Lonesome Land (32 page)

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

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

“Well, what
do
you want? I can’t stay, unless—” He did not attempt to finish the sentence. He knew there was no need; she understood well enough the
alternative.

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

“You needn’t go, Kent,” she said with some semblance of calm. “Because I’m going. I didn’t tell you—but I’m going home. I’m going to get
free, by the same law that tied me to him. You are right—I have a ‘down-east’ conscience. I think I was born with it. It demands that I get my freedom honestly; I can’t
steal it—pal. I couldn’t be happy if I did that, no matter how hard I might try— or you.”

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

“No—stay where you are. I want to solve my problem and—and leave you out of it; you’re a complication, pal—when you talk like—like you’ve just been
talking. It makes my conscience wonder whether I’m honest with myself. I’ve got to leave you out, don’t you see? And so, leaving you out, I don’t feel that any woman should
be expected to go on like I’m doing. You don’t know—I couldn’t tell you just how—impossible—this marriage of mine has become. The day after—well,
yesterday—no, the day before yesterday—he came home and found out—what I’d done. He—I couldn’t stay here, after that, so—”

“What did he do?” Kent demanded sharply. “He didn’t dare to lay his hands on you—did he? By—”

“Don’t swear, Kent—I hear so much of that from him!” Val smiled curiously. “He—he swore at me. I couldn’t stay with him, after that—could I,
dear?” Whether she really meant to speak that last word or not, it set Kent’s blood dancing so that he forgot to urge his question farther. He took two eager steps toward her, and she
retreated again behind the table.

“Kent, don’t! How can I tell you anything, if you won’t be good?” She waited until he was standing rather sulkily by the window again. “Anyway, it doesn’t
matter now what he has done. I am going to leave him. I’m going to get a divorce. Not even the strictest ‘down-east’ conscience could demand that I stay. I’m perfectly at
ease upon that point. About this last trouble—with the calves—if I could help him, I would, of course. But all I could say would only make matters worse—and I’m a wretched
failure at lying. I can help him more, I think, by going away. I feel certain there’s going to be trouble over those calves. Fred De Garmo never would have come down here and driven them all
away, would he, unless there was going to be trouble?”

“If he came in here and got the calves, it looks as if he meant business, all right.” Kent frowned absently at the white window curtain. “I’ve seen the time,” he
added reflectively, “when I’d be all broke up to have Man get into trouble. We used to be pretty good friends!”

“A year ago it would have broken my heart,” Val sighed. “We do change so! I can’t quite understand why I should feel so indifferent about it now; even the other day it
was terrible. But when I felt his fingers—” she stopped guiltily. “He seems a stranger to me now. I don’t even hate him so very much. I don’t want to meet him,
though.”

“Neither do I.” But there was a different meaning in Kent’s tone. “So you’re going to quit?” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You’ll leave your
address, I hope!”

“Oh, yes.” Val’s voice betrayed some inward trepidation. “I’m not running away; I’m just going.”

“I see.” He sighed, impatient at the restraint she had put upon him. “That don’t mean you won’t ever come back, does it? Or that the trains are going to quit
carrying passengers to your town? Because you can’t
always
keep me outa your ‘problem,’ let me tell you. Is it against the rules to ask when you’re going—and
how?”

“Just as soon as I can get my trunks packed, and Polycarp—or somebody—comes to help me load them into the spring wagon. I promised Arline Hawley I would be in town tonight. I
don’t know, though—I don’t seem to be making much progress with my packing.” She smiled at him more brightly. “Let’s wade ashore, pal, and get to work instead of
talking about things better left alone. I know just exactly what you’re thinking—and I’m going to let you help me, instead of Polycarp. I’m frightfully angry with him,
anyway. He promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn’t mention a thing—and he must have actually hunted for a chance to tell! He didn’t have the nerve to come to the house
yesterday, when he was here with Fred—perhaps he won’t come today, after all. So you’ll have to help me make my getaway, pal.”

Kent wavered. “You’re the limit, all right,” he told her after a period of hesitation. “You just wait, old girl, till you get that conscience of yours squared! What shall
I do? I can pack a warbag in one minute and three-quarters, and a horse in five minutes—provided he don’t get gay and pitch the pack off a time or two, and somebody’s around to
help throw the hitch. Just tell me where to start in, and you won’t be able to see me for dust!”

“You seem in a frightful hurry to have me go,” Val complained, laughing nevertheless with the nervous reaction. “Packing a trunk takes time, and care, and
intelligence.”

“Now isn’t that awful?” Kent’s eyes flared with mirth, all the more pronounced because it was entirely superficial. “Well, you take the time and care, Mrs.
Goodpacker, and I’ll cheerfully furnish the intelligence. This goes, I reckon?” He squeezed a pink cushion into as small a space as possible, and held it out at arm’s length.

“That goes—to Arline.
Don’t
put it in there!” Val’s laughter was not far from hysteria. Kent was pretending to stuff the pink cushion into her hand bag.

“Better take it; you’ll—”

The front door was pushed violently open and Manley almost fell into the room. Val gave a little, inarticulate cry and shrank back against the wall before she could recover herself. They had for
the moment forgotten Manley, and all he stood for in the way of heartbreak.

