The Project Gutenberg eBook ofTwo fares eastThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Two fares eastAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: June 29, 2022 [eBook #68426]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1926Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO FARES EAST ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Two fares eastAuthor: W. C. TuttleRelease date: June 29, 2022 [eBook #68426]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1926Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
Title: Two fares east
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Author: W. C. Tuttle
Release date: June 29, 2022 [eBook #68426]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: The Butterick Publishing Company, 1926
Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWO FARES EAST ***
Two Fares Eastby W. C. Tuttle
by W. C. Tuttle
by W. C. Tuttle
The ranch-house of Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H outfit was ablaze with light. Two lanterns were suspended on the wide veranda which almost encircled the rambling old house; lanterns were hanging from the corral fence, where already many saddle-horses and buggy teams were tied. Lanterns hung within the big stable and there was a lantern suspended to the crosstree of the big estate.
It was a big night at the Flying H. One of the stalls in the stable was piled full of a miscellaneous collection of empty five-gallon cans, cow-bells, shotguns; in fact, every kind of a noise-maker common to the cattle country was ready for the final words of the minister. For this was to be the biggest shivaree ever pulled off on the Tumbling River range.
Inside the living-room was the assembled company, sitting stiffly around the room, more than conscious of the fact that they were all dressed up. Old gray-bearded cattlemen, munching away at their tobacco; old ladies, dressed in all the finery at their limited command; cowboys, uncomfortable in celluloid collars and store clothes; old Uncle Hozie, red of face, grinning at everybody and swearing under his breath at Aunt Emma, who had shamed him into wearing an old Prince Albert coat which had fitted him fifty pounds ago.
“Look like you was the groom, Hozie,” chuckled one of the old cattlemen. “Gosh, yo’re shore duded-up!”
“Glad I ain’t,” said Uncle Hozie quickly. “All them wimmin upstairs, blubberin’ over the bride. Haw, haw, haw, haw! She’d ort to have on a swimmin’ suit. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”
He winked one eye expressively and jerked his head toward the kitchen. His actions were full of meaning.
Curt Bellew got to his feet, stretched his six-foot frame, smoothed his beard and tramped down heavily on one foot.
“Settin’ makes me stiff,” he said apologetically. “Got t’ move around a little.”
He half limped toward the kitchen door.
“Does kinda cramp yuh, Curt,” agreed old Buck West.
His wife reached for him, but too late. He didn’t look toward her, but followed Curt Bellew.
One by one they complained of inaction and sauntered out.
“I never seen so many men cravin’ exercise,” declared Mrs. West. “Ordinarily Buck’s a great setter.”
The women grinned knowingly at each other. They all knew Uncle Hozie had opened the liquor. Aunt Emma came down the stairs, looking quickly around the room.
“Oh, they’re all out in the kitchen, Emmy,” said Mrs. Bellew. “Said they was gettin’ cramped from settin’ around.”
“Oh, I s’pose Hozie couldn’t wait any longer. He swore he’d get drunk. Said he had to get drunk in order to forget that coat he’s got on. But he’s been pretty temp’rance for the last year or so, and a little mite of liquor won’t hurt him.”
“I s’pose it’s all right,” said Mrs. West dubiously. “How is Peggy?”
“Standin’ it right good,” said Aunt Emma. “Never seen a prettier bride in my life. Laura Hatton dressed her, and that girl does show good taste, even if she is from the East.”
“I never set no great store by Easterners,” said Mrs. Bellew. “But Laura’s nice. And she’s pretty, too. She’s sure put the Injun sign on ‘Honey’ Bee. That boy ain’t worth the powder it would take t’ blow him to Halifax. This may sound like an exaggeration, but it’s as true as I’m settin’ here; Honey Bee cut L.H. on the side of my organ.”
“No!” exclaimed the chorus.
“Yessir! With his pocket-knife. Carved ’em right into that polished wood. I said, ‘My ⸺, Honey—what’r yuh doin’?”
“He jist kinda jerked back and looked at his knife, like he didn’t know. And then he says:
“‘Mrs. Bellew, I begs yore pardon—I thought it was a tree.’”
“He thought it was a tree?” exclaimed Mrs. West.
“Uh-huh. Dreamin’, I tell yuh. Thought he was out in the woods.”
“Good thing yuh caught him,” said Mrs. Selby, a little old lady. “He’d prob’ly put his own initials in it, too.”
“Crazier ’n a bedbug!” declared Grandma Owens, whose ninety years allowed her to speak definitely.
“Love, Grandma,” said Mrs. Bellew.
“Same thing, Annie. I’ve watched ‘em for ninety year, and they ain’t no difference—love and lunacy. Has the preacher come yet?”
“Not yet. Listen!”
From the kitchen came the sound of voices raised in song.
“Wa-a-a-ay do-o-o-on yon-n-n-n-der in the co-o-orn-field.”
“Drunk!” said Grandma flatly.
“Drinking,” corrected Aunt Emma. “Most of ’em can stand more than Hozie can, and he ain’t drunk until he insists on soloin’ ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’. Up to that time he can undress himself and hang up his shirt, but when he starts on ‘Silver Threads’ he can’t even take off his own boots.”
“I wish they’d quit before Reverend Lake comes,” said Mrs. West. “He might not be in accord with such doings.”
“Won’t he?” Aunt Emma laughed softly. “Henry Lake may be pious, but he ain’t Puritanical. If he hears ’em, he’ll probably come in through the kitchen. Henry Lake has been givin’ us the gospel for twenty-five years, and no man can do that in this country, if he goes too strong against liquor.”
“Honey and Joe ought to be showin’ up,” said Mrs. Bellew.
“Oh, they’ll be here in time,” laughed Aunt Emma. “This is the first time Joe ever got married, and don’t you ever think Honey Bee is goin’ to be absent when there’s a chance to stand up at a weddin’ with Laura Hatton.”
Jim Wheeler came in from the kitchen and halted just inside the room. He was a big, gnarled sort of man, with mild blue eyes and an unruly mop of gray hair. His new boots creaked painfully and he seemed ill at ease in his new black suit and rumpled tie. Jim and Uncle Hozie were brothers, and Jim was the father of the bride-to-be.
“Preacher ain’t here yet?” asked Jim, drawing out a huge silver watch. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”
“Oh, he’ll be here,” assured Aunt Emma. “Peggy looks beautiful, Jim.”
“Uh-huh.” The big man seemed a trifle sad.
“You don’t seem to mind losin’ yore daughter, Jim,” said Mrs. West. “I remember when Sally got married; Buck cried.”
“Prob’ly drunk,” said Jim unfeelingly.
“Well, I like that, Jim Wheeler!”
A vision in white came down the stairs and halted near the bottom. It was Laura Hatton, the Easterner, who had come to Pinnacle City to attend the wedding of her old school chum. Laura was a tiny little blonde with big blue eyes and a laughing mouth which dismayed every cowboy in the Tumbling River country—except Honey Bee, who had been christened James Edward Bee.
