It was the middle of the next forenoon when Manley came riding home, sullen
from drink and a losing game of poker, which had kept him all night at the
table, and at sunrise sent him forth in the mood which meets a grievance
more than half-way. He did not stop at the house, though he saw Val through
the open door; he did not trouble to speak to her, even, but rode on to the
stable, stopping at the corral to look over the fence at the calves, still
bawling sporadically between half-hearted nibblings at the hay which
Polycarp had thrown in to them.
Just at first he did not notice anything wrong, but soon a vague disquiet
seized him, and he frowned thoughtfully at the little group. Something
puzzled him; but his brain, fogged with whisky and loss of sleep, and the
reaction from hours of concentration upon the game, could not quite grasp
the thing that troubled him. In a moment, however, he gave an inarticulate
bellow, wheeled about, and rode back to the house. He threw himself from
the horse almost before it stopped, and rushed into the kitchen. Val,
ironing one of her ruffled white aprons, looked up quickly, turned rather
pale, and then stiffened perceptibly for the conflict that was coming.
“There's only four calves in the corral--and I brought in five. Where's the
other one?” He came up and stood quite close to her--so close that Val took
a step backward. He did not speak loud, but there was something in his
tone, in his look, that drove the little remaining color from her face.
“Manley,” she said, with a catch of the breath, “why did you do that
horrible thing? What devil possessed you? I--”
“I asked you 'where is that other calf'? Where is it? There's only four. I
brought in five.” His very calmness was terrifying.
Val threw back her head, and her eyes were--as they frequently became in
moments of stress--yellow, inscrutable, like the eyes of a lion in a cage.
“Yes, you brought in five. One of the five, at least, you--stole. You put
your brand, Manley Fleetwood, on a calf that did not belong to you; it
belonged to the Wishbone, and you know it. I have learned many disagreeable
things about you, Manley, in the past two years; yesterday morning I
learned that you were a _thief_. Ah-h--I despise you! Stealing from the
very men who helped you--the men to whom you owe nothing but gratitude
and--and friendship! Have you no manhood whatever? Besides being weak and
shiftless, are you a criminal as well? _How_ can you be so utterly lacking
in--in common decency, even?” She eyed him as she would look at some
strange monster in a museum about which she was rather curious.
“I asked you where that other calf is--and you'd better tell me!” It was
the tone which goes well with a knife thrust or a blow. But the contempt in
Val's face did not change.
“Well, you'll have to hunt for it if you want it. The cow--a Wishbone cow,
mind you!--came and claimed it; I let her have it. No stolen goods
can remain on this ranch with my knowledge, Manley Fleetwood. Please
remember--”
“Oh, you turned it out, did you? You turned it out?” He had her by the
throat, shaking her as a puppy shakes a purloined shoe. “I could--_kill_
you for that!”
“Manley! Ah-h-h--” It was not pleasant--that gurgling cry, as she straggled
to get free.
He had the look of a maniac as he pressed his fingers into her throat and
glared down into her purpling face.
With a sudden impulse he cast her limp form violently from him. She struck
against a chair, fell from that to the floor, and lay a huddled heap, her
crisp, ruffled skirt just giving a glimpse of tiny, half-worn slippers, her
yellow hair fallen loose and hiding her face.
He stared down at her, but he felt no remorse--she had jeopardized his
liberty, his standing among men. A cold horror caught him when he thought
of the calf turned loose on the range, his brand on its ribs. He rushed
in a panic from the kitchen, flung himself into the saddle, and went off
across the coulee, whipping both sides of his horse. She had not told
him--indeed, he had not asked her--which way the cow had gone, but
instinctively he rode to the west, the direction from which he had driven
the calves. One thought possessed him utterly; he must find that calf.
So he rode here and there, doubling and turning to search every feeding
herd he glimpsed, fearing to face the possibility of failure and its
inevitable consequence.
