Harford came home the next day, and for several weeks there was no
further occasion for gossip, although Kelley had his eyes on the major
so closely that he could neither come nor go without having his action
analyzed. He kept close record of Anita's coming and going also,
although it made him feel like a scoundrel whenever she glanced at him.
He was sure she was only the thoughtless child in all her indiscretions,
with a child's romantic admiration of a handsome uniform.
"I'll speak to her," he resolved. "I'll hand her out a word of warning
just to clear my conscience. She needs a big brother or an uncle--some
one to give her a jolt, and I'll do it!"
The opportunity came one day soon after Harford's return, but his
courage almost failed at the moment of meeting, so dainty, so small, so
charming, and so bird-like did the young wife seem.
She complimented him again on the condition of the mare and asked,
timidly, "How much does my husband pay you?"
"More than I'm worth," he replied, with gloomy self-depreciation.
She caught the note of bitterness in his voice and looked at him a
moment in surprised silence, her big eyes full of question. "What made
you say that?"
Kelley, repenting of his lack of restraint, smiled and said: "Oh, I felt
that way--for a minute. You see, I used to lead a high life of ease. I
was a nobleman--an Irish lord."
She smiled and uttered an incredulous word, but he went on:
"Yes, although my name is Kelley, I belong to a long line of kings. I'm
working as hostler just to square myself fer having killed a man. You
see, my queen was kind o' foolish and reckless and let a certain English
duke hang round her till I got locoed, and, being naturally quick on the
trigger, I slew him."
She was not stupid. She understood, and with quick, resentful glance she
took the reins from his hands and stepped into the carriage.
Kelley, silenced, and with a feeling that he had bungled his job, fell
back a pace, while she drove away without so much as a backward glance.
"I reckon she got it," he said, grimly, as he went back to his work. "I
didn't put it out just the way I had it in my head, but she 'peared to
sense enough of it to call me a Piute for butting in. If that don't work
on her I'll tack a warning on the major which nobody will misread fer a
joke."
As the hours of the afternoon went by he became more and more uneasy. "I
hope she'll turn up before dark, fer Harf is liable to get back any
minute," he said a dozen times, and when at last he saw her coming up
the street with a woman in the seat beside her he breathed deeply and
swore heartily in his relief. "I guess my parable kind o' worked," he
said, exultantly. "She's kept clear of the old goat this trip."
The little lady stopped her horse at the door of the stable and with a
cool and distant nod alighted and walked away.
"I'm the hostler now--sure thing," grinned Kelley. "No raise of pay fer
Tall Ed this week."
He was in reality quite depressed by the change in her attitude toward
him. "Reckon I didn't get just the right slaunch on that warning of
mine--and yet at the same time she ought to have seen I meant it
kindly.--Oh well, hell! it's none o' my funeral, anyway. Harford is no
green squash, he's a seasoned old warrior who ought to know when men are
stealing his wife." And he went back to his dusty duties in full
determination to see nothing and do nothing outside the barn.
Nevertheless, when, thereafter, anybody from the fort asked for bay
Nellie, he gave out that she was engaged, and the very first time the
major asked for the mare Kelley not only brusquely said, "She's in use,"
but hung up the receiver in the midst of the major's explanation.
The town gossips were all busy with the delightful report that Mrs.
Harford had again been seen driving with the major, whose reputation for
gallantry, monstrously exaggerated by the reek of the saloons, made even
a single hour of his company a dash of pitch to the best of women.
Kelley speculated on just how long it would take Harford to learn of
these hints against his wife. Some of his blunt followers were quite
capable of telling him in so many words that the major was doing him
wrong, and when they did an explosion would certainly take place.
One day a couple of Harford's horses, standing before the stable, became
frightened and ran away up the street. Kelley, leaping upon one of the
fleetest broncos in the stalls, went careering in pursuit just as Anita
came down the walk. He was a fine figure of a man even when slouching
about the barn, but mounted he was magnificent. It was the first time he
had ridden since the loss of his own outfit, and the feel of a vigorous
steed beneath his thighs, the noise of pounding feet, the rush of air,
filled his heart with mingled exultation and regret. He was the centaur
again.
