by Harold Titus
CHAPTER VII
TONGUES WAG
It was afternoon the next day that Bruce Bayard, swinging down from hishorse, whipped the dust from his clothing with his hat and walkedthrough the kitchen door of the Manzanita House.
"Hello, Nora," he said to the girl who approached him. "Got a littleclean water for a dirty cow puncher?"
He kicked out of his chaps and, dropping his hat to the floor, reachedfor the dipper. The girl, after a brief greeting, stood looking at himin perplexed speculation.
"What's wrong, Sister? You look mighty mournful this afternoon!"
"Bruce, what do you know about Ned Lytton?" she asked, cautiously,looking about to see that no one could overhear.
"Why? What do _you_ know about him?"
"Well, his wife's here; you took him upstairs with you that night deaddrunk, you went home and he was gone before any of us was up. She ...she's worried to fits about him. Everybody's tryin' to put her off histrack, 'cause they feel sorry for her; they think he's probably goneback to his mine to sober up, but nobody wants to see her follow andfind out what he is. Nobody thinks she knows how he's been actin'.
"You know, they think that she's his sister. I don't."
He scooped water from the shallow basin and buried his face in thecupped hands that held it, rubbing and blowing furiously.
"That's what I come to town for, Nora, because I suspected she'd beworryin'." To himself he thought, "Sister! That helps!"
"You mean, you know where he is?"
"Yeah,"--nodding his head as he wiped his hands--"I took him home. I gothim there in bed an' I come to town th' first chance I got to tell herhe's gettin' along fine."
"That was swell of you, Bruce," she said, with an admiring smile.
He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly.
"Yes, it was!" she insisted. "To do it for her. She's th' sweetest thingever come into this town, an' he's...."
She ended by making a wry face.
"You had a run-in with him, didn't you?" he asked, as if casually, andthe girl looked at him sharply.
"How'd you know?"
"He's been kind of nutty an' said somethin' about it."
A pause.
"He come in here last week, Bruce, drunk. He made a grab for me an' saidsomethin' fresh an' he was so crazy, so awful lookin', that it scart mefor a minute. I told him to keep away or you'd knock all th' poison outof him. He ... You see,"--apologetically--"I was scart an' I knew thatwas th' easiest way out--to tell him you'd get after him. You ... Th'worst of 'em back up when they think you're likely to land on 'em."
He reached out and pinched her cheek, smiled and shook his head withmock seriousness.
"Lordy, Sister, you'd make me out a hell-winder of a bad man, wouldn'tyou?"
"Not much! 'N awful good man, Bruce. That's what puts a crimp in'em--your goodness!"
He flushed at that.
"Tryin' to josh me now, ain't you?" he laughed. "Well, josh away, but ifany of 'em get fresh with you an' I'll ... I'll have th' sheriff on'em!"--with a twinkle in his gray eyes. Then he sobered.
"I s'pose I'd better go up to her room now," he said, an uneasy mannercoming over him. "She'll be glad to know he's gettin' along so well....
"So everybody thinks she's his sister, do they?"--with an effort to makehis question sound casual and as an afterthought.
"Yes, they do. I'm th' only one who's guessed she's his wife an' I keptmy mouth shut. Rest of 'em all swear she couldn't be, that's she's hissister, 'cause she ... well, she ain't th' kind that would marry athing like that. I didn't say nothin'. I let 'em think as they do; but Iknow! No sister would worry th' way she does!"
"You're a wise gal," he said, "an' when you said she was th' sweetestthing that ever come to this town you wasn't so awful wrong."
He opened the door and closed it behind him.
In the middle of the kitchen floor the girl stood alone, motionless, hereyes glowing, pulses quickened. Then, the keen light went from her face;its expression became doggedly patient, as if she were confronted by along, almost hopeless undertaking, and with a sigh she turned to hertasks.
Patient Nora! As Bayard had closed the door behind him unthinkingly, sohad he closed the door to his heart against the girl. All her crude,timid advances had failed to impress him, so detached from response tosex attraction was his interest in her. And for months she hadwaited ... waited, finding solace in the fact that no other woman stoodcloser to him; but now ... she feared an unnamed influence.
Ann Lytton, staring at the page of a book, heard his boots on the stair.He mounted slowly, spurs ringing lightly with each step, and, when hewas halfway up, she rose to her feet, walked to the door of her room andstood watching him come down the narrow, dark hallway, filling it withhis splendid height, his unusual breadth.