“Wouldn’t you ladies like to come up and see the bride?” she asked. “She’s just simply a dream. Why, if I looked as pretty in wedding clothes as Peggy does, I’d turn Mormon.”
Jim Wheeler watched them go up the stairs and heard their exclamations of astonishment. Out in the kitchen an improvised quartet was singing “Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie.” Jim Wheeler shook his head sadly.
“Don’t seem to mind losing your daughter,” he muttered.
Oh, but he did mind it. She would live in her own home. Her mother had been dead ten years. After her death it seemed to Jim Wheeler that nothing could ever fill that void. But Peggy had grown to womanhood, filling the old ranch-house with her joyful presence, and Jim Wheeler had thanked God for a daughter like her. Now she would go away to a home of her own.
“Nobody but me and Wong Lee left,” said Wheeler sadly. “And he’s only a ⸺ Chinaman.”
Some one was knocking on the door, breaking in on Wheeler’s thoughts. He opened the door for the minister of the Tumbling River country. Henry Lake was a tall, lean-faced man, near-sighted, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Weddings, funerals or Sunday sermons, he had worn that suit as long as any of them could remember.
He peered closely at Jim Wheeler, shoving out a bony hand. “Howdy, Jim,” he said pleasantly.
“Hello, Henry. Got here at last, eh?”
The minister nodded slowly.
“My old horse isn’t as fast as she used to be, Jim. We’re both getting old, it seems. But—” he looked at his watch—“I’m near enough on time. Where’s everybody?”
“Wimmin are upstairs with the bride, and the men—” Jim hesitated and glanced toward the kitchen door.
“Carry me-e-e-e ba-a-ack to ol’ Virginny,” wailed a tenor, while a baritone roared, “While the old mill wheel turns ’round, I’ll love you, Ma-a-a-a-ary; when the bee-e-e-e-es—”
And then came the reedy falsetto of Hozie Wheeler—
“Da-a-a-arling, I am growing o-o-o-old.”
The minister nodded slowly.
“The perfectly natural reaction, Jim. The sentiment contained in corn and rye.”
“Like a little shot, Henry?”
“Not now, Jim; later, perhaps. Is the groom here yet?”
“Not yet. Him and Honey ought to be here any minute now.”
The women were coming back down the stairs, and the minister went to shake hands with them. Aunt Emma cocked one ear toward the kitchen, and a look of consternation crossed her face. She grasped Jim by the arm and whispered in his ear:
“Shake Hozie loose, Jim! He’s silver-threadin’ already.”
Jim nodded and went to the kitchen.
And while the Flying H resounded with good cheer, while more guests arrived and while Peggy Wheeler waited—Honey Bee buzzed angrily about Pinnacle City. Honey had just arrayed himself in a blue made-to-order suit, patent-leather shoes and a brown derby hat. Everything had come with the suit, and Honey cursed the tailor for having acute astigmatism.
The pants were a full six inches too short and at least that much too big around the waist. Honey managed to squeeze a number eight foot into the number six shoe. And the hat should have been a seven and one-quarter, instead of a six and seven-eighths.
Honey Bee was a medium-sized youth of twenty-five, with tow-colored hair, shading to a roan at the ends, blue eyes, tilted nose and a large mouth. The blue eyes were large and inquiring and the mouth grinned at everything. Honey was a top-hand cowboy, even if he was somewhat of a dreamer.
But just now there was no smile on Honey’s mouth. He had hired a horse and buggy from the livery-stable and had tied the horse in front of the sheriff’s office. It just happened that Joe Rich, the sheriff, was going to marry Peggy Wheeler, and had promised Honey to meet him at the office at half-past seven.
Every cowboy in the Tumbling River range envied Joe. Never had there been a lovelier girl than Peggy Wheeler, and none of the boys would admit that Joe was worthy of her.
“It’s a love match, pure and simple,” Honey had declared. “Peggy’s pure and Joe’s simple.”
But just now Honey was calling Joe stronger things than simpleton. It was nearing eight o’clock, and no Joe in sight. The office was closed. Len Kelsey, Joe’s deputy, was out at the Flying H, probably drinking more than was good for him.
Honey didn’t like Len. Possibly it was because Honey thought that Joe should have appointed him as deputy. And it is barely possible that Joe would have appointed Honey, except that, in order to swing a certain element, he had made a pre-election promise to appoint Len.
Joe was barely twenty-three years of age. Too young, many of the old-timers said, to be a sheriff of Tumbling River. But Joe won the election. He was a slender young man, slightly above the average in height, with a thin, handsome face, keen gray eyes and a firm mouth. He had been foreman of the Flying H, and Uncle Hozie had mourned the passing of a capable cowhand.
“Plumb ruined,” declared the old man. “Never be worth a ⸺ for anythin’ agin’. County offices has ruined more men than liquor and cards.”
Honey Bee sat in the buggy, resting his shining feet across the dashboard in order to lessen the pain. The coat was a little tight across the shoulders, and Honey wondered whether the tucks would show where he had gathered in the waistband of the trousers. His cartridge-belt made a decided bulge under his tight vest, but he had no other belt; and no cowboy would ever lower himself to wear suspenders. They were the insignia of a farmer.
“I wish I knowed what kind of a figure that ⸺ tailor had in mind when he built this here suit,” said Honey to himself. “I know ⸺ well I measured myself accurately. I might ’a’ slipped a little on some of it, bein’ as I had to do a little stoopin’; but never as much as this shows. Now, where in ⸺ is Joe Rich?”
It was eight o’clock by Honey’s watch. He got out of the buggy and almost fell down. His feet had gone to sleep. And when he made a sudden grab for the buggy wheel he heard a slight rip in the shoulder-seam of his coat.
“My ⸺, I’m comin’ apart!” he grunted.
Honey had not seen Joe since about five o’clock, and something seemed to tell him that everything was not right. Joe slept in the office. He and Len Kelsey were together the last time Honey had seen them, and Joe said he was going to get a shave. But the barber shop was closed now.
Honey limped around to Joe’s stable and found Joe’s horse there. Then he went back to the buggy. It was after eight now, and the wedding was scheduled for eight-thirty. It was over two miles to the Flying H from Pinnacle City and Honey knew that the buggy horse was not a fast stepper.
Honey swore dismally and stood on one foot. He needed a big drink to kill the pain. Across the street was the Pinnacle bar, the most popular saloon in town. There was sure to be several men in there and they would be sure to make some remarks about Honey’s clothes.
Farther down the street was the Arapaho bar. Honey did not like the place. “Limpy” Nelson owned the Arapaho, and Honey did not like Limpy. But Honey knew that no one would make remarks about his appearance down there, because Honey’s friends frequented the Pinnacle—and friends were the only ones entitled to make remarks.
So Honey stifled his pride and went to the Arapaho, where he leaned against the bar. Old Limpy was the only person there, except a drunk sprawled across a card-table near the rear of the place.
Limpy squinted at Honey and shifted his eyes toward the back of the room as he slid the glasses across the bar.
“Didn’t somebody say that the sheriff was gittin’ married t’night?” asked Limpy.
