_"I'm Not Your Wife Yet!"_
Billy, coming back from the biggest town in the country, where he had
gone to pick up another man or two for the round-up which was at hand,
met the Pilgrim face to face as he was crossing the creek to go to
the corrals. It was nearing sundown and it was Sunday, and those two
details, when used in connection with the Pilgrim, seemed unpleasantly
significant. Besides, Billy was freshly antagonistic because of
something he had heard while he was away; instead of returning the
Pilgrim's brazenly cheerful "Hello," he scowled and rode on without so
much as giving a downward tilt to his chin. For Charming Billy Boyle
was never inclined to diplomacy, or to hiding his feelings in any way
unless driven to it by absolute necessity.
When he went into the house he saw that Flora had her hair done in a
new way that was extremely pretty, and that she had on a soft, white
silk shirt-waist with lots of lace zigzagged across--a waist hitherto
kept sacred to dances and other glorious occasions--and a soft, pink
bow pinned in her hair; all these things he mentally connected with
the visit of the Pilgrim. When he turned to see a malicious light in
the round, blue eyes of Mama Joy and a spiteful satisfaction in her
very dimples, it suddenly occurred to him that he would certainly have
something to say to Miss Flora. It was no comfort to know that all
winter the Pilgrim had not been near, because all winter he had been
away somewhere--rumor had it that he spent his winters in Iowa. Like
the birds, he always returned with the spring.
Billy never suspected that Mama Joy read his face and left them
purposely together after supper, though he was surprised when she
arose from the table and said:
"Flora, you make Billy help you with the dishes. I've got a headache
and I'm going to lie down."
At any rate, it gave him the opportunity he wanted.
"Are yuh going to let the Pilgrim hang around here this summer?" he
demanded in his straight-from-the-shoulder fashion while he was drying
the first cup.
"You mean Mr. Walland? I didn't know he ever 'hung around'." Flora was
not meek, and Billy realized that, as he put it mentally, he had his
work cut out for him to pull through without a quarrel.
"I mean the Pilgrim. And I call it hanging around when a fellow keeps
running to see a girl that's got a loop on her already. I don't want
to lay down the law to yuh, Girlie, but that blamed Siwash has got to
keep away from here. He ain't fit for yuh to speak to--and I'd a told
yuh before, only I didn't have any right--"
"Are you sure you have a right now?" The tone of Flora was sweet and
calm and patient. "I'll tell you one thing, Charming Billy Boyle, Mr.
Walland has never spoken one word against _you_. He--he _likes_ you,
and I don't think it's nice for you--"
"Likes me! Like hell he does!" snorted Billy, not bothering to choose
nice words. "He'd plug me in the back like an Injun if he thought
he could get off with it. I remember him when I hazed him away from
line-camp, the morning after you stayed there, he promised faithful to
kill me. Uh course, he won't, because he's afraid, but--I don't reckon
yuh can call it liking--"
"_Why_ did you 'haze him away,' as you call it, Billy? And kill his
dog? It was a _nice_ dog; I love dogs, and I don't see how any man--"
Billy flushed hotly. "I hazed him away because he insulted you," he
said bluntly, not quite believing in her ignorance.
Flora, her hands buried deep in the soapsuds, looked at him
round-eyed. "I never heard of that before," she said slowly. "When,
Billy? And what did he--say?"
Billy stared at her. "_I_ don't know what he said! I wouldn't think
you'd need to ask. When I came in the cabin--I lied about getting lost
from the trail--I turned around and came back, because I was afraid
he might come before I could get back, and--when I came in, there was
_something_. I could tell, all right. Yuh sat there behind the table
looking like yuh was--well, kinda cornered. And he was--Flora, he
_did_ say something, or do something! He didn't act right to yuh. I
could tell. _Didn't_ he? Yuh needn't be afraid to tell me, Girlie. I
give him a thrashing for it. What was it? I want to know." He did not
realize how pugnacious was his pose, but he was leaning toward her
with his face quite close, and his eyes were blue points of intensity.
His hands, doubled and pressing hard on the table, showed white at the
knuckles.
Flora rattled the dishes in the pan and laughed unsteadily. "Go to
work, Billy Boy, and don't act stagey," she commanded lightly. "I'll
tell you the exact truth--and that isn't anything to get excited over.
Fred Walland came about three minutes before you did, and of course I
didn't know he belonged there. I was afraid. He pushed open the door,
and he was swearing a little at the ice there, where we threw out the
dish water. I knew it wasn't you, and I got back in the corner. He
came in and looked awfully stunned at seeing me and said, 'I beg your
pardon, fair one'." She blushed and did not look up. "He said, 'I
didn't know there was a lady present,' and put down the sack of stuff
and looked at me for a minute or two without saying a word. He was
just going to speak, I think, when you burst in. And that's all there
was to it, Billy Boy. I was frightened because I didn't know who he
was, and he _did_ stare--but, so did you, Billy Boy, when I opened
the door and walked in. You stared every bit as hard and long as Fred
Walland did."
"But I'll bet I didn't have the same look in my face. Yuh wasn't
scared of _me_," Billy asserted shrewdly.
"I was too! I was horribly scared--at first. So if you fought Fred
Walland and killed his dog" (the reproach of her tone, then!) "because
you imagined a lot that wasn't true, you ought to go straight and
apologize."