They spoke no greeting. She merely backed into the room and Brucefollowed with a show of slight embarrassment. Yet his gaze was full onher, steady, searching, intent. Only when she stopped and held out herhand did his manner of looking at her change. Then, he smiled and mether firm grasp with a hand that was cold and which trembled ever soslightly.
"He ... is he ..." she began in an uncertain voice.
"He's doin' fine, ma'am," he said, and her fingers tightened on his,sending a thrill up his arm and making its muscles contract to draw hera bit closer to him. "He's doin' fine," he repeated, relinquishing hisgrasp. "He's feelin' better an' lookin' better an' he'll begin to gainstrength right off."
An inarticulate exclamation of gladness broke from her.
"Oh, it's been an age!" she said, smiling wanly and shaking her headslowly as she looked up into his face. "Every hour has seemed a day,every day a week. I didn't dare, didn't dare think; and I've hoped solong, with so little result that I didn't dare hope!"
She bowed her head and held her folded hands against her mouth. For amoment they were so, the cowboy looking down at her with a restless,covetous light in his eyes and it was the impulsive lifting of one handas though he would stroke the blue-black braids that roused her.
"Come, sit down," she said, indicating a chair opposite hers by theopen window. "I want you to tell me everything and I want to ask you ifit isn't best that I go to him now.
"Now, from the beginning, please!"
He looked into her eyes as though he did not hear her words. Herexpression of eager anticipation changed; her look wavered, she left offmeeting his gaze and Bayard, with a start, moved in his chair.
"There ain't much to tell," he mumbled. "I got him home easy enough an'sent th' team back that day by a friend of mine who happened along...."
Her eyes returned to his face, riveting there with an impersonalearnestness that would not be challenged. Her red lips were parted asshe sat with elbows on knees in the low rocker before him. It was hisgaze, now, that wavered, but he hastened on with his recital of what hethought best to tell about what had occurred at his ranch in the lasttwo days.
From time to time he glanced at her and on every occasion the mountingappreciation of her beauty, the unfaltering earnestness of her desire tolearn every detail about her husband, the wonder that her sort couldremain devoted to Ned Lytton's kind, combined to enrage him, to make himrebel hotly, even as he talked, at thought of such impossible humanrelations, and he was on the point of giving vent to his indignationwhen he remembered with a decided shock that on their first meeting shehad told him that she loved her husband. Beyond that, he reasoned,nothing could be said.
"He's awful weak, of course, but he was quiet," he concluded. "I lefthim sleepin' an' I'll get back before he rouses up, it's likely."
"Well, don't you think I might go back with you?" she asked, eagerly."Don't you think he's strong enough now, so I might be with him?"
He had expected this and was steeled against it.
"Why, you might, ma'am, if things was different," he said. "It's sort ofrough out there; just a shack, understand, an' you've never lived thatkind of life. There's only one room, an' I...."
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p; "Oh, I hadn't thought of crowding you out! Please don't think I'doverlook your own comfort."
Her regret was so spontaneous, that he stirred uneasily, for he was notaccustomed to lying.
"Not at all, ma'am. Why, I'd move out an' sleep in th' hills for you, ifI knew it was best ... for you!"
The heart that was in his voice startled her. She sat back in her chair.
"You've been very kind ... so kind!" she said, after a pause.
He fidgetted in his chair and rose.
"Nobody could help bein' kind ... to you, ma'am," he stammered. "Ifanybody was anything but kind to you they deserve...."
He realized of a sudden that the man for whose sake she was undergoingthis ordeal had been cruel to her, and checked himself. Becausebitterness surged up within him and he felt that to follow his firstimpulses would place him between Ann Lytton and her husband, alignedagainst the man in the role of protector.
She divined the reason for his silence and said very gently,
"Remember the cripples!"
He turned toward her so fiercely that she started back, having risen.
"I'm tryin' to!" he cried, with a surprising sharpness. "Tryin' to,ma'am, every minute; tryin' to remember th' cripples."
He looked about in flushed confusion. Ann stared at him.
His intensity frightened her. The men of her experience would not havepresumed to show such direct interest in her affairs on briefacquaintance. A deal of conventional sparring and shamming would havebeen required for any of them to evince a degree of passion in thediscussion of her predicament; but this man, on their second meeting,was obviously forced to hold himself firmly, restraining a naturalprompting to step in and adjust matters to accord with his own sense ofright. The girl felt instinctively that his motives were most high, buthis manner was rough and new; she was accustomed to the usual, thefamiliar, and, while her confidence in Bayard had been profoundlyaroused, her inherent distrust of strangeness caused her to suspect, tobe reluctant to accept his attitude without reserve. Looking up at herhe read the conflict in her face.
