that nothing ever happened, except the +vicissitudes of those who wrestled with nature. Color in the lives of +its people was what it lacked: They had no enthusiasm, no imagination-- + +Then Kendall realized he was judging them all by that one pathetic +creature--the Brownlie woman. No, not pathetic; pathos was usually +associated with passionate suffering, and she was devoid of feeling. + +The slamming of the screen door startled him. Looking up, he caught the +round-eyed gaze of Miss Irene, one of the few steady boarders at the +Tulia house. She sauntered by him and sank heavily into a rocker at the +other end of the porch. To the masculine population of Tulia, she was +an arresting figure. The thin purple sweater which she wore was cut low +and showed a thick, white neck. Her short, white skirt revealed thick, +silk-stockinged legs as she rocked slowly. A be-spurred young man with +pulled-down hat brim and an air of moroseness appeared, almost +instantly, from around the corner of the house, and sat near her on the +porch. + +“Old Man” Givens rose and gave Kendall an elaborate wink. “Most train +time,” he said, stretching himself stiffly. “Better be gettin’ the old +bus out, I reckon.” + +He went down the steps and across the street to the combination garage +and livery stable. Presently, from a rattling flivver, he waved his hand +to Kendall. And the long whistle of the Santa Fe East-bound stirred the +town from its afternoon slumbers. + + * * * * * + +When Mr. Givens returned and stopped his car before his hostelry, he +lifted out several heavy “grips,” but no passenger followed. + +“Feller ’lowed he’d walk,” he announced to Kendall and Miss Irene. +“Lookin’ ’round at things int’rested like. He’s come a fur piece--tag +on this here grip says South Fork, Oregon. Name’s Andrew Rogers ... +Here he comes now.” + +A tall man wearing a long, and tenderly cared for, moustache, crossed +the dusty glare of the street. He looked a ranchman, with his big felt +hat and the negligent hang of his best clothes; but his cheeks had a +mountain-air clearness instead of the brickish tan of the men of that +calling. He was, too, without their dry gauntness, and his walk was +quicker than that of the plainsman. Taking off his hat he mopped a +damp brow and gave a general, stiff bow to the group on the porch. + +“Come right in,” said Mr. Givens. + +Through the door, Kendall saw him remove his coat before hunching his +tall figure to the laborious business of registering. Half an hour later +he saw him again as he descended the stairs, bathed and shining, wearing +a fresh, soft-collared shirt. His eyes were very blue and keen, for all +their ingenuousness. + +The guests of the Tulia House conformed, for the most part, to the +etiquette of the plains, which rules that a serious businesslike eating +should be accomplished with little conversation. The stranger disposed +of his supper at the general table in a state of bland abstraction. + +Miss Irene’s overtures, such as, “You’re from Oregon, ain’t you, Mr. +Rogers?” Or--“Did you come through Kansas City?”--were finally +discouraged by his polite but absent and repeated: “Yes ma’m.” + +Kendall saw that with the mysterious clairvoyance of her kind, Miss +Irene had picked the newcomer as worth while. + +After the meal the two men went out on the porch and sat near each +other. “By the way, who is she, anyway?” Rogers asked with the casual +free-masonry of one plainsman to another, jerking his thumb toward the +door. + +Kendall laughed, feeling himself an old and well-informed inhabitant. +“Why, she’s a manicurist. Didn’t you know Tulia House had one?” + +“A manicurist? Well, I swear! What does she _do_ here? Ain’t no one in +Tulia has their nails filed, is there?” + +“No,” laughed Kendall. “Mr. Givens tells me it was the joke of the +town two months ago. She said a cattleman she had met in Kansas City +told her there was a fine opening here for a first-class manicurist; +cowboys being very particular about their nails.” + +“And she believed him?” chuckled the man from Oregon. “Shame!” + +“I guess she didn’t exactly,” said Kendall. “She gets on pretty well, a +fellow named Hastings told me.” + +“Oh! So she’s _that_ kind, is she? I never like to judge a lady by +appearances.” + +A phonograph in the parlor began screaming and gritting a last season’s +fox trot. Kendall’s companion