Honey poured out his drink and looked at it wearily. Lifting the glass, he looked critically at it.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m waitin’ for him.”
“That’s him back there,” Limpy pointed toward the rear.
“Eh?” Honey jerked around, staring. “What’s that, Limpy?”
“Joe Rich. Drunk as an owl.”
“For ⸺’s sake!” Honey dropped his glass and limped back to the table where Joe Rich sprawled. He slapped Joe on the shoulder, swearing foolishly.
“Joe! Joe, you ⸺ fool! Wake up, can’tcha?”
But Joe merely grunted heavily. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn when Honey saw him last, and he had not shaved.
Dead drunk on his marriage night! Honey sagged weakly against the table, speechless. He could visualize all those people out at the Flying H, waiting for them. He shoved away from the table and looked at Limpy.
“My God, this is awful, Limpy! He was to get married at eight-thirty. It’s almost that right now, and look at him!”
“Pretty drunk,” nodded Limpy.
“Dead t’ the world! Who’d he get drunk with?”
“Alone, I reckon. He was shore polluted when he came here. Got a couple more with Len and went to sleep back there.”
Honey groaned painfully. Joe reeked of whisky.
“Oh, you ⸺ fool!” wailed Honey. “Joe, can’tcha wake up? Let’s go for a walk. Joe! A-a-a-aw, you drunken bum!”
Two men came in and walked up to the bar. They were Ed Merrick and Ben Collins. Merrick owned the Circle M outfit, and Ben was one of his cowboys. Merrick had been the one who supported Joe Rich and had asked Joe to appoint Len Kelsey deputy. Len had worked for the Circle M for several years.
They came back and looked at Joe.
“And this is his weddin’ night!” wailed Honey.
“For ⸺ sake!” snorted Merrick disgustedly. “He was goin’ to marry Peggy Wheeler.”
“Loaded to the gills,” declared Ben. “He’s shore a ⸺ of a fine specimen for sheriff.”
“Yuh can throw that in a can!” snapped Honey. “Since when did the Circle M start judgin’ morals?”
Evidently Ben did not know; so he shut his mouth.
“What are yuh goin’ to do?” asked Merrick.
“Put him to bed. My ⸺, I can’t take him out to the Flyin’ H. Joe! You brainless idiot, wake up!”
“We better help yuh, Honey,” said Merrick. “He’s plumb floppy.”
Honey managed to get the office key from Joe’s pocket, and between the three of them they managed to carry Joe back to his office, where they put him on his bed.
“What’ll yuh do about it?” asked Merrick when they came out.
“God only knows, Merrick!” wailed Honey. “I can’t go out there and say he’s drunk. Oh, why didn’t the ⸺ fool get shot, or somethin’? I—I—aw ⸺, I’ve got to go out there. I hope to ⸺ the horse runs away and breaks my neck. But there ain’t much hopes,” dismally. “These Pinnacle livery horses never did run away from home. Well, I—thanks for helpin’ me put him to bed.”
Honey limped out, untied the horse and got into the buggy.
“I’d rather go to a funeral any old time,” he told the horse as they left town.”
“By ⸺, I’d rather go to my own funeral. But it can’t be helped; I’ve got to tell ’em.”
It is not difficult to imagine the frame of mind of those at the Flying H when eight-thirty passed and no sign of the groom and best man. The aged minister paced up and down the veranda, trying to make himself believe that everything was all right.
Down by the big gate stood Jim Wheeler, a dim figure beneath the hanging lantern. All hilarity had ceased in the kitchen. Uncle Hozie was seated in the living-room between Aunt Emma and Grandma Owens, grinning widely at nothing whatever.
Upstairs in a bedroom were Peggy Wheeler and Laura Hatton. An old clock on a dresser ticked loudly, its hands pointing at a quarter of nine. Peggy sat on a bed, her hands folded in her lap. She was a decided brunette, taller than Laura, brown-eyed; well entitled to the honor of being the most beautiful girl in the Tumbling River country.
There were tears in her brown eyes, and she bit her lip as Laura turned from the front window, shaking her blond head.
“Nobody in sight, Peggy. I just can’t understand it.”
Peggy shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to talk just now. Aunt Emma came slowly up the stairs and looked in at Peggy.
“I’ll betcha the buggy broke down,” she said. “They’ll both come walkin’ in pretty soon. Peggy, you dry them tears. Joe’s all right. Yuh can’t tell what’s happened. Bein’ the sheriff, he might have been called at the last minute. The law don’t wait on marriages. You just wait and see, Peggy.”
“Oh, I hope everything is all right,” sighed Peggy. “He’s twenty minutes late right now, Aunt Emma.”
Still they did not come. Some of the cowboys volunteered to ride back to Pinnacle City to see what the trouble might be, when the long-looked-for buggy hove in sight. They could see it far down the road in the moonlight. Laura had seen it from the bedroom window and came running back to Peggy.
“Good gracious, stand up, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “Your gown is all wrinkled. They’re coming at last. Heavens, your cheeks are all tear-streaked! No, don’t wipe them! You little goose, why did you shed all those tears?”
“Well, what would you have done?” laughed Peggy, allowing Laura to smooth her gown.
“I wouldn’t cry, that’s a sure thing.”
She darted back to the window, flinging the curtain aside.
“They’ve stopped at the gate,” she said. “I think they are talking to your father. Now he’s coming with them.”
Aunt Emma came running up the stairs, calling to Peggy.
“They’re here,” she called. “Goodness knows, it’s time.”
“I’m ready, Aunt Emma,” called Peggy.
Laura still stood at the window, watching the buggy come up to the veranda. But only Honey Bee got out of the buggy. He was talking to Jim Wheeler and forgot to tie the horse. Then they came into the house. A babel of questions assailed Honey, but Jim Wheeler’s heavy voice silenced them. Came several moments of silence. Laura had stepped back beside Peggy, who was listening.
“There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’,” said Jim Wheeler slowly. “Joe Rich is dead drunk.”
A silence followed Jim’s announcement. Peggy looked at Laura, and the blood slowly drained from her cheeks. She grasped for the foot of the bed to steady herself. Then came Honey’s voice:
“Aw, ⸺ it, don’t look at me thataway!” he wailed. “This wasn’t anythin’ I could help. I was to meet him at seven-thirty, and he didn’t show up; so I waited until after eight. Then I found him in the Arapaho saloon—asleep.”
Aunt Emma was coming up the stairs, bringing the news to Peggy. She didn’t realize that Peggy had heard all of it. They met at the top of the stairs, and Peggy went past her, clinging to the railing. Aunt Emma touched her on the arm, but Peggy did not look up. At the top of the stairs stood Laura, her eyes wide, the tears running down her cheeks.
Peggy went into the living-room and stopped just inside the doorway. The minister caught sight of her and crossed the room, but she brushed him aside.
“Honey,” she said breathlessly, “is that all true?”
Honey Bee shifted his weight to one foot, nodding jerkily.
