"It's more of a wonder than you know," replied Kelley. "I was headed
right plumb that way till I was seventeen. My mother had it all picked
out fer me. Then I broke away."
Harford, with the instinctive caution of the plainsman, pursued the
subject no further. He was content to know that for a very moderate
wage he had secured the best man with horses that the stable had ever
known. His only anxiety related to the question of keeping his find.
"Kelley's too good to be permanent," he said to his wife that night.
"He'll skip out with one of the best saddle-horses some night, or else
he'll go on a tearing drunk and send the whole outfit up in smoke. I
don't understand the cuss. He looks like the usual hobo out of a job,
but he's as abstemious as a New England deacon. 'Pears like he has no
faults at all."
Anita had been attracted to Kelley, lowly as he looked, and, upon
hearing his singular virtues recounted by her husband, opened her eyes
in augmented interest. All the men in her world were rough. Her father
drank, her brothers fought and swore and cheated, and her husband was as
free of speech in her presence as if she were another kind of man,
softening his words a little, but not much. Therefore, the next time she
met Kelley she lingered to make conversation with him, rejoicing in his
candid eyes and handsome face. She observed also that his shirt was
clean and his tie new. "He looks almost like a soldier," she thought,
and this was her highest compliment.
Surrounded as she was by gamblers, horse-jockeys, cattle-buyers, and
miners, all (generally speaking) of the same slouchy, unkempt type, she
recognized in the officers of the fort gentlemen of highest breeding and
radiant charm. Erect, neat, brisk of step, the lieutenants on parade
gave off something so alien, yet so sweet, that her heart went out to
them collectively, and when they lifted their caps to her individually,
she smiled upon them all with childish unconsciousness of their
dangerous qualities.
Most of the younger unmarried men took these smiles to be as they were,
entirely without guile. Others spoke jestingly (in private) of her
attitude, but were inclined to respect Harford's reputation as a gunman.
Only the major himself was reckless enough to take advantage of the
young wife's admiration for a uniform.
Kelley soon understood the situation. His keen eyes and sensitive ears
informed him of the light estimation in which his employer's wife was
held by the major; but at first he merely said, "This is none of your
funeral, Kelley. Stick to your currycomb. Harford is able to take care
of his own."
This good resolution weakened the very next time Anita met him and
prettily praised him. "Mr. Harford says you are the best man he ever
had, and I think that must be so, for my pony never looked so clean and
shiny."
Kelley almost blushed, for (as a matter of faithful history) he had
spent a great deal of time brushing bay Nellie. She did indeed shine
like a bottle, and her harness, newly oiled and carefully burnished,
glittered as if composed of jet and gold.
"Oh, that's all right; it's a part of my job," he replied, as carelessly
as he could contrive. "I like a good horse"--"and a pretty woman," he
might have added, but he didn't.
Although Anita lingered as if desiring a word or two more, the tall
hostler turned resolutely away and disappeared into the stable.
Bay Nellie, as the one dependable carriage-horse in the outfit of
broncos, had been set aside for the use of Anita and her friends, but
Kelley had orders from Harford to let the mare out whenever the women
did not need her, provided a kindly driver was assured, and so it
happened that the wives of the officers occasionally used her, although
none of them could be called friends or even acquaintances of little
Mrs. Harford.
Kelley observed their distant, if not contemptuous, nods to his
employer's wife as they chanced to meet her on the street, but he said
no word, even when some of the town loafers frankly commented on it. He
owed nothing to Harford. "It's not my job to defend his wife's
reputation." Nevertheless, it made him hot when he heard one of these
loafers remark: "I met the old major the other evening driving along the
river road with Harf's wife. Somebody better warn the major, or there'll
be merry hell and a military funeral one of these days."
"I reckon you're mistaken," said Kelley.
"Not by a whole mile! It was dark, but not so dark but that I could see
who they were. They were in a top buggy, drivin' that slick nag the old
man is so choice about."
"When was it?" asked Kelley.
"Night before last. I met 'em up there just at the bend of the river."
Kelley said no more, for he remembered that Anita had called for the
horse on that date just about sundown, and had driven away alone. She
returned alone about ten--at least, she drove up to the stable door
alone, but he recalled hearing the low tones of a man's voice just
before she called.
It made him sad and angry. He muttered an imprecation against the whole
world of men, himself included. "If I hadn't seen her--if I didn't know
how sweet and kind and pretty she was--I wouldn't mind," he said to
himself. "But to think of a little babe like her--" He checked himself.
"That old cockalorum needs killing. I wonder if I've got to do it?" he
asked in conclusion.