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.”