“My ⸺, I wouldn’t lie to yuh, Peggy!” he said. “It shore is ⸺ to have to tell the truth in a case like this. All the way from town I’ve tried to frame up a lie, but it wasn’t no use, Peggy. Mebbe it was my feet. A feller with an eight foot can’t think of no lies in a six shoe.”
Peggy’s eyes swept the assemblage of old friends, and their faces seemed blurred. No one spoke. Her father stood beside her, grim-faced, stunned.
“I’m sorry,” said Peggy simply, and went back toward the stairs.
Slowly the crowd gathered up their belongings and went away. Even Uncle Hozie was shocked to sobriety. Finally there was no one left in the big living-room except Honey Bee. He took off his shoes and coat and was going toward the front door when Laura Hatton came down the stairs. She had been crying.
Honey stared at her and she stared at Honey.
“Huh-howdy,” said Honey, bobbing his head. “Nice weather.”
Then he tried to bow, and the effort pulled the waistband of his pants away from his belt. He made a quick grab, and saved the day.
“Oh, why did you have to come and tell her a thing like that?” asked Laura. “Why didn’t you lie like a gentleman?”
“Lie like a gentleman?” Honey stared at her, his hands clutching the coat, shoes and waistline.
“Yes—lie!” said Laura fiercely. “You could have told that Joe had to chase horse-thieves, or something like that.”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Honey. “Well, yeah, I could.”
“Well, why didn’t you?”
“Them’s why!” Honey flung down the offending shoes. “By ⸺, yuh can’t be pretty and smart at the same time! Folks say that brains are in yore head, but they’re not. They’re in yore feet, I tell yuh! Pinch yore feet and yuh can’t think. That’s why I had to tell the truth.”
“I suppose so,” said Laura sadly. “Perhaps it is all for the best. You better go home, Mr. Bee; you’re half undressed.”
“Half?” gasped Honey. “If anythin’ makes me let loose—I’m all undressed! Good night.”
Honey climbed into his buggy and drove back to Pinnacle City, sadder and wiser, as far as clothes were concerned. The outfit had cost him forty dollars. He sat down on the brown derby when he got into the seat, but he was too disgusted to move off it.
He turned the horse over to the stableman and went to the Pinnacle Saloon in his sock-feet, carrying his coat. Some of the men who had been at the Flying H were at the saloon, having a drink before going home. Len Kelsey, the deputy, was there. Len was a tall skinny, swarthy young man, inclined to be boastful of his own abilities.
“You seen Joe?” asked Honey.
Len shook his head.
“Mebbe we better go over and see how he’s comin’ along,” suggested Honey.
They walked over to the office and found Joe still on the bed, snoring heavily. He opened his eyes when Honey shook the bed, and looked around in a bewildered way.
“Whazamatter?” he asked thickly.
“When yuh sober up, you’ll find out,” growled Honey. “You shore raised ⸺ and put a chunk under it tonight, pardner.”
“Huh?”
Joe lifted himself on one elbow and stared at the lamp. He blinked owlishly and looked at Honey. Joe’s eyes were bloodshot and he breathed jerkily.
“Whatcha mean?” he asked.
“Do you know what night this is?” asked Honey.
Joe squinted one eye thoughtfully.
“What night? What—” he sank back on the pillow and shut his eyes.
“Pretty sick,” observed Len. “Better let him sleep it off.”
“Oh, I suppose,” said Honey.
He threw some covers over Joe and they went out together, after turning the lamp down low.
But Joe did not go back to sleep. His head ached and his throat was so dry he could hardly swallow. Finally he got out of bed and staggered over to the table, where he turned up the lamp.
For several minutes he stood against the table, rubbing his head and trying to puzzle things out. On a chair near the bed was a white shirt and collar, gleaming white in the light of the lamp. On the floor was a new pair of shoes.
Suddenly the mist lifted from Joe’s brain and he remembered. It came to him like an electric shock. He was to be married!
He stumbled to the door and flung it open. It was dark out there, the street deserted. Wonderingly he looked at his watch.
Eleven o’clock!
Slowly he went back to the bed and sat down, holding his head in his hands. What night was it? he wondered. Was it the night of his marriage—or the night before? No, it couldn’t be the night before. He remembered everything. And now he remembered that Honey was wearing a white collar. Nothing but a marriage or a funeral would cause Honey to wear a white collar.
He felt nauseated, dry-throated. What had he done? There was a light in the Pinnacle Saloon; so he went over there. The cool night air revived him a little, but his legs did not track very well.
Honey and Len were at the bar, talking with the bartender, when Joe came in.
“Gosh, you shore look like the breakin’ up of a hard winter, pardner,” observed Honey.
Joe came up to the bar and hooked one elbow over the polished top. He wanted to sit down, but forced himself to stand.
“Honey,” he said hoarsely, “what night is this?”
“What night? Joe, you ⸺ fool, this was yore weddin’ night!”
Joe sagged visibly and Honey caught him by the arm.
“You better set down,” advised Len.
Joe allowed Honey to lead him to a chair, where he slumped weakly, staring wide-eyed at Honey.
“My weddin’ night?” he whispered. “Honey, don’t lie to me!”
“Nobody lyin’ to yuh, Joe.”
Joe slid down in the chair, his face the color of wood ashes. He lifted his right hand almost to his face, but let it fall to his knee.
“Don’t lie, Honey!” It was a weak whisper. There was still hope left.
“I ain’t lyin’, Joe,” said Honey sadly. “Good God, I wish I was! Len was there; he can tell yuh. I waited for yuh, like I said I would, Joe. But you never showed up. It was after eight o’clock when I went huntin’ yuh, and ⸺ yore hide, I found yuh in the Arapaho, drunk as a boiled owl.”
“Drunk as a boiled owl,” whispered Joe.
“Y’betcha. I couldn’t take yuh, Joe. ⸺, I’d do anythin’ for yuh, and you know it; but I couldn’t take yuh out there thataway, so I put yuh to bed.”
Joe groaned painfully.
“They—they were out there—everybody, Honey?”
“Everybody, Joe. I tried to think up a lie to tell ’em, but my feet hurt so ⸺ bad that I couldn’t even think. I had to tell ’em the truth. It was nine o’clock. Aw, it was awful.”
Joe had sunk down in the chair, breathing like a runner who had just finished a hard race.
“I seen Peggy,” said Honey. “My ⸺, but she was beautiful! And you hurt her, Joe. I could tell she was hurt bad, but she jist said she was sorry.”
“Oh, my God, don’t!”
Joe lurched out of the chair, panting, hands clenched. Suddenly he flung his hands up to his eyes.
“Oh, what have I done? I don’t understand it. I must have been crazy. Am I crazy now—or dreaming? No, I’m not dreamin’; so I must be crazy. Dead drunk on my weddin’—oh, what’s the matter with the world, anyway?”
He stood in the middle of the saloon, his eyes shut, his face twisted with the pain of it all. He stumbled forward and would have fallen had not Honey grasped him.
“You better go and sleep on it, pardner,” advised Honey.
“Sleep? With this on my mind?”
“Well, yuh got drunk with it on yore mind.”