A strange-looking Manley he was, with his white face and staring, bloodshot eyes, and the cruel, animal lines around his mouth. Hardly recognizable to one who had not seen him since three or
four years before, he would have been. He stopped short just over the threshold, and glanced suspiciously from one to the other before he came farther into the room.

“Dig up some grub, Val—in a bag, so I can carry it on horseback,” he commanded. “And a blanket—where did you put those rule cartridges?” He hurried across the
room to where his rifle and belt hung upon the wall, just over the little, homemade bookcase. “I had a couple of boxes—where are they?” He snatched down the rifle, took the belt,
and began buckling it around him with fumbling fingers.

Mechanically Val reached upon a higher shelf and got him the two boxes of shells. Her eyes were fixed curiously upon his face.

“What has happened?” she asked him as he tore open a box and began pushing the shells, one by one, into his belt.

“Fred De Garmo—he tried to arrest me—in town—I shot him dead.” He glanced furtively at Kent. “Can I take your horse, Kent? I want to get across the river
before—”

“You shot—Fred—” Val was staring at him stupidly. He whirled savagely toward her.

“Yes, and I’d shoot any man that walked up and tried to take me. He was a fool if he thought all he had to do was crook his finger and say ‘Come along.’ It was over those
calves—and I’d say you had a hand in it, if I hadn’t found that calf, and saw how you burned out the brand before you turned it loose. You might have told me—I
wouldn’t have—” He shifted his gaze toward Kent. “The hell of it is, the sheriff happened to be in town for something; he’s back a couple of miles—for
God’s sake, move! And get that flour and bacon, and some matches. I’ve got to get across the river. I can shake ’em off, on the other side. Hurry, Val!”

She went out into the kitchen, and they heard her moving about, collecting the things he needed.

“I’ll have to take your horse, Kent.” Manley turned to him with a certain wheedling tone, infinitely disgusting to the other. “Mine’s all in—I rode him down,
getting this far. I’ve got to get across the river, and into the hills the other side—I can dodge ’em over there. You can have my horse—he’s good as yours,
anyway.” He seemed to feel a slight discomfort at Kent’s silence. “You’ve always stood by me—anyway, it wasn’t so much my fault—he came at me unawares, and
says ‘Man Fleetwood, you’re my prisoner!’ Why, the very tone of him was an insult—and I won’t stand for being arrested—I pulled my gun and got him through the
lungs—heard ’em yelling he was dead—Hurry up with that grub! I can’t wait here till—”

“I ought to tell you Michael’s no good for water,” Kent forced himself to say. “He’s liable to turn back on you; he’s scared of it.”

“He won’t turn back with
me
—not with old Jake Bondy at my heels!” Manley snatched the bag of provisions from Val when she appeared, and started for the door.

“You better leave off some of that hardware, then,” Kent advised perfunctorily. “You’re liable to have to swim.”

“I don’t care how I get across, just so—” A panic seemed to seize him then. Without a word of thanks or farewell he rushed out, threw himself into Kent’s saddle
without taking time to tie on his bundle of bacon and flour, or remembering the blanket he had asked for. Holding his provisions under his arm, his rifle in one hand, and his reins clutched in the
other, he struck the spurs home and raced down the coulee toward the river. Fred and Polycarp had not troubled to put up the wire gate after emptying the river field, so he had a straight run of it
to the very river bank. The two stood together at the window and watched him go.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

R
ETRIBUTION

“H
E THOUGHT IT WAS
I
BURNED OUT THAT BRAND; DID YOU NOTICE
what he said?” Val, as frequently happens in times of
stress, spoke first of a trivial matter, before her mind would grasp the greater issues.

“He’ll never make it,” said Kent, speaking involuntarily his thought. “There comes old Jake Bondy, now, down the hill. Still, I dunno—if Michael takes to the water
all right—”

“If the sheriff comes here, what shall we tell him? Shall we—”

“He won’t. He’s turning off, don’t you see? He must have got a sight of Man from the top of the hill. Michael’s tolerably fresh, and Jake’s horse isn’t;
that makes a big difference.”

Val weakened unexpectedly, as the full meaning of it all swept through her mind.

“Oh, it’s horrible!” she whispered. “Kent, what can we do?”

“Not a thing, only keep our heads, and don’t give way to nerves,” he hinted. “It’s something out of our reach; let’s not go all to pieces over it,
pal.”

She steadied under his calm voice.

“I’m always acting foolish just at the wrong time—but to think he could—”

“Don’t think! You’ll have enough of that to do, managing your own affairs. All this doesn’t change a thing for you. It makes you feel bad—and for that I could kill
him, almost!” So much flashed out, and then he brought himself in hand again. “You’ve still got to pack your trunks, and take the train home, just the same as if this hadn’t
happened. I didn’t like the idea at first, but now I see it’s the best thing you can do, for the present. After awhile—we’ll see about it. Don’t look out, if it upsets
you, Val. You can’t do any good, and you’ve got to save your nerves. Let me pull down the shade—”

“Oh, I’ve got to see!” Perversely, she caught up the field glasses from the table, drew them from their case, and, letting down the upper window sash with a slam, focused the
glasses upon the river. “He usually crosses right at the mouth of the coulee—” She swung the glasses slowly about. “Oh, there he is—just on the bank. The river looks
rather high—oh, your horse doesn’t want to go in, Kent. He whirls on his hind feet, and tried to bolt when Manley started in—”