settled into pleased relaxation. “I sure +do love music,” he said. + +After the fox trot, a tinny soprano frankly proclaimed: + + “Darling, I am growing o-old, + Silver threads among the gold + Shine upon my brow toda-ay, + Life is fading fast away.... + +And received from a muffled bass the ever-touching reassurance: + + “Yet, my darling, you will be-ee + Always young and fair to me....” + +The eyes of the man from Oregon, gazing into Tulia’s gathering dusk, +became glassy and rapt. “That’s sure a good song,” he muttered at its +close. Then he surprised Kendall by rising abruptly. + +“Reckon I’ll go for a little walk.” And he bolted down the steps. + +Kendall smiled as he watched his big figure merge into the evening +shadows. He interested him strangely. His freshness and vigor set him +apart from these slow, tired people. He was simpler than they were; and +in his eyes was a spark of something they had lost, or never had--a +child’s belief in romance. That was it: To him all sorts of impossible +things existed--the extravagant constancy set forth in that song, for +example. Kendall felt refreshed in his presence and waited with a kind +of excitement for him to appear out of the quiet night. He waited an +hour. Mr. Givens was the only other occupant of the porch. + +Rogers came and sat between the two men, but his manner was without +repose. + +“Do you reckon,” he said, “I can get a car early tomorrow to go out in +the country a piece?” + +“Well, about a car now, I don’t know,” said the landlord. “You see the +fair’s on at Amariller, an’ most of the automobiles is taken. But I +could let you have a buggy an’ team. Where was you aimin’ to go?” + +“About thirty mile west--Brownlie’s, I believe the name is.” + +“Oh, the Widder Brownlie’s! Well, in that case, this feller here, Mr. +Kendall’s, got the Widder’s team in town now.” + +“He has!” Rogers seemed startled. + +“Why, yes,” said Kendall, “I’m going back tomorrow. I can take you out +if you’d like.” + +“He boards out thar,” explained Givens as Rogers did not answer. + +“Oh, I see.” Rogers spoke abruptly. “Yeah, sure I’d like to go with +you.” + +“Glad of that!” Kendall’s voice was boyishly eager. + +“Reckon it’s cattle you’re interested in out there,” said Mr. Givens. + +“Yes,” the man answered absently. + +“Well, you don’t want to overlook the Hastings steers while you’re out +that way. The Widder Brownlie’s is a runty lot, I hear.” + +“Yeah, yeah, sure!” Rogers grew silent; a motionless, dark bulk, staring +into the spangled night. + +Givens yawned and went off to bed. Kendall, about to go too, heard the +man beside him softly humming a tune--it was “Silver Threads among the +Gold.” + + * * * * * + +“And so this feller aims to come back to the Panhandle some day to get +his girl.” Rogers, driving, clucked to the horses. “It’s quite a while +back since that chap lived in these parts.” + +Ten miles of the journey were accomplished. The two men were alone in a +sun-swamped world. A light wind flapped the curtains of Mrs. Brownlie’s +rattling hack. + +“It must be an interesting story,” said Kendall. “The little you’ve told +me shows that romance once lived might go on living--even here.” + +“Yeah,” said Rogers, a bit hazily. “Them was great days.” He lapsed +into a silent reverie; then, suddenly, went on: “Sort of a decent +fellow he is, a neighbor of mine now, in Oregon. Nothing out of the +ordinary, you understand, though he was good at his job in the old +days when we both lived out here. We done broncho breaking mostly. +Was with the Bar V’s. Reckon you’ve heard of the Bar V’s. The fellow +worked for that outfit ten years; from the time he was seventeen and +ran away from home in South Texas when his Maw died. He might be +workin’ for them yet if all this I’m tellin’ you hadn’t happened. +You see, he fell in love with a woman out here--a married woman; and +she made him go clear away when she found out how things was. It +seems she cared for him. + +“She and her man had come up from Wichita. None of the boys ever could +figure out how the Bar V’s come to hire this husband of hers for the +job at Turkey Creek--he was no cowman. Reckon he claimed to be, though. +Well, he wasn’t much good on the job from the start; and didn’t take +long to lie down on it flat and say he had to have another man to help +him at the camp. Not but two pastures to ride, mind