“Aw, don’t rub it in on him,” said the bartender. “Better have a drink, Joe. You sure need bracin’.”
“He don’t need any more drinks,” declared Honey. “Good gosh, he plumb reeks of it yet. What he needs is sleep.”
“Sleep?” Joe smiled crookedly. “Oh, what can I do? I feel like I was all dead, except my mind.”
“Come out to the ranch with me, Joe,” urged Honey.
“And face the Bellew family?”
“You’ve got to face ’em all, sooner or later, Joe.”
“I suppose that’s true! Honey, what did they say? What did they do?”
“What could they do, Joe? I don’t think they said much. I know Peggy didn’t. They jist acted like they was stunned. It was worse ’n a funeral.”
“Hozie was drunk, and it sobered him,” offered Len.
“Poor old Hozie,” said Joe. “All my friends—once.”
“Aw, they’ll get over it, Joe,” said Honey. “They all like you awful well.”
“Did like me, Honey. Oh, I’m all through. I may not have any brains, but in spite of what I’ve done, I’ve got some pride left. I can’t face ’em. I know what they’re saying!
“‘Drunken bum! Drunken bum!’ Oh, I know it, Honey. No matter whether I’m guilty or not, I’ll always be the drunken bum who forgot his own weddin’. Is there anybody or anythin’ lower than I am?”
“You could put on a plug-hat and walk under a snake’s belly,” said Honey unfeelingly. “I’m not upholdin’ yuh, cowboy. Far be it from me to interrupt yuh when yuh start sayin’ mean things about yourself; but that don’t alter the fact that I’m yore friend, and I ask yuh to come out to the bunk-house and sleep yourself into a sane frame of mind. Right now yo’re as crazy as a locoed calf.”
Joe shook his head.
“Thank yuh, Honey, but I’m goin’ to saddle my horse and see if the wind will straighten me out. I’m sick as a fool, and I’ve got a lot of thinkin’ to do.”
Joe lurched out of the saloon and stumbled across the street, heading for his stable. Honey shook his head sadly and went back to the bar.
“He’s shore sufferin’,” said the bartender.
“Yeah, he is,” nodded Honey sadly. “He’s gittin’ all the hell a man ever gits. Yuh don’t have to die a sinner to get punished, I happen to know. Some gits it right here.”
“Have you suffered?” asked the bartender.
“What in ⸺ do yuh think I’m runnin’ around in my socks for? I’ll say I’ve suffered. Let’s have one more drink.”
Pinnacle City was the oldest settlement in the Tumbling River country and had always been the county seat since the boundary lines had been drawn. Originally the place had been only a small settlement and the houses had been built along a wagon-road. And as the place grew larger this road became the main street, with very little added to the original width. In several places the road had twisted to avoid a mud-hole, and the main street was consequently very crooked.
But Pinnacle City had never become a metropolis. It was still the small cow-town; muddy in winter, dusty in summer, with poorly made wooden sidewalks which followed the contour of the ground fairly closely. The railroad had added little to Pinnacle City except a brick-red depot, warehouse and some loading corrals.
Eighteen miles southeast was the town of Kelo, and twelve miles northwest was the town of Ransome. Tumbling River ran southwest, cutting straight through the center of the valley. A short distance west of Pinnacle City were the high pinnacles of the Tumbling range, which gave the town its name. Barbed-wire had never made its appearance in the Tumbling River range, feed was good and there was plenty of water.
Five outfits ranged their stock in the Pinnacle City end of the Tumbling River range, the farthest away from town being Ed Merrick’s Circle M, located about eight miles due south. Midway between the town and the Circle M, and just on the east bank of Tumbling River, was Jim Wheeler’s HJ ranch.
Southwest, about three miles from town, was Curt Bellew’s Lazy B. This was on the west side of the river. A little less than three miles to the northeast of Pinnacle City was Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H; and four miles northwest of town was Buck West’s 3W3 outfit.
Jim Wheeler’s ranch was just between the wagon-road and the railroad, on the way to Kelo. The two bridges were less than half a mile apart. Jim Wheeler’s wife had died when Peggy was a little slip of a girl, but Jim had kept his ranch and raised his daughter, aided and abetted by Aunt Emma Wheeler, who had wanted to raise her. The HJ was a small ranch. Jim had been content to run a few cattle and horses. Wong Lee, the Chinese cook, had been with the HJ for years, and Jim swore that the county had always assessed Wong as personal property of the HJ.
Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H was a larger outfit, employing three cowboys, Lonnie Myers, Dan Leach and “Nebrasky” Jones, known as the “Heavenly Triplets,” possibly because there was nothing heavenly about any of them. Lonnie was a loud-talking boy from the Milk River country; Dan Leach hailed from eastern Oregon, and Nebrasky’s cognomen disclosed the State of his nativity. Uncle Hozie called them his debating society and entered into their State arguments in favor of Arizona.
Curt Bellew’s Lazy B supported three cowboys: Eph Harper, “Slim” Coleman and Honey Bee. Mrs. Bellew contended that the ranch could be handled with one man, but that Curt wanted to match Hozie Wheeler in numbers. She pointed out the fact that Buck West could run his 3W3 outfit with only two men, Jimmy Black and Abe Liston, just because Buck wasn’t so lazy he couldn’t do some of the work himself. Which of course was a gentle hint that Curt might do more himself.
The Circle M ranged more stock than any of the other ranches and only carried three men besides Ed Merrick. Ben Collins, “Dutch” Siebert and Jack Ralston made up the personnel of the Circle M, since Len Kelsey had left them to take up his duties as deputy sheriff under Joe Rich.
It was the morning following the wedding which had not taken place that Joe Rich rode up to the Flying H. All night long he had ridden across the hills, fighting out with himself to decide what to do, and he was a sorry-looking young man when he drew rein near the veranda of the Flying H ranch-house. He had ridden away without coat, hat or chaps. His trouser-legs were torn from riding past brush, his face scratched, his hair disheveled.
Uncle Hozie saw him from the window and came down to him. Lonnie Myers and Nebrasky were at the corral, saddling their horses. They merely glanced in his direction, recognizing him, but paying no attention. Uncle Hozie looked Joe over critically, but said nothing.
“Well, why don’t yuh say somethin’?” demanded Joe wearily. “My ⸺, Hozie, don’t just stand there! Swear at me, if yuh feel thataway.”
Uncle Hozie shook his head slowly and sighed. He had drunk a little too much the night before, and his spirits were not overly bright. A tin can rattled loudly, and they looked toward the stable, where Dan Leach was throwing out the stuff they had stacked in the stall for the shivaree.
Joe’s eyes closed tightly for a moment and he turned his head away. He knew what those noise producers had been meant for. A cow-bell clattered among the cans. Lonnie and Nebrasky were watching Joe from the corral.
“I don’t feel like cussin’ anybody,” said Uncle Hozie.
“Not even me?” asked Joe.
“You? Nope. What’sa use, Joe? If yuh cuss folks before they do wrong it might do some good. Afterward, it’s no use. Yuh can’t wipe out what a man writes in the book of fate, Joe.”