Anita watched him pass and disappear with a feeling of surprise as well
as of admiration. She was skilled in reading the character of men on
horseback, and peculiarly sensitive to such an exhibition of grace and
power. Her hostler was transformed into something new and wholly
admirable, and she gladly took the trouble to watch for his return, as
she could not witness the roping and the skilful subduing of the
outlaws.
The picture he made as he tore along, swinging his rope, had displaced
that of the dirty, indifferent hostler, and Anita thereafter looked upon
him with respect, notwithstanding his presumptuous warning, which still
lay heavy in her ears.
She still resented his interference, but she resented it less now that
she knew him better. She began to wonder about him. Who was he? Why was
he the hostler? Naturally, being wise in certain ways of men, she
inferred that strong drink had "set him afoot"; but when she hesitantly
approached her husband on this point, his reply was brusque: "I don't
know anything about Kelley, and don't want to know. So long as he does
his work his family vault is safe."
Still desiring to be informed, she turned to her servants, with no
better results; they knew very little about Tall Ed, "but we like him,"
they were free to say.
This newly discovered mystery in the life of her hostler accomplished
what his warning had failed to do; it caused her to neglect her
correspondence with the major. His letter lay in a hollow willow-tree on
the river road unread for nearly a week. And when, one afternoon, she
finally rode by to claim it, her interest was strangely dulled. The
spice of the adventure was gone.
As she was about to deliver her pony to Kelley that night he handed her
an envelope, and, with penetrating glance, said: "I found this on the
river road to-day. I wouldn't write any more such--if I was you; it
ain't nice and it ain't safe."
It was her own letter, the one she had but just written and deposited in
the tree. She chilled and stiffened under the keen edge of Kelley's
contemptuous pity, then burned hot with illogical rage.
"What right--? You spied on me. It's a shame!"
"So it is!" he agreed, quietly; "but I don't want any killing
done--unless I do it myself."
"You are a thief," she accused.
"All right," he answered, dispassionately. "Spy--keeper--big
brother--dog--anything goes--only I don't intend to let you slide to
hell without a protest. You're nothing but a kid--a baby. You don't know
what you're going into. I'm an old stager; I know a whole lot that I
wish I didn't know. I've known women who _said_ they didn't care--lots
of 'em--but they did; they all cared. They all knew they'd lost out.
There's only one end to the trail you're starting in on, and it ain't a
pretty one. Harf married you in good faith, and even if he _is_ gettin'
old and slow-footed and skinny, he's your husband and entitled to a
square deal."
Blinded by her tears, and weak with passionate resentment of his tone,
she could scarcely clamber down from the carriage. As soon as her feet
touched the ground she started away. Kelley retained her by the force of
his hand upon her wrist.
"Wait a moment," he said, huskily. "You're mad now and you want to
murder me, but think it all over and you'll see I'm your friend."
There was something in his voice which caused her to look squarely up
into his face, and the tenderness she saw there remained long in her
memory.
"You're too sweet and lovely to be the sport of a cheap skate like that.
Don't throw yourself away on any man. Good-by and God bless ye."
She walked away with bent head and tear-blinded eyes, her heart filled
with weakness and pain. She was like a child justly punished, yet
resenting it, and mingled with her resentment was a growing love and
admiration for the man whose blunt words had bruised her soul in the
hope of her redemption.
* * * * *
Kelley went back to his little office, gathered his small belongings
together, and called up Harford on the 'phone. "I'll take that blue
cayuse and that Denver-brand saddle, and call it square to date.... Yes,
I'm leaving. I've got a call to a ranch over on the Perco. Sorry, but I
reckon I've worked out my sentence.... All right. So long."
Ten minutes later he was mounted and riding out of town. The air was
crisp with autumn frost and the stars were blazing innumerably in the
sky. A coyote had begun his evening song, and to the north rose the
high, dark mass of the Book cliffs. Toward this wall he directed his
way. He hurried like one fleeing from temptation, and so indeed he was.