"I don't _think_ I will! Good Lord! Flora, do yuh think I don't _know_
the stuff he's made of? He's a low-down, cowardly cur--the kind uh
man that is always bragging about--" (Billy stuck there. With her big,
innocent eyes looking up at him, he could not say "bragging about the
women he's ruined," so he changed weakly) "about all he's done. He's a
murderer that ought by rights t' be in the pen right now--"
"I think that will do, Billy!" she interrupted indignantly. "You know
he couldn't help killing that man."
"I kinda believed that, too, till I run onto Jim Johnson up in Tower.
You don't know Jim, but he's a straight man and wouldn't lie. Yuh
remember, Flora, the Pilgrim told me the Swede pulled a knife on
him. I stooped down and looked, and _I_ didn't see no knife--nor gun,
either. And I wasn't so blamed excited I'd be apt to pass up anything
like that; I've seen men shot before, and pass out with their boots
on, in more excitable ways than a little, plain, old killing. So I
didn't see anything in the shape of a weapon. But when I come back,
here lays a Colt forty-five right in plain sight, and the Pilgrim
saying, 'He pulled a _gun_ on me,' right on top uh telling me it was
a _knife_. I thought at the time there was something queer about that,
and about him not having a gun on him when I know he _always_ packed
one--like every other fool Pilgrim that comes West with the idea he's
got to fight his way along from breakfast to supper, and sleep with
his six-gun under his pillow!"
"And _I_ know you don't like him, and you'd think he had some ulterior
motive if he rolled his cigarette backward once! I don't see anything
but just your dislike trying to twist things--"
"Well, hold on a minute! I got to talking with Jim, and we're pretty
good friends. So he told me on the quiet that Gus Svenstrom gave him
his gun to keep, that night. Gus was drinking, and said he didn't want
to be packing it around for fear he might get foolish with it. Jim
had it--Jim was tending bar that time in that little log saloon, in
Hardup--when the Swede was killed. So it wasn't _the Swedes_ gun on
the ground--and if he borrowed one, which he wouldn't be apt to do,
why didn't the fellow he got it from claim it?"
"And if all this is true, why didn't your friend come and testify
at the hearing?" demanded Flora, her eyes glowing. "It sounds to me
exactly like a piece of spiteful old-woman gossip, and I don't believe
a word of it!"
"Jim ain't a gossip. He kept his mouth shut because he didn't want to
make trouble, and he was under the impression the Swede had borrowed
a gun somewhere. Being half drunk, he could easy forget what he'd done
with his own, and the Pilgrim put up such a straight story--"
"Fred told the truth. I know he did. I don't _believe_ he had a gun
that night, because--because I had asked him as a favor to please not
carry one to dances and places. There, now! He'd do what I asked him
to. I know he would. And I think you're just mean, to talk like this
about him; and, mind you, if he wants to come here he can. I don't
care if he comes _every day_!" She was so near to tears that her voice
broke and kept her from saying more that was foolish.
"And I tell yuh, if he comes around here any more I'll chase him off
the ranch with a club!" Billy's voice was not as loud as usual, but
it was harsh and angry. "He ain't going to come here hanging around
you--not while _I_ can help it, and I guess I can, all right!" He
threw down the dish towel, swept a cup off the table with his elbow
when he turned, and otherwise betrayed human, unromantic rage. "Damn
him, I wisht I'd chased him off long ago. Fred, eh? Hell! _I'll_ Fred
him! Yuh think I'm going to stand for him running after my girl? I'll
kick him off the place. He ain't fit to speak to yuh, or look at yuh;
his friendship's an insult to any decent woman. I'll mighty quick put
a stop to--"
"Will Boyle, you don't _dare_! I'm not your wife yet, remember! I'm
free to choose my own friends without asking leave of any one, and if
I want Fred Walland to come here, he'll _come_, and it will take more
than you to stop him. I--I'll write him a note, and ask him to dinner
next Sunday. I--I'll _marry_ him if I want to, Will Boyle, and you
can't stop me! He--he wants me to, badly enough, and if you--"
Billy was gone, and the kitchen was rattling with the slam of the door
behind him, before she had time to make any more declarations that
would bring repentance afterward. She stood a minute, listening to see
whether he would come back, and when he did not, she ran to the
door, opened it hastily and looked. She saw Billy just in the act
of swishing his quirt down on the flanks of Barney so that the horse
almost cleared the creek in one bound. Flora caught her breath and
gave a queer little sob. She watched him, wide-eyed and white, till
he was quite out of sight and then went in and shut the door upon the
quiet, early spring twilight.
As for Billy, he was gone to find the Pilgrim. Just what he would do
when he did find him was not quite plain, because he was promising
himself so many deeds of violence that no man could possibly perform
them all upon one victim. At the creek, he was going to "shoot him
like a coyote." A quarter of a mile farther, he would "beat his damn'
head off," and, as if those were not deaths sufficient, he was after
that determined to "take him by the heels and snap his measly head off
like yuh would a grass snake!"
Threatened as he was, the Pilgrim nevertheless escaped, because
Billy did not happen to come across him before his rage had cooled to
reason. He rode on to Hardup, spent the night there swallowing more
whisky than he had drunk before in six months, and after that playing
poker with a recklessness that found a bitter satisfaction in losing
and thus proving how vilely the world was using him, and went home
rather unsteadily at sunrise and slept heavily in the bunk-house all
that day. For Billy Boyle was distressingly human in his rages as in
his happier moods, and was not given to gentle, picturesque melancholy
and to wailing at the silent stars.