you! + +“Them Bar V’s was a white bunch--never fired him till they had to and +that was five year later--and they sent this friend of mine to Turkey +Creek that summer. That’s when he first saw her. + +“He’d heard she was a looker--not a man in the outfit but would a rode +ten miles any day for a sight of her--but he hadn’t no idy she was like +she was--sorter delicate and different. Big gray eyes with long, black +lashes, and shy. Not a woman for this country. + +“And looks wasn’t all with her, like they are with a heap that’s +uncommon pretty--she had sense and a kind heart. Was always mighty +nice to the boys when they come round, cookin’ ’em fancy dishes an’ +mendin’ up their clothes. She liked this country fine, bein’ new to +it. Turkey Creek’s in the canyon, you know, where there’s right +pretty scenery about--she always made a heap of that. Used to say she +wisht she lived on the caprock where she could see it all spread out. +But she wasn’t the sort to moon ’round when there was work to do--had +hustle enough for him and her both. + +“This fellow--the one I’m tellin’ you about--soon got on to the fact +that her husband was a lunger. He never seemed to care for nothin’ +but smokin’ an’ readin’ paper-backs. Didn’t have no git-up--could a +got well if he had. She used to try everything, even to he’pin’ this +friend of mine with the broncs; and oncet scared him most to death +ridin’ a bad smoke-horse. Husband didn’t give a darn what she +done--never took no proper care of her. + +“Well, the fellow knowed how he felt about her from the first day he +seen her, but wouldn’t a let on if he’d died for it--aimed to hang +around and sorter make things easy for her. Then one day after he’d +been there two months, he got throwed by Lightnin’ Bolt.... When he +come to, his head was in her lap an’ she was cryin’ like her heart +would break. They was off from the house a ways--she’d gone along on +her little Indian pony to herd his bronc from the wire. He begged +her to leave her husband, but she wouldn’t do it--she’d been brought +up old-fashioned and strict. Said as long as he wasn’t mean to her, +and bein’ he was sort of sick she’d have to stan’ by him. She +promised him if ever she was free she’d marry him. So that’s why he +aims to come back here for her. + +“You’d ought to see his place in Oregon, a neat little ranch at the foot +of a mountain. They’d laugh at you if you called it a ranch down here, +but up there a fellow doesn’t need all outdoors to make a livin’ on. Up +there it’s nothin’ like these parched plains that never will be plumb +saddle-broke for civilization. Mountains and trees--plenty of green. +Everything grows--crops and flowers--you ought to see the flowers!” + +“A charming story,” Kendall exclaimed. “Unswerving devotion to one +woman!” + + * * * * * + +Rogers was as sentimental over it, Kendall saw, as he had been over +that song last night; as sentimental as if it were his own story. His +voice had been husky as he ended the story. His face was turned away +and Kendall suspected that his eyes were moist. + +“He’s been hearing from her all these years, I suppose,” said Kendall. + +His companion started. “Not a line. That was how she wanted it--she +was a married woman. But he’s took the county paper an’ kep’ up some +that way. He seen when they left Turkey Creek, and when--when her +other children come.” + +“Was it really tuberculosis her husband had? How does he know she’ll +ever be free?” + +“Yeah, it was t.b. all right. And he _knows_, don’t you forget it; he +knows!” + +Kendall could have sworn there was exultation in the tone. Strange for +Rogers to feel his friend’s story so intensely--it must be his own +story, of course! The disguise was extremely thin. Just such a man as +Rogers would be capable of holding to his dream like that. Here was +real drama. Kendall felt thrilled at his discovery. He wanted to make +sure this idyll of the plains was really his. + +“This friend of yours, didn’t he get homesick? Of course he liked it out +there where everything was so much better, but didn’t the very fact of +its being so different from the plains make him blue at first?” + +“It sure did!” + +He must, Kendall mused, have read in that county paper of the death of +the woman’s husband. He had said: “He _knows_, don’t you forget it--he +knows.” + +Mrs. Brownlie’s husband had died of tuberculosis, “lung