"THINGS KINDA SLIPPED UP"
Two motley roosters and a black Minorca were craning necks to outcrow
one another before the dawn. Out of the chill dark came Bud, the
Walking Sorrel swinging automatically along in the long strides of
the running walk that gave him his name and made him better than most
horses on a long, hard trail. When he stopped, the sorrel's legs
trembled with exhaustion. Bud's spurred boots dragged like an old man's
on the path to the house, and his head buzzed until the roosters, the
frogs and the humming of mosquitoes blended in one muffled, discordant
chorus.
As he stepped upon the porch Maw sat up, rubbing her eyes, and got
out of bed, dragging a faded, big-flowered kimono over her nightgown
and thrusting tiny, bare feet into a shapeless pair of slippers much
too large for her. Her muslin nightcap went up to a peak at the crown
of her head. She looked like a female goblin fleeing from a midnight
rendezvous as she came pattering into the kitchen with a lighted candle
held aloft in her hand, her round eyes blinking with sleep.
"My, I bet you're about starved, Buddy! When a boy gets in this time of
night, I _know_ he's hungry. I set back a whole berry pie for you, and
the cream for it is all whipped and ready. I thought I wouldn't spread
it till you come, because if it stands too long the crust gets soggy.
And there's plenty of cold fried chicken--I saved you the gizzards,
Bud, and three wings. I know how you like them parts. Nev' mind washin'
your face. You set right down and I'll have you eatin' in two seconds."
That was one of the reasons why the Meadowlark worshiped Maw.
"Drink this, Buddy. It's last night's milk--poured right off the top of
the pan, cream and all."
Slumped into the nearest chair by the table, Bud put out a hand slowly
and took up the glass, spilling milk on Maw's white tablecloth and
down his shirt front because his hand shook so. But the rich milk
refreshed him like a draught of wine, and when he had set down the
glass--empty--he turned hollow eyes with some interest toward the plate
heaped with chicken fried a golden brown as only Maw could do it. Maw
was spreading fresh bread for him, two great slices, and she seemed
blessedly unconscious of Bud's wolfish feeding, once he started to eat.
But finally, when Bud had finished the third wing and was biting into
the bluish knob of a gizzard, Maw hooked her slipper heels over the top
rung of her chair and nodded her head like a witch over her cauldron.
"Things kinda slipped up, I s'pose. They will do that no matter how
careful we plan. I heard enough of what you and Skookum was talkin'
about last night--"
"Last night?" Bud repeated, looking up in dull amazement. "Is that as
long ago as it was, Maw?"
"Well, a course it's most mornin' now, so I s'pose I can say night
b'fore last. When every minute is crammed and jammed with happenin's,
it does seem to take an awful lot of 'em to make a day. The day has
gone real quick for me, too. And there's Margy, sayin' Cranford would
be real excitin' alongside this place. She got real put out t'day,
because you boys went off first thing this forenoon, and then Butch
Cassidy come over and spent most all the time foolin' around with
Skookum and didn't talk to her much, and somethin' or other went wrong
in her story--she was tellin' me all about it while we washed up the
dishes.
"Margy's getting real friendly," Maw went on, after a pause spent in
studying Bud's face and in deciding, no doubt, that he was not yet
ready to talk of his own affairs. "This afternoon she come right up and
put her arm around me and patted me on the shoulder! I didn't s'pose
she'd ever get used to me so she could look at me without scringin',
but she's got all over that, and it ain't much more'n a week since she
come. She's just as sweet as she can be, and she tells me all about
everything, real confiding."
"Cranford! Ye gods!" Bud exploded tardily, the full enormity of the
outrageous comparison striking him in the middle of his demolishing
the plate of chicken. He dropped a clean-picked thigh bone on the heap
beside his plate and looked at Maw with a shadow of his old, impudent
grin. "If Marge were a man I'd show her some excitement, maybe."
"She's writing a bank-robbery story, Bud, and--maybe I hadn't ought to
tell you--she's got you for the hero of it. She--"
"Me for the hero? Good Lord!"