“And I shore wrote a page last night, Hozie.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’d tell a man yuh did, Joe.” Uncle Hozie cocked one eye and looked at Joe.
“There’s by actual count, seventeen ⸺ fools in this Tumblin’ River range—and yo’re all of ’em, Joe.”
“I admit it, Hozie.”
“You do? My ⸺, you didn’t think for a minute yuh could deny it, didja? Huh! Why don’tcha git down? My ⸺, I hate to talk to a man on a horse! Especially the mornin’ after. Kinda hurts my eyes to look up.”
Joe shook his head.
“No, I can’t stay, Hozie.”
“Nobody asked yuh to, did they?”
“No. Is Peggy here yet?”
“No, she ain’t, Joe,” softly. “They went home last night—her and Jim and Laura Hatton. Jim thought it was best. Emma tried to get ’em to stay a while, but they kinda wanted to be at home, where there wouldn’t be anybody to ask questions.”
“To ask questions!” echoed Joe. “That’s the worst of it.”
“I dunno,” sighed Hozie. “It’s the first weddin’ I ever seen that raveled right out thataway. Honey Bee showed up with his coat in one hand and his shoes in the other. He shore was the worst-lookin’ best man I ever seen.”
“Poor old Honey.”
“Yeah, yuh ought to feel sorry for somebody, Joe. I don’t sabe yuh; by ⸺, I don’t! I thought I knew yuh, but I reckon I don’t. I ain’t said what I think about yuh to anybody. Mebbe I ain’t had no chance; so many folks has said what they thought about it that I’ve kinda got their ideas and mine all tangled up. Mebbe after while I’ll git my own ideas straightened up to where I know they’re all mine, I’ll look ’em over.”
“I suppose they’d like to hang me, Hozie.”
“Hang yuh? Huh! Reminds me of a Dutchman I knowed. He runs into a gang of punchers that was goin’ to lynch a horse thief. Dutchy runs into ’em, and asks what it’s all about.
“‘Vat iss it all about?’ asks Dutchy.
“‘Goin’ to hang a horse thief,’ says a puncher.
“‘Oh, dot’s too bad,’ says Dutchy. ‘You shouldn’t hang a man for stealing von horse.’
“‘It was yore horse, Dutchy.’
“‘So-o-o-o? Don’t hang him; dot’s too good for him. Let me kick him in de pants.’”
Joe smiled bitterly.
“Do you think hangin’ is too good for me, Hozie?” he asked.
“I don’t say it is, Joe; but when I got a look at Peggy last night I shore wanted to give yuh some of the Dutchman’s medicine.”
Joe wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and wet his lips with a dry tongue.
“I reckon I’m all through in Tumblin’ River, Hozie.”
“Well,” Uncle Hozie bit off a huge chew of tobacco and masticated rapidly, thoughtfully. “Well, Joe, it ain’t for me to say. I got up as far as ‘Silver Threads’ last night myself, but of course it wasn’t my weddin’ night. But, accordin’ to some remarks I heard expressed last night, the folks of the Tumblin’ River ain’t takin’ up no collection to buy yuh a monument. Yuh see, Joe, Peggy is kinda well liked.”
“Kinda well liked! My ⸺!” Joe shut his jaw tightly and fumbled at his reins. “I’ll be goin’, Hozie.”
“Yeah? Well.” Hozie spat thoughtfully, but did not look up at Joe.
“Be good to yourself,” he said slowly.
Joe turned and rode away, never looking back. Hozie sat down on the veranda and Aunt Emma came out. She had been watching from a window.
“What did he have to say?” she asked.
“Joe? Oh, nothin’ much.”
“What excuse did he offer?”
“None.”
“Didn’t deny bein’ drunk?”
“Didn’t mention it.”
“Feel sorry about it, Hozie?”
“Didn’t say.”
“Well, what in the world did you two talk about?”
“Public opinion.”
Aunt Emma snorted.
“Public opinion, eh? Did you tell him what you thought of him?”
“Nope; wasn’t quite clear in my own mind, Emma.”
“I suppose not. If Jim hadn’t stopped yuh last night—”
“Oh, I know,” Hozie smiled softly. “My voice was kinda good, too. Curt Bellew said he never heard me sing so well.”
“Curt was drunk, too.”
“Thasso. Prob’ly accounts for him likin’ my voice. I’d like to sing to a sober man some day and get an honest opinion.”
“No sober man would listen to you, Hozie.”
“I s’pose not,” Uncle Hozie sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s jist sort of a drunken bond between inebriates that makes me feel sorry for Joe Rich, Emma; but I do. He looked so doggone helpless and lonesome this mornin’. No, I didn’t tell him I felt sorry. He don’t deserve sympathy.”
“He don’t deserve anythin’,” declared Aunt Emma.
“Hangin’—mebbe.”
“And you feel sorry for him?”
“I want to, Emma.” Uncle Hozie turned and looked at her. “I’ve worked with that boy a lot. Me and him have rubbed knees on some hard rides, and I kinda looked on Joe like I would on my own son. He was straight and square—until now, Emma. Mebbe,” he hesitated for a moment, “mebbe I’m feelin’ sorry for the Joe Rich of yesterday.”
“Well, that’s different, Hozie,” said Aunt Emma softly, and went back in the house. She had thought a lot of Joe Rich of yesterday, too.
Joe rode back to Pinnacle City and stabled his tired horse. He had spent all his savings for a little four-room house on the outskirts of Pinnacle and had gone in debt for the furnishings. It was to have been their home.
Len Kelsey was asleep in the office when Joe came in and sat down at his desk. He woke up and looked curiously at Joe.
“Wondered where yuh was, Joe,” he said sleepily.
“Yeah?”
Joe drew out a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the ink bottle and began writing. Kelsey turned over and went to sleep again.
Joe finished writing, folded the paper and walked out of the office. Just south of his office was the old two-story frame-building court-house, and as Joe started to enter the front door he met Jim Wheeler and Angus McLaren, chairman of the board of county commissioners.
McLaren was a big, raw-boned Scot who owned a general store in Kelo. McLaren, Ed Merrick and Ross Layton, of Ransome, composed the board of commissioners.
Joe Rich stopped short as he faced Jim Wheeler. For possibly five seconds the HJ cattleman stared at the sheriff of Tumbling River, and then, without a word, he struck Joe square in the face, knocking him out through the doorway, where Joe went to his haunches on the sidewalk, dazed, bleeding from his nose and mouth.
Quickly the big Scotsman stepped in front of Wheeler, grasping him with both hands.
“Stop it, Jim!” he ordered.
Wheeler stepped back, his face crimson with anger, but saying nothing.
Joe did not get up, nor did he even look at Wheeler, who stepped past McLaren and went slowly up the street.
“Are ye hurt much, Joe?” asked McLaren not unkindly. He knew all about what had happened the night before.
Joe did not reply. He got slowly to his feet and leaned against the building, while he drew out the folded sheet of paper. Then he unpinned the silver star from the bosom of his soiled shirt, pinned it to the sheet of paper and handed it to McLaren. Then he turned and went slowly down the street.