The cat with the white spots on its sides--Val called her Mary Arabella,
for some whimsical reason--came into the kitchen, looked inquiringly at
the huddled figure upon the floor, gave a faint mew, and went slowly up,
purring and arching her back; she snuffed a moment at Val's hair, then
settled herself in the hollow of Val's arm, and curled down for a nap. The
sun, sliding up to midday, shone straight in upon them through the open
door.
Polycarp Jenks, riding that way in obedience to some obscure impulse,
lifted his hand to give his customary tap-tap before he walked in; saw
Val lying there, and almost fell headlong into the room in his haste and
perturbation. It looked very much as if he had at last stumbled upon the
horrible tragedy which was his one daydream. To be an eyewitness of a
murder, and to be able to tell the tale afterward with minute, horrifying
detail--that, to Polycarp, would make life really worth living. He shuffled
over to Val, pushed aside the mass of yellow hair, turned her head so that
he could look into her face, saw at once the bruised marks upon her throat,
and stood up very straight.
“Foul play has been done here!” he exclaimed melodramatically, eying the
cat sternly. “Murder--that's what it is, by granny--a foul murder!”
The victim of the foul murder stirred slightly. Polycarp started and bent
over her again, somewhat disconcerted, perhaps, but more humanly anxious.
“Mis' Fleetwood--Mis' Fleetwood! You hurt? It's Polycarp Jenks talkin' to
you!” He hesitated, pushed the cat away, lifted Val with some difficulty,
and carried her into the front room and deposited her on the couch. Then he
hurried after some water.
“Come might' nigh bein' a murder, by granny--from the marks on 'er
neck--come might' nigh, all right!”
He sprinkled water lavishly upon her face, bethought him of a possible
whisky flask in the haystack, and ran every step of the way there and back.
He found a discarded bottle with a very little left in it, and forced the
liquor down her throat.
“That'll fetch ye if anything will--_he-he!_” he mumbled, tittering from
sheer excitement. Beyond a very natural desire to do what he could for her,
he was extremely anxious to bring her to her senses, so that he could hear
what had happened, and how it had happened.
“Betche Man got jealous of her'n Kenneth--by granny, I betche that's how it
come about--hey? Feelin' better, Mis' Fleetwood?”
Val had opened her eyes and was looking at him rather stupidly. There was a
bruise upon her head, as well as upon her throat. She had been stunned,
and her wits came back slowly. When she recognized Polycarp, she tried
ineffectually to sit up.
“I--he--is--he--gone?” Her voice was husky, her speech labored.
“Man, you mean? He's gone, yes. Don't you be afeared--not whilst I'm here,
by granny! How came it he done this to ye?”
Val was still staring at him bewilderedly. Polycarp repeated his question
three times before the blank look left her eyes.
“I--turned the calf--out--the cow--came and--claimed it--Manley--” She
lifted her hand as if it were very, very heavy, and fumbled at her throat.
“Manley--when I told him--he was a--thief--” She dropped her hand wearily
to her side and closed her eyes, as if the sight of Polycarp's face, so
close to hers and so insatiably curious and eager and cunning, was more
than she could bear.
“Go away,” she commanded, after a minute or two. “I'm--all right. It's
nothing. I fell. It was--the heat. Thank you--so much--” She opened her
eyes and saw him there still. She looked at him gravely, speculatively. She
waved her hand toward the bedroom. “Get me my hand glass--in there on the
dresser,” she said.
When he had tiptoed in and got it for her, she lifted it up slowly, with
both hands, until she could see her throat. There were distinct, telltale
marks upon the tender flesh--unmistakable finger prints. She shivered and
dropped the glass to the floor. But she stared steadily up at Polycarp, and
after a moment she spoke with a certain fierceness.
“Polycarp Jenks, don't ever tell--about those marks. I--I don't want any
one to know. When--after a while--I want to think first--perhaps you can
help me. Go away now--not away from the ranch, but--let me think. I'm all
right--or I will be. Please go.”
Polycarp recognized that tone, however it might be hoarsened by bruised
muscles and the shock of what she had suffered. He recognized also that
look in her eyes; he had always obeyed that look and that tone--he obeyed
them now, though with visible reluctance. He sat down in the kitchen to
wait, and while he waited he chewed tobacco incessantly, and ruminated upon
the mystery which lay behind the few words Val had first spoken, before she
realized just what it was she was saying.