trouble,” Old +man Givens had called it. And he, too, had worked for the Bar V’s, “till +they fired him.” What a coincidence! “Mebby you wouldn’t believe it.” +Givens had said, “but Miz Brownlie used to be a good-lookin’ woman....” + +Kendall’s heart stood still with this shock. Everything in the story +fitted hideously. “His name’s _Andrew_ Rogers--” Kendall suddenly +remembered, and almost cried it aloud. Mrs. Brownlie’s youngest boy +was Andy.... + +“Does your friend realize that by the time he comes back to get his +sweetheart, she may have changed, so that he’ll hardly recognize her?” + +“Sure! He knows she’ll be changed--some. He expects that.” + +Kendall thought of the phonograph wailing--“Darling, I am growing +o-old”; and it was all he could do to restrain a mirthless, hysterical +laugh. Of course it would be by some such esthetic alteration that +Rogers would picture her as changing in the years since he had left. +Never would it occur to him, the romantic, that the cruel life of the +country that was “hard on women and horses” could destroy her utterly; +and leave in her place that melancholy travesty of womanhood. He passed +his hand across his eyes as he tried to brush away a vision of this man +when he should come face to face with reality. + +And the woman! He understood her now; understood her mania for +shielding Lily. The child was a symbol to her mother of her own lost +beauty. No merciful stolidity had protected the woman; she had been +aware of what was happening to her. With what unspeakable bitterness +she must have watched that gradual, terrible change in her beauty! + +They could see the house, still a good two miles away, and a narrow +strip of the Paloduro. Rogers asked with elaborate casualness, “Isn’t +that the Brownlie place?” Then began to whistle a swinging, cowboy lay +about being “home, home, home on the plains, where the deer and the +buffalo roam.” + +“This old plains air sure feels good to me,” he said, turning to Kendall +with warm eyes. “I feel like gettin’ out an’ runnin’ a spell ’stead of +settin’ in this buggy. Wisht I was a-horseback!” Kendall knew he would +be galloping if he were, galloping and waving his hat and shouting. + +Something like a physical nausea gripped Kendall. There was nothing he +could do for this man. It would be the sheerest impertinence to tell him +that he had pierced the flimsy screen of his story, and then to warn him +of its climax. + + * * * * * + +He thought hopefully that the woman might not recognize Rogers; he +was probably clean-shaven when he left. There would be that possible +chance for him to keep his identity secret if he wanted to. And, +naturally he would want to when he saw her. He could go back then to +Tulia, where Miss Irene thrived placidly. Yes, certainly Miss Irene! +Kendall felt a weary cynicism. Her kind were the age-old solace for +lost illusions; the sordid priestesses of Reality. And life always +stood ready to punish those who set up other gods than Reality. It +was about to punish Rogers mercilessly for his faithfulness to an +ideal. Even more mercilessly had it punished Mrs. Brownlie for her +sacrifice to duty; for not seizing and holding love while she had +it. For love faded with the color and contours of human flesh--so +little spiritual and enduring was this best thing that man had. + +Lily, in a little pink sunbonnet, was clinging to the gate at the +horse pasture when they drove up. Her face was a rose-shaded flower. +She turned away shyly from Rogers’ devouring stare. + +“Hello, sister,” he said, his lips twitching in a smile; “want to open +the gate for us?” + +The child climbed down and swung it open--the big chain rattling as she +let it drop. + +“Now you get in and ride to the house with us.” She came to the side of +the buggy and Kendall lifted her to his lap. He tried not to see how the +reins shook in Rogers’ hands. + +“So your name’s Lily, is it?” Again that transparent effort at +casualness. “Named after your maw, hey?” + +“Yes, how’d you know?” + +“Oh, just guessed. Who’s that man down there in the field?” Rogers bent +his head, trying to see the child’s face beneath her sunbonnet. + +She gave the smallest laugh. “That ain’t a man--it’s my brother. His +name’s Emmet.” + +“Emmet!” Kendall saw the first shock in Rogers’ face. He felt a quick +impatience with this man who seemed oblivious