McLaren stared after him. Joe Rich staggered slightly, but he was not drunk. McLaren unfolded the paper and read it carefully. It was Joe’s resignation, written to the board of county commissioners. McLaren put it in his pocket.
“Life’s queer,” said the big Scot thoughtfully. “Yesterday he was Joe Rich, sheriff of Tumblin’ River, the luckiest young man in the world. And today—nobody! Ye never know yer luck, so ye don’t; and who has the right to judge him?”
He turned and went back to his office.
Joe staggered off the main street and went down through an alley. He wanted to get off the street; to be where no one would talk to him. Strangely enough he felt no pain from the blow. Except for the fact that his face was bleeding, he was not aware he had been hurt.
The thought of Jim Wheeler knocking him down hurt worse than any blow, and he moved along blindly; not going anywhere—just away from everybody. He did not realize where he was until he heard a voice speak his name.
He was standing beside a picket-fence, and there was Honey Bee, holding the reins of his horse. The picket-fence was the one around Joe’s house; the one Aunt Emma had called “Honeymoon Home.”
“I seen yuh cuttin’ across this way,” explained Honey. “My ⸺, yuh shore got an awful lookin’ face on yuh, cowboy. Horse kick yuh?”
Joe shook his head. He didn’t want to talk with Honey Bee, but he knew there was no chance of getting away from him. Honey was tying his horse to the fence, and now he came over to Joe.
“Mebbe we better go in the house, Joe,” he said. “Yuh got to wash off that blood.”
Joe nodded and followed Honey to the house. It was not locked. Folks did not lock their houses in the Tumbling River country. Honey filled a basin with water and found a towel. Honey was rather rough but effective.
“Yo’re a ⸺ of a lookin’ thing,” he declared.
“Thasall right,” mumbled Joe. “Thanks, Honey.”
Joe slumped back in a rocking-chair and closed his eyes, while Honey put away the basin and towel.
“I’m wonderin’ what the other feller looks like,” said Honey, as he manufactured a cigaret.
“Jim Wheeler,” said Joe.
“The ⸺! Did Jim Wheeler hit yuh, Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll be ⸺! Jim Wheeler! What did he say, Joe?”
“Nothin’. Wasn’t anythin’ to be said.”
“Uh-huh. Makes it kinda hard for yuh, cowboy. Anyway, yuh had to meet him sooner or later. Ain’tcha goin’ out to see Peggy?”
“No, I can’t do that, Honey.”
“I s’pose not. I was past there today—this mornin’. Saw Laura. Didn’t sleep none, I reckon. She’s a darned pretty girl, but this mornin’ her eyes shore looked like two burned holes in a blanket. I pulled off an awful fox pass last night. I took off my coat and shoes, ’cause I shore was in misery, and then Laura comes hoppin’ in on me. I has to make my little bow, and my belt missed connections with my pants. Na-a-aw, I saved myself, all right; but it shore needed quick action. Either that tailor is awful cock-eyed, or I’m a queer built jigger.”
“You didn’t see Peggy?” asked Joe softly.
“Nope. I asked Laura how she was, and Laura asks me how any other girl would be under them conditions. If I was you, I’d go out and have a talk with her. But not the way yuh look now, Joe. Rest up a while. Let Len Kelsey run the office for a few days.”
“I resigned this mornin’, Honey.”
“Yuh resigned? Yuh mean you’ve quit bein’ sheriff? Aw, ⸺, why didja do that? You ⸺ idjit! Throwin’ up a job like that. Ho-o-o-o—hum-m-m-m! Joe, yo’re a ⸺ fool.”
“In every way, Honey.”
“A-a-aw, I didn’t mean it thataway, Joe. You know me. I’d go to ⸺ and half way back for you, and you know it. But you’ve shore dug yourself an awful hole, and you’ll never git out by quittin’ thataway. Laura is tryin’ to get Peggy to go home with her for a while. She’ll prob’ly have one awful time convincin’ Jim Wheeler that it’s the best thing for Peggy to do—but Laura is shore convincin’.”
“You mean that Peggy would go East, Honey?”
“Yeah, sure. She’s got friends back there; folks she knew where she went to school with Laura. Mebbe it’s the best thing for her to do. Jim ain’t got a lot of money, but he can afford it, I reckon. What do you figure on doin’, Joe?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Honey. I can’t make up my mind to anythin’. I just run in circles, and every way I turn there’s a blank wall; no way out.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so. Let’s go and buy a drink.”
Joe shook his head.
“I don’t think I’ll ever want another drink of liquor, Honey. I’m goin’ to sleep a while, and mebbe I can think my way clear.”
Honey came past the court-house and saw Jim Wheeler, Angus McLaren, Ed Merrick and Ross Layton just going into the place. They were going to consider the resignation of Joe Rich, and it did not take them long to decide on an acceptance.
Ross Layton was a saloon owner in Ransome. He was rather small, slightly gray, and affected flowing ties and fancy vests. The rest of his raiment was rather somber, a fact which had caused Honey Bee to remark—
“Looks like a ⸺ bouquet of flowers wrapped up in crêpe.”
There was no argument over the appointment of Len Kelsey as the successor of Joe Rich, and it was up to Len to pick his own deputy. They went from the court-house to the sheriff’s office, where they told Len of his good fortune. The skinny-faced deputy grinned widely and accepted his honors. As the three men were leaving Len said to Merrick—
“Send Jack in to see me, Ed.”
“All right, Len,” nodded Merrick.
Len and Jack Ralston had been bunkies at the Circle M, and it would be the natural thing for Len to appoint Jack as his deputy.
McLaren had some business to attend to at the Pinnacle City bank, so he left Merrick and Wheeler together. Layton had left them at the sheriff’s office.
“It’s sure funny how things change,” observed Merrick.
The owner of the Circle M was slightly under forty years of age, above medium height. He was rather good-looking and dressed well. However, he looked more like a gambler than a county official and a solid citizen. Perhaps this aspect was enhanced by the fact that he shaved regularly, kept his black mustache trimmed and waxed to needle-like points, and wore pants instead of overalls.
“I was thinkin’ about Joe Rich,” said Merrick.
Jim Wheeler shoved his hands deep in his pockets and did not lift his eyes from serious contemplation of his own boot-toes.
“I wanted to talk to yuh, Merrick,” he said slowly. “This sure has been a blow to me. Laura Hatton wants Peggy to go home with her. I dunno—mebbe’s it’s the best thing to do. I don’t mind layin’ my cards on the table.”
Jim Wheeler looked up at Merrick.
“I owe the Pinnacle City bank seven thousand dollars and I can’t ask ’em for any more, Merrick.”
“Uh-huh.” Merrick did not seem impressed.
“You know what the HJ ranch is, Merrick. Seven thousand is a lot of money against it. I’ve got to have another thousand, if I send Peggy back with Laura.”
“Well, I might let yuh have it, Jim. Bank got a mortgage?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll take your note. How soon do yuh need it?”