After a long, long while--so long that even Polycarp's patience was feeling
the strain--Val opened the door and stood leaning weakly against the
casing. Her throat was swathed in a piece of white silk.
“I wish, Polycarp, you'd get the team and hitch it to the light rig,” she
said. “I want to go to town, and I don't feel able to drive. Can you take
me in? Can you spare the time?”
“Why, certainly, I c'n take you in, Mis' Fleetwood. I was jest thinkn' it
wa'n't safe for you out here--”
“It is perfectly safe,” Val interrupted chillingly. “I am going because I
Want to see Arline Hawley.” She raised her hand to the bandage. “I have
a sore throat,” she stated, staring hard at him. Then, with one of her
impulsive changes, she smiled wistfully.
“You'll be my friend, Polycarp, won't you?” she pleaded. “I can trust you,
I know, with my--secret. It is a secret--it _must_ be a secret! I'll tell
you the truth, Polycarp. It was Manley--he had been drinking again. He--we
had a quarrel--about something. He didn't know what he was doing--he didn't
mean to hurt me. But I fell--I struck my head; see, there is a great
lump there.” She pushed back her hair to show him the place. “So it's a
secret--just between you and me, Polycarp Jenks!”
“Why, certainly, Mis' Fleetwood; don't you be the least mite oneasy; I'm
your friend--I always have been. A feller ain't to be held responsible when
he's drinkin'--by granny, that's a fact, he ain't.”
“No,” Val agreed laconically, “I suppose not. Let us go, then, as soon as
we can, please. I'll stay overnight with Mrs. Hawley, and you can bring me
back to-morrow, can't you? And you'll remember not to mention--anything,
won't you, Polycarp?”
Polycarp stood very straight and dignified.
“I hope, Mis' Fleetwood, you can always depend on Polycarp Jenks,” he
replied virtuously. “Your secret is safe with me.”
Val smiled--somewhat doubtfully, it is true--and let him go. “Maybe it
is--I hope so,” she sighed, as she turned away to dress for the trip.
All through that long ride to town, Polycarp talked and talked and talked.
He made surmises and waited openly to hear them confirmed or denied; he
gave her advice; he told her everything he had ever heard about Manley, or
had seen or knew from some other source; everything, that is, save what was
good. The sums he had lost at poker, or had borrowed; the debts he owed to
the merchants; the reputation he had for “talking big and doing little;”
the trouble he had had with this man and that man; and what he did not know
for a certainty he guessed at, and so kept the subject alive.
True, Val did not speak at all, except when he asked her how she felt. Then
she would reply dully, “Pretty well, thank you, Polycarp.” Invariably those
were the words she used. Whenever he stole a furtive, sidelong glance at
her, she was staring straight ahead at the great, undulating prairie with
the brown ribbon, which was the trail, thrown carelessly across to the sky
line.
Polycarp suspected that she did not see anything--she just stared with her
eyes, while her thoughts were somewhere else. He was not even sure that she
heard what he was saying. He thought she must be pretty sick, she was so
pale, and she had such wide, purple rings under her eyes. Also, he rather
resented her desire to keep her trouble a secret; he favored telling
everybody, and organizing a party to go out and run Man Fleetwood out of
the country, as the very mildest rebuke which the outraged community could
give and remain self-respecting. He even fell silent daring the last three
or four miles, while he dwelt longingly upon the keen pleasure there would
be in leading such an expedition.
“You'll remember, Polycarp, not to speak of this?” Val urged abruptly when
he drew up before the Hawley Hotel. “Not a hint, you know until--until I
give you permission. You promised.”
“Oh, certainly, Mis' Fleetwood. Certainly. Don't you be a mite oneasy.” But
the tone of Polycarp was dejected in the extreme.
“And please be ready to drive me back in the morning. I should like to be
at the ranch by noon, at the latest.” With that she left him and went into
the hotel.