"Well," said Maw, blinking at him across the table, "looks to me as if
you'd had about all the adventures she's put you through in her story,
except I don't s'pose you've been arrested for the murder and throwed
in jail and incarcerated, like Margy had 'em do to you. She says it's
awful hard to make up excitin' things, when she come out here expectin'
that things would happen right along that she could use fine. She says
she's goin' to have the Indians break out and start massacreeing the
whites, and she wanted all day to ask you about some secret order;
Golden Arrer, she says it is. She wants to make it a religious outbreak
of some kind, and either let 'em catch you and start in to torture you,
or else have you save a girl from bein' tortured. She tried to get Lark
to tell her, but Larkie's kinda queer about some things. She couldn't
get a peep outa him. He told her there wasn't no such thing, but of
course she knew he was just denyin' it for some reason of his own. She
thinks maybe he's mixed up and implicated somehow--maybe a high priest
of the order; but I told her I didn't hardly believe he was."
Bud gave a whoop and choked so that Maw climbed down from her chair and
came around and thumped him between the shoulders until he could wave
her off with weak gestures of refusal. He came to with his face red and
blinking tears, but he had no sooner got his breath than he began to
laugh.
"I s'pose I've said somethin' funny, but I don't see what." Maw spoke
tartly when the first outburst had subsided. "I guess you oughta be
in pretty good shape now after gorgin' the way you have. I'll go
call Lark, and then I expect maybe you'll see fit to tell us what's
happened, and what brings you home this time in the morning, lookin'
like a string of suckers and eatin' like you'd starved for a week. And
all I can say," she stopped to say pettishly, "is that small matters
amuse small minds. If I used a word wrong, that's _my_ business!" She
scuttled off before Bud could explain.
Maw was further shocked to find Bud emptying the pantry of cooked food
when she returned to the kitchen. Four loaves of fresh baked bread
reposed neatly beside half a baked ham, and the cookie jar was in his
arms.
"For the love of Moses!" snapped Maw. "Didn't you get enough to eat
_yet_?"
Behind her, Lark glanced appraisingly at the devastated table and
grinned. The pile of chicken bones beside Bud's plate was enough, to
say nothing of the remnant of pie with the whipped cream scraped off in
streaks.
"For the time being, maybe; but I may possibly want to eat again, Maw,
before Marge has me put in jail and incarcerated!" Bud was still badly
in need of sleep, and Maw's tone had not been conciliating.
"I ain't responsible for that word, Bud Larkin. Margy used it herself,
and if it don't meet with your approval, it's none of _my_ funeral.
Here's Lark, wantin' to know what you've been up to, and why you come
draggin' your feet into the house this time of night. Are you goin' to
take all them cookies, Bud? I can't make any more till I get some sour
cream. I churned every bit that I had."
"You did? Fine! Bob's out in the hills, and fresh butter will go dandy
with this bread. You know, Maw, there's only one real bread-maker in
the world, and she's just about four feet high and cross as a she bear
with toothache."
"I ain't no such a thing! Do you s'pose you could carry a pie if I
wrapped it up good?"
"Sure. I'll carry it inside, however. Then I _know_ it will be well
wrapped. Lark may want to carry one. How about it, Lark? Want to go
hunting with me, after I've had an hour or so of sleep?"
Lark hitched up his belt, picked up Maw and set her on a corner of the
table. Then, ignoring her indignant protests, he began his preparations
significantly in the gun closet, choosing what weapons he would take.
Bud eyed him from under straight brows while he wrapped the bread in
one of Maw's choicest dish towels which she kept for "comp'ny", when
some range woman would insist upon helping her with the dishes.
"You won't need a shotgun--and I'll just omit that hour of sleep. Maw's
pie is a real rejuvenator."
"It ain't no such a thing! Bud, ain't you goin' to tell what you've
been up to or where you've been? My land, I never saw such carryin's
on!"
"Nothing exciting, Maw. Nothing that Marge could use in that story of
hers. Come on, Lark."