CHIVALROUS; AND OF ABUNDANT MEANS
Around the Two Forks Valley the snow still lay white and clean upon the
peaks, but the feet of the mountains were bathed in a rising flood of
green. On the bottom lands the grasses began to start, the willows
renewed their leafery. On the pools of the limpid stream the trout
left wrinkles and circles at midday now, as they rose to feed upon the
insects swarming in the warmth of the oncoming sun.
On this particular morning Wid Gardner turned down the practically
untrod lane along Sim's wire fence. Now and again he glanced at
something which he held in his hand.
When he entered Sim Gage's gate, the ancient mule, his head out of the
stable window, welcomed him, braying his discontent. Here lay the
ragged wood pile, showing the ax work of a winter. At the edge of a
gnawed hay stack stood the remnant of Sim's scant cattle herd, not half
of which had "wintered through."
No smoke was rising from Sim Gage's chimney. "Feller's hopeless,
that's what," complained Wid Gardner to himself. "It gravels me
plenty."
A muffled voice answered his knock, and he pushed open the door. Sim
Gage was still in bed, and his bed was still on the floor.
"Come in," said he, thrusting a frowsy head out from under his
blankets. He used practically the same amount of covering about him in
winter and summer; and now, as usual, he had retired practically
without removing his daily clothing. His face, stubbled and unshaven,
swollen with sleep and surmounted by a tangled fringe of hair, might
not by any flight of imagination have been called admirable or
inviting, as he now looked out to greet his caller.
"Oh, dang it! Git up, Sim," said Wid, irritated beyond expression.
"It's after ten o'clock."
His words cut through the somewhat pachydermatous sensibilities of Sim
Gage, who frowned a trifle as, after a due pause, he crawled out and
sat down and reached for his broken boots.
"Well, I dunno as it's anybody's damn business whether I git up a-tall
or not, except my own," said he. "I'll git up when I please, and not
afore."
"Well, you might git up this morning, anyhow," said Wid.
"Why?"
"I got a letter for you."
"Look-a-here," said Sim Gage, with sudden preciseness. "What you been
doing? Letter? What letter? And how come you by my letters?"
"Well, I been talking with Mis' Davidson--she run the whole
correspondence, Sim. We--now--we allowed we'd ought to take care of it
fer you. And we done so, that's all."
"Huh!" said Sim Gage. "Fine business, ain't it?"
"Well, she's a-coming on out," said Wid Gardner, suddenly and
comprehensively.
"_What's that_? Who's a-coming on out?"
The face of Sim Gage went pale even under the cold water to which at
the moment he was treating his leathery skin in the basin on top the
stove.
"Sim," said Wid Gardner, "it was understood that this thing was to run
in your name. Now, Mis' Davidson--when it comes to fixing up a love
correspondence, she's the ace! It all ain't my fault a-tall, Sim. We
advertised--and we got a answer, and we follered it up. And this here
letter is the _re_-sult. I allowed we'd ought to tell you too, by now."
"What you been doing--fooling with me, you two?" demanded Sim. "That
whole thing was a joke."
"It's one hell of a fine joke now," rejoined Wid Gardner. "She's
a-coming on out. Sim, it's up to you. _I_ ain't been advertising fer
no wife. This here letter is _yours_."
"That's a fine thing you done, ain't it?" said Sim Gage, turning on to
his neighbor. "When you find the ford's too deep to git acrost, you
begin to holler fer help."
"That's neither here nor there. That ain't the worst--I've got her
picture here, and her letters too. She's been plumb honest all along.
She says she's pretty much broke, and not too well. She says when she
sees you she hopes you won't think she's deceived you. She says she
knows you're everything you said you was--a gentle and chi_val_erous
ranchman of the West, sure to be kind to a woman. She's scared--she's
that honest. But she's a-coming. She's going to try housekeeping
though--no more'n that. Rest's all up to you, not her. She balked
from the jump on all marrying talk."
"Mis' Davidson ought to take care of this thing," said Sim Gage, his
features now working, as usual, in his perplexity.
"Mis' Davidson is due to pull her freight. She's going down on her own
homestead. I'm some scared too, Sim. You don't really _know_ how you
been making love to this woman. I didn't know Mis' Davidson had it in
her. You got to come through now, Sim."
"Who says I got to come through?"
"You got to go to town to-morrow."
"So you're a-going to make me go in to town tomorrow and marry a woman
I never seen, whether I want to or not?"
"No, it ain't right up to that--you needn't think she's coming out here
to hunt up a preacher and git married to you right away. Not a-tall,
Mr. Gage, not none a-tall! She never onct said she'd do any more'n
come out here and keep house fer you one season--that's all. Said she
wouldn't deceive you. God knows how you can keep from deceiving _her_.
Look at this place. And you got to bring her here--to-morrow. She'll
be at Two Forks station to-morrow morning at eight-thirty, on the Park
train. This here thing is up to you right now. You made such a holler
about needing a woman to make things human fer you. Well, here you
are. There's the cards--play 'em the way they lay. You be human now
if you can. You got the chance."
"I ain't got no wagon, Wid," said Sim, weakly. "You know I ain't got
none."
"You'll have to take my buckboard."
"And you know I ain't got no team--my horse, he ain't right
strong--didn't winter none too well--and I couldn't go there with just
one mule, now could I?"
"You'll have to take my team of broncs," said Wid. "You can start out
from my place."
"But one thing, Sim Gage," he continued, "when you've started, I'm
a-coming down here with a pitch-fork and I'm a-going to clean out this
place! It ain't human. We'll do the best we can. Since there ain't
a-going to be no marrying right off, you'll have to sleep in your wall
tent outside. You'll have to git some wood cut up. You'll have to git
a clean bed here in the house,--this bed of yours is going to be burned
out in the yard. You'll have to git new blankets when you go to town."
"As fer your clothes"--he turned a contemptuous glance upon Sim as he
stood--"they ain't _hardly_ fit fer a bridegroom! Go to the Golden
Eagle, and git yourself a full outfit, top to bottom--new shirts, new
underclothes, new pants, new hat, new socks, new gloves, new
everything. This girl can't come out here and see you the way you are,
and this place the way it's been. She'd start something."
"Well, if you leave it to me," said Sim Gage mildly, "all this here
seems kind of sudden. You come in afore I'm up, and tell me to burn my
bed, and sleep in a tent, and borry a wagon and team and go to town fer
to marry a girl I never seen. That don't look reason'ble to me,
especial since I ain't had no hand in it."
"It's up to you now."
"How do I know whether I want that girl or not? I ain't read no
letters--nor wrote none. I ain't seen no picture of her----"
"Well," said Wid, and reached a hand into his breast pocket, "here she
is."
In a feeling more akin to awe than anything else, Sim Gage bent over,
looking down at the clear oval face, the piled dark hair, the tender
contour of cheek and chin of Mary Warren, as beautiful a young lady as
any man is apt ever to see; so beautiful that this man's inexperienced
heart stopped in his bosom. This picture once had been buttoned in the
tunic of an aviator who flew for the three flags; her brother; and
before his death and its return more than one of Dan Warren's army
friends had looked at it reverently as Sim Gage did now.
"Wears glasses, don't she," said he, to conceal his confusion. "Reckon
she's a school ma'am?"
"Ask me, and I'll say she's a lady. She says she's a working girl.
Says she's had trouble. Says she's up against it now. Says she ain't
well, and ain't happy, and--well, here she is."
"My good God A'mighty!" said Sim Gage, his voice awed as he looked at
the high-bred, clear-featured face of Mary Warren.