to what twelve years +could do to the child, Emmet, he had known. He must, he felt, nurse +this impatience; it was all that stood between him and some outbreak +before the unbearable poignancy of what he knew was to follow. + +“Where’s your other brothers?” + +“They’s gone for the cows.” + +They drew up at the hitching post by the front gate and Kendall got down +from the buggy. “Is your mother in the house, Lily?” he asked, knowing +that Rogers could not voice the question. + +“Yes. She’s a-ironin’.” + +“Well, you tell her I’ve come back. I’m going for a little walk.” He +opened the gate without looking at Rogers. His only thought was to get +away while this horrible thing was happening. + +He walked rapidly toward the windmill. He wanted water; his mouth was +very dry. He saw the woman coming toward him, carrying a bucket. She +wore a blue-checked apron over her brown denim dress. She was bent with +the weight of her burden, and as she came nearer she raised her arm in +that familiar gesture of brushing the straying hair from her face. “So +you’re back,” she said colorlessly. + +“Yes,” said Kendall, “and--” + +Within four feet of the back steps she stood, still as a stone, staring +past him. He turned and saw Rogers coming around the corner of the +house. He came slowly, uncertainly, looking fixedly at the woman. In +her masklike face, only the eyes were alive; alive with recognition and +despair. + +The creaking of the windmill sounded to Kendall like cracked, sardonic +laughter. The man, too, was standing motionless. + +“I’ve brought this gentleman, he wants to see you about your cattle.” A +detached part of Kendall’s mind marvelled at his own glibness. Then all +of him was suspended in amazement at Mrs. Brownlie. + +“Howdy,” she said, nodding casually to the stranger as she turned +toward the kitchen door. “Reckon we can talk business after supper. +Make yourself at home. Mr. Kendall’ll show you where to wash up.” She +stumbled a little as she climbed the steps to the porch, and some of +the water from the bucket slopped her skirt. + +“Lily!” cried a hoarse voice; and she set down the bucket and turned. +Her hand fumbled with the screen door; her knees trembled. + + * * * * * + +Kendall felt her action at that moment to have been the noblest he had +ever seen. She had given the man his chance to get away. + +And he was coming toward her falteringly, one hand holding his hat, the +other shading his eyes from the sun which shone straight in his face. + +“It’s you, Lily! Don’t you know me, Lily?--It’s Andrew.” + +“Yes, I know you--I knowed you right away.” The words were emotionless. + +“I’ve come back.” He was quite near her, his eyes level with her own as +she stood on the steps. “I’ve come for you, Lily--don’t you remember?” +The man’s eyes lifted to hers. + +But she answered him with the same passionless harshness with which she +addressed her sons: “Yes, I remember all right, but that don’t go now. +You couldn’t want me--like I am.” + +At that moment the little girl came slowly toward them. She pushed back +her sunbonnet and stood regarding the motionless group with a child’s +intent absorption. The mother looked at her. “Go put on a clean dress,” +she said with the old guarding fierceness, “and brush your hair.” + +As the child turned to obey, a terrifying change came over the woman’s +face. She threw her apron over her head and sank on the steps, torn with +sobbing. + +Rogers was beside her, his arms around her small, bowed figure, his lips +pressed to that straggling knot of hair. “Don’t, Lily, don’t! Your hard +times is over. I’m goin’ to take you and little Lily and the boys--I’ve +made a home for you. Don’t cry, Lily, don’t!” + +Out on the edge of the canyon where he had fled from the two who were as +unconscious of his going as they had been of his presence, Kendall stood +wiping his eyes and swallowing at the lump in his throat. The evening +haze was on the Paloduro: The vast, cedar-scragged expanse of red cliffs +and hills lay remote, alluring. But from infinite distance, to the +dream’s very edge, encroached the dun, level plains--as vast, as strong +and beautiful in their simplicity as the measureless strength and beauty +of the human heart. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 1930 issue +of McCall’s Magazine.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78410 *** |