"I'd better go now," he added in a voice from which the vigor had gone."I..."
"But you'll let me know about Ned?" she asked, trying to rally hercomposure.
"I'll come to-morrow, ma'am," he promised.
"That'll be so kind of you!"
"You don't understand, maybe, that it's no kindness to you," he said."It might be somethin' else. Have you thought of that? Have you thought,ma'am, that maybe I ain't th' kind of man I'm pretendin' to be?"
Then, he walked out before she could answer and she stood alone, hiswords augmenting the disquiet his manner had aroused. She moved to thewindow, anxiously waiting to see him ride past. He did, a few minuteslater, his head down in thought, his fine, flat shoulders bracedbackward, body poised splendidly, light, masterly in the saddle, thewonderful creature under him moving with long, sure strides. The womandrew a deep breath and turned back into the room.
"I mustn't ... I mustn't," she whispered.
Then wheeled quickly, snatched back the curtains and pressed her cheekagainst the upper panes to catch a last glimpse of him.
* * * * *
Next day Bayard was back and found that the hours Ann had spent alonehad taken their toll and she controlled herself only by continualrepression. He urged her to talk, hoping to start her thinking freshthoughts, but she could think, then, only of the present hour. Herloneliness had again broken down all barriers. Bayard was her confessor,her talk with him the only outlet for the emotional pressure thatthreatened her self-control; that relief was imperative, overriding herdistrust of the day before. For an hour the man listened while she gavehim the dreary details of her married life with that eagerness of theindividual who, for too long a period, has hidden and nursedheart-breaking troubles. She was only twenty-four and had married attwenty. A year later Ned's father had died, the boy came into suddencommand of considerable property, lost his head, frittered away thefortune, drank, could not face the condemnation of his family and fledWest on the pretext of developing the Sunset mine, the last tangibleasset that remained. She tried to cover the entire truth there, butBayard knew that Lytton's move was only desertion, for she told of goingto work to support herself, of standing between Ned and his relatives,of shielding him from the consequences of the misadministration of hisfather's estate, of waiting weeks and months for word of him, of denyingherself actual necessities that she might come West on this mission.
At the end she cried and Bayard felt an unholy desire to ride to hisCircle A ranch and do violence to the man who had functioned in thiswoman's life as a maker of misery. But he merely sat there and put hishands under his thighs to keep them from reaching out for the woman, tocomfort her, to claim a place as her protector....
The talk and tears relieved Ann and she smiled bravely at him when heleft; a tenderness was in her face that disturbed him.
Day after day the rancher appeared in Yavapai, each time going directlyto the hotel and to Ann. Many times he talked to her in her room; often,they were seen together on the veranda; occasionally, they walked shortdistances. The eyes of the community were on Ann anyhow, because, beingnew, she was intrinsically interesting, but this regularity on the partof Bayard could not help but attract curious attention and cause gossip,for in the years people had watched him grow from a child to manhood oneof the accepted facts about him had been his evident lack of interest inwomen. To Nora, the waitress, he had given frank, companionableattention and regarding them was a whispered tradition arising when theunknown girl arrived in Yavapai and Bruce appeared to be on intimateterms with her from the first.
But now Nora received little enough of his time. She watched his comingsand goings with a growing concern which she kept in close secret and noone, unless they had watched ever so closely, would have seen the slowchange that came over the brown haired girl. Her amiable bearing towardthe people she served became slightly forced, her laughter grew a triflehard, and, when Bruce was in sight, she kept her eyes on him with steadyinquiry, as one who reads eagerly and yet dreads to know what iswritten.
One day the cattleman came from the hotel and crossed the street to theYavapai saloon where a dozen men were assembled. Tommy Clary was thereamong others and, when they lined up before the bar on Bruce's arrival,feet on the piece of railroad steel that did service as footrail, Tommy,with a wink to the man at his right said:
"Now, Bruce, you're just in time to settle 'n argument. All these hereother _hombres_ are sayin' you've lost your head an' are clean skirtcrazy, an' I've been tellin' 'em that you're only tryin' to be a brotherto her. Ain't that right, now? Just back me up, Bruce!"
He stood back and gestured in mock appeal, while the others leanedforward over the bar at varying degrees that they might see and grinnedin silence. Bayard looked straight before him and the corners of hismouth twitched in a half smile.
"Who is this lady you're honorin' by hitchin' me up with?" he asked.