“Any time in the next couple of days.”
“All right, I’ll let yuh have it, Jim.”
They separated and Merrick went to the Pinnacle Saloon, where he met Honey Bee. Honey had drunk enough to make him loquacious.
“Didja accept Joe’s resignation?” asked Honey.
“Nothin’ else to do,” replied Merrick. There was little love lost between these two men.
“Uh-huh.” Honey leaned against the bar and cuffed his hat to one side of his head.
“Who’sa sheriff now?”
“Len Kelsey.”
“O-o-o-oh, is that so? My, my! Things shore do change quick. If yuh had a lawyer and a doctor in yore Circle M, you’d kinda run the whole danged country, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Merrick grinned and invited Honey to have a drink.
“Well, I’ll drink with yuh,” agreed Honey. “I’m sad at heart.” They lifted their glasses to each other.
“Hits Jim Wheeler pretty hard,” said Merrick gravely.
“Sure does. Here’s how.”
“He tells me,” said Merrick, placing his glass on the bar, “that his daughter is goin’ East with Miss Hatton.”
“Yeah, I heard that,” said Honey sadly. “I didn’t know it was all settled.”
“I reckon it is. Anyway, I’m makin’ a loan to Jim. He’s in kinda heavy at the bank; so I’m lettin’ him have the money.”
“Uh-huh. Well, that’s nice of yuh.”
“Where’s Joe Rich, Honey?”
“I left him down at his new place, settin’ there, lookin’ at nothin’. That boy’s half crazy.”
“Must have been more than half crazy,” declared Merrick.
“Yeah. Now I’ll buy a drink.”
Honey went back to Joe’s place before he went to the Lazy B, and found Joe still sitting in the same chair. He told Joe what Merrick had said about Jim’s borrowing money from Merrick to send Peggy with Laura.
“How much did he have to borrow?” asked Joe.
Honey didn’t know.
“Jim Wheeler must be short of money,” said Honey. “Merrick said he was in pretty deep with the Pinnacle bank. They accepted yore resignation and appointed Len Kelsey, Joe.”
“Quick work,” said Joe shortly.
“Yeah, I’ll say it is. You were a fool to quit that job.”
Honey left him there and rode out of town. He intended going straight back to the Lazy B, but began thinking about Laura Hatton so strongly that he found himself crossing the Tumbling River bridge before he realized where he was heading.
Jim Wheeler arrived there ahead of Honey, and was sitting on the porch, talking with Peggy and Laura, while Jack Ralston, of the Circle M, sat on a step, hat on the back of his head. Ralston was a tall, curly-headed young man who thought quite a lot of Jack Ralston. He was a clever roper, and one of the best bronc riders in the country.
Honey scowled and wanted to keep right on riding, but he was so close that it might look queer if he didn’t stop. Peggy went into the house before Honey arrived. Ralston looked critically at Honey, nodded shortly, and resumed conversation with Laura.
Honey dismounted. Then he uncinched his saddle, shook it a little, and took plenty of time cinching it again. He knew he was of a hair-trigger disposition, and was trying to curb it. Ralston was telling Laura about how he rode Derelict, a locally famous outlaw horse, at a recent rodeo. Honey’s ears reddened slightly. Derelict had thrown Honey the day before Ralston had ridden him, and it had taken ten minutes for Honey to recover consciousness.
“It must be wonderful to ride a bucking horse,” said Laura. “I saw Lonnie Myers ride one at the Flying H. Oh, it was a lot of fun!”
“That was just an ordinary bucker,” said Ralston. “Any puncher can ride a half-broke bucker. Lots of the boys in this country think they’re riders, but when it comes to fannin’ the real buckers—they don’t show much. You wait until we have another rodeo, and I’ll show yuh some ridin’.”
“Yeah, he’s a good rider,” said Honey, still fussing with his latigo. “Awful good rider. I shouldn’t be surprized if he’s half as good as he thinks he is. Ridin’ broncs makes folks talk thataway. Of course, us ord’nary punchers don’t go lookin’ for glory in the bronc corral, so we never do get shook up very bad. But you can tell them good riders every time. They’re kinda buck-drunk, as yuh might say. They ain’t very tight-brained to begin with, and all that shock and jerk soon gits the inside of their heads kinda rattly.
“Oh, they’re all right, as far as that goes. Nobody expects ’em to do anythin’ but ride buckers. But they don’t know it, and the way them p’fessional bronc riders do talk! Mebbe they ain’t so much to blame, at that; but everythin’ is ‘I’ with ’em. Rodeos are all right, I s’pose. Folks get a lot of fun out of it; but them buckin’ contests shore do bring in undesirable citizens.”
Honey had spoken so earnestly that Laura Hatton did not realize he was talking about Jack Ralston.
But Jack Ralston knew. He got to his feet, glaring at Honey, who paid no attention to him at all. He adjusted the split-ear headstall of his bridle, looked it over critically and came over to the steps. Ralston glanced from Honey to Laura and then shot a glance at Jim Wheeler, who, in spite of the misery in his soul, was trying to stifle a laugh.
“Well, I’ll be goin’,” said Ralston. “Good day.”
Honey twisted his mouth into a wide grin as he watched Ralston ride away.
“He is very entertaining,” said Laura.
“Who—Jack?” Honey grinned widely. “Liars mostly always are.”
Jim Wheeler laughed and went into the house, for which Honey thanked him mentally. Honey sat down on the steps, cuffed his hat to the back of his head and sighed deeply.
“How’s Peggy feelin’?” he asked.
“Better. She’s going back home with me; it’s all settled.”
“Uh-huh,” said Honey gloomily. “Lotta luck in that for me.”
“For you?”
“Yeah; you goin’ away.”
“Oh!” Laura’s blue eyes opened wide. “Well, you knew I was only here on a visit, Honey.”
“Oh! shore; I knowed it. Yuh can’t stay, huh?”
“Not very well.”
“Uh-huh. I s’pose—” Honey hesitated awkwardly. “I s’pose you’ve got a lot of fellers back East, eh?”
He pointed north, but the direction made no difference. Laura smiled.
“Fellows? A few—perhaps.”
“Uh-huh.” Honey scuffed a heel against the step, rattling his spur-chain. “I s’pose you’ll be gettin’ married, huh?”
“When?”
“Oh, some of these days,” gloomily.
Laura shook her pretty head violently. “You bet I won’t! After what happened last night I wouldn’t marry the best man on earth.”
“I’m shore glad to hear yuh say that,” said Honey seriously.
“Why?” demanded Laura quickly.
“’Cause if yuh marry the man I hope yuh will, yuh shore won’t be gettin’ the best man in the world.”
Laura blushed and got to her feet. Honey got up, too, and they faced each other.
“You ain’t sore, are yuh, Laura?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly.
“No, Honey; I can’t get mad at you—but I do think you are awfully funny.”
She turned and walked into the house. Honey stared at the doorway for several moments before going back to his horse.
“She thinks I’m awfully funny,” he told his horse. “I must be—she didn’t even crack a smile.”