"In there," says I. "Don't go in--you mustn't."
"I must, sometime. Let me go now."
"No you don't," says I. "You can't. It's too late."
"Too late? Too late? Why, what do you mean, Curly? I've--I've come back!
I want to see my dad! I've got to see my dad. There's lots I must tell
him. He don't know--I didn't know."
"You can't see your dad no more, kid," says I. "That time has went by.
I'm foreman here till midnight of today; and while I am there ain't
nobody going to bother him. He's had trouble enough already."
She stood sort of shaking. I had her wrists in my hands now.
"When it's all over," says I--"meaning a few things we're going to
settle tonight--I'll come out to you in Wyoming. I won't be foreman here
no more. I'm going to go and throw in with you, even against the old
man."
She begun to cry now.
"What are you talking about? I want him!" says she. "I want to see my
dad. I need him--and he needs me!"
"Yes; he does need you," says I. "He's needed you for a long time. But
you wouldn't like to see him now; he's changed a heap. He ain't got a
friend left on earth except me, and that ends at midnight. He's had it
pretty rough, when you come to think it all over," says I.
"I must go in, Curly," says she.
"No; you can't," says I. "I'm foreman and I won't let you. He wouldn't
want it; he's marked you off his books--we just been doing that today,
with a lawyer and a barber."
"But, Curly, he doesn't know----"
"Huh!" says I. "Well, he thinks he does. He figures you're the same as
if you was dead."
"Curly!" she cries now hard. "Curly, it mustn't be! It's all a mistake;
it's all been a mistake. I've come back----"
"Yes," says I; "it was a mistake. It ain't been nothing but a mistake
all down the line. But, as far as it can be squared, the old man and me
we've set out to square it tonight. Him and me is going to call on Old
Man Wisner this evening," says I. "We're going over as soon as Old Man
Wisner gets home. I'm going with your pa, Bonnie. You know me and I
reckon you know him too. I reckon there may be some plain conversation."
"I've got to see him!" says she over and over again.
"Well, if you want to see him," says I, "you go on over there and, like
enough, you will see him before long. You belong that side the wall now.
Tonight is when Old Man Wright and me settles with Old Man Wisner, and
settles permanent. We live on this side."
She turns now and runs away so fast I couldn't catch her.
I seen someone get out of the car now--a man; and she taken his arm and
they both went out of sight around the end of the wall. I allowed they'd
went up to the door. Right soon I seen a light in their higher windows
above the wall--you could just see that much from where I was standing.
If I'd wanted to go upstairs I might of seen more from our windows; but
I wouldn't do that now.
I went back in the house and stood near our door, watching the street.
In about half or three-quarters of a hour I seen Old Man Wisner's car
coming in; there was lights in the car and I could see him plain. He was
setting with his head kind of bent down. I suppose, like enough, he'd
already been served with them papers of ours down town. He'd got into
town early that morning and been busy all day at his office. He was
just getting home now. He must of knowed he was busted.
I waited for half a hour more, so things could get right settled down
over there, and then I went in and found Old Man Wright. He was setting
still as a dead man, looking into the fireplace in our ranch room,
though there wasn't no fire. He was all dressed up in his evening
clothes; and now I seen why he'd had the barber come. There wasn't a
finer-looking gentleman in all the town than Old Man Wright was right
then--though him pale and sad. Lord, how sad he was! But not
can-nye--none whatever, him, even if Old Lady Wisner had called us all
that.
"He's come, Colonel," says I, quiet, turning from one sad old man to
another sad old man.
I didn't say nothing to him about who else I'd seen in our front yard; I
didn't want to stir him all up, for I knowed he'd marked Bonnie Bell
off'n his books and closed the books for keeps. When I spoke to him he
turns around and stands up, quiet.
"Very well," says he; "we'll go on over now."
So us two walk together out of our front door. He shuts the door then
behind him and we go on down the walk together. He only turns once and
looks back at the house.
The whole street laid there in front of us when we walked out from our
yard to go over into theirs. The lights was all lit now, miles and miles
of 'em; and below us was the hundreds of thousands more of the lights of
the big city--the city that hadn't made us as happy as we thought it was
going to. I heard a boat whistle deep somewheres out on the lake--it
sort of made my stomach tremble.
Over west, beyond our part of the city, you could hear a low sort of
sound like maybe of street cars; but on our side there wasn't anything
but automobiles--thousands of 'em--going along as swift and smooth as
birds. Most of them was going north still; but on the other side of the
street some was going down, maybe with people going to the theaters. It
was about the time when people in the city eat what they call dinner.
The moon was coming up back of our house, which lay there all black--not
a light in it now. I could see the flower beds in our yard, and the
white naked statutes standing there. It looked right pretty, but cold
like a graveyard.
The front door was shut and, the moon being up over east, the part of
the house toward us was black-like. I remembered what the lawyer man had
said about things being signed, sealed and delivered. Well, we'd closed
the books. It was to hell with them Better Things!
I didn't tell Old Man Wright that Bonnie Bell had been there, because
he had things hard enough the way it was and I was working for him yet a
little while. He was ca'm as a summer day now.
I'd been his deputy once or twice when we had to go and arrest a bad
man. He was now just like he was then. He walks, his thumbs, on both
sides, just resting on the waistband of his pants. I don't know what he
had in his mind; but you couldn't of saw the sign of a gun on him and
I'd throwed my gun away. His coat tails hung straight down. Outside he
was plumb civilized. His face was white and he looked right gentle--just
gentle. He wasn't. As for changing him, it would of been as easy to
change one of them marble statutes over in our garden.
Them Wisners wasn't watching their own gate like they'd ought to of. We
walked on up their stairs and the old man rung the bell and stood there,
his face without no expression now.
We heard some noises inside there--their dog begun to bark and it seemed
like people was talking. Their William opened the door and we all stood
there.
Old Man Wright reaches out his arm and pushes him to one side, and him
and me go on in, walking fast toward the middle of the house.