"Ho, that's good! I s'pose you don't quite comprehend our meanin'! Well,I'll help you out. This Lytton girl, sister to our hydrophobia skunk!They think you're in love, Bruce, but I stick up for you like a friendought to. I think you're only brotherly!"
"Why, Tommy, they ought to take your word on anythin' like that," Bayardcountered, turning slowly to face the other. "Th' reason th' _YavapaiArgus_ perished was 'cause Tom Clary beat th' editor to all th' news,wasn't it?"
The laugh was on the short cowboy and he joined it heartily.
"But if that's true--that brother stuff--," he said, when he could beheard, "seems to me you're throwin' in with a fine sample of stalwartmanhood!"
Then they were off on a concerted damnation of Ned Lytton and under itscover Bayard thanked his stars that Nora had been right, that Yavapaihad been satisfied with jumping at the conclusion that Ann could not beher husband's wife.
"But I'll tell you, Bruce," went on Tommy, as Bayard started to leave,"if I was as pretty a fellow as you a
re, I'd make a play for that galmyself! If she'd only get to know me an' know 'bout my brains, it'd allbe downhill an' shady. But she won't. You got th' looks; I've got th'horse power in my head. Can't we form a combination?"
"I'm sort of again' combinations ... where women are concerned," Bruceanswered, and walked out before they could see the seriousness thatpossessed him.
On his way out of town Bayard passed two friends but did not look atthem nor appear to hear their salutations. He was a mile up the roadbefore his absorption gave way to a shake of the head and the followingsumming up, spoken to the jogging Abe:
"Gosh, Pardner, back there they've all got me in love with her. I had ahard time keepin' my head, when they tried to josh me about it. I ain'tever admitted it to myself, even, but has that--not admittin' it--gotanything to do with it, I wonder? Does it keep it from bein' so? Whyshould I get hot, if it ain't true?"
When they were in sight of the ranch, he spoke again,
"How 'n th' name of God can a man help lovin' a woman like that?"
And in answer to the assertion that popped up in his mind, he criedaloud: "He ain't no man; _he_ ain't ... an' she loves him!"
He put the stallion into a high lope then, partly to relieve the stressof his thinking, partly because he suddenly realized that he had beenaway from the ranch many hours. This was the first time that Lytton hadbeen up and about when he departed and he wondered if, in the interval,the man had left the ranch, had stolen a march on him, and escaped toYavapai or elsewhere to find stimulant.
Lytton's improvement seemed to have been marked in the last two days.That forenoon, when Bayard told him he was to go to town, the man hadinsisted on helping with the work, though his body was still weak. Hehad been pleasant, almost jovial, and it was with pride that therancher had told Ann of the results he had obtained by his care and hispatience; had spoken with satisfaction in spite of the knowledge thatultimate success meant a snuffing out of the fire that burned in hisheart ... the fire that he would not yet admit existed.
Arrived at the ranch, Bruce forced the sorrel against his gate, leanedlow to release the fastening and went on through. He was grave of faceand silent and he walked toward the house after dismounting, deep inthought, struggling with the problem of conduct which was evolving fromthe circumstance in which he found himself.
On the threshold, after looking into the kitchen, he stood poised amoment. Then, with a cry of anger he strode into the room, halted andlooked about him.
"You damned liar!" he cried into the silence.
Ned Lytton lay across the bed, face downward, breathing muffled by thetumbled blankets, and on the floor beside him was an empty whiskeybottle.
"You liar!" Bayard said again. "You strung me this mornin', didn't you?This was why you was so crazy to help me get an early start! Youcoyote!"
He moved noisily across the room and halted again to survey the scene. Acupboard had been roughly emptied and the clock had been overturned whenLytton searched its shelf; in another room an old dresser stood gaping,the things it had contained in a pile on the floor, its drawers flung ina corner. Everywhere was evidence of a hurried search for a hiddenthing. And that sought object was the bottle, the contents of which hadsent the prostrate figure into its present state.
"You're just ... carrion!" he said, disgustedly, staring at Lytton.
Then, with set face, he undressed the man, laid him gently on thepillows and covered him well.
"God help me to remember that you're a cripple!" he muttered, and turnedto straighten the disorder of his house.
An hour later Bayard drew a chair to the bedside, seated himself andfrowned steadily at the sleeping man.
"I've got to remember you're a cripple ... got to," he said, over andover. "For her sake, I must. An' I can't ... trust myself near her ... Ican't!"
The drunken man roused himself with a start and stared blearily,unintelligently into the other's face.
"Tha's righ', Ole Man," he mumbled. "Tha's ri'...."
