IMPROVEMENTS
Out in a field bordered by the roadway a man toiled behind a
disk-plough. He trudged with seven-league strides along the furrows,
disdaining to ride on the seat of the plough. To effect a comfortable
following of his operations he had lengthened the reins with
clothes-line. He drove a team of old and gentle white horses as
wheelers. His lead animals were mules, neither old nor gentle. It is
possible that this fact accounted for his being afoot. He was arrayed
in cowboy boots and chaps, a faded flannel shirt, and a Stetson.
Despite the fact that a year had passed since he had practically
"Lochinvared" the most willing Anita,--though with the full and joyous
consent of her parents,--he still clung to the habiliments of the
cowboy, feeling that they offset the more or less menial requirements
of tilling the soil. Behind him trailed a lean, shaggy wolf-dog who
nosed the furrows occasionally and dug for prairie-dogs with
intermittent zest.
The toiler, too preoccupied with his ploughing to see more than his
horses' heads and the immediate unbroken territory before them, did not
realize that a team had stopped out on the road and that a man had
leaped from the buckboard and was standing at the fence. Chance,
however, saw the man, and, running to Sundown, whined. Sundown pulled
up his team and wiped his brow. "Hurt your foot ag'in?" he queried.
"Nope? Then what's wrong?"
The man in the road called.
Sundown wheeled and stood with mouth open. "It's--Gee Gosh! It's
Billy!"
He observed that a young and fashionably attired woman sat in the
buckboard holding the team. He fumbled at his shirt and buttoned it at
the neck. Then he swung his team around and started toward the fence.
Will Corliss, attired in a quiet-hued business suit, his cheeks
healthfully pink and his eye clear, smiled as the lean one tied the
team and stalked toward him.
Corliss held out his hand. Sundown shook his head. "Excuse me, Billy,
but I ain't shakin' hands with you across no fence."
And Sundown wormed his length between the wires and straightened up,
extending a tanned and hairy paw. "Shake, pardner! Say, you're
lookin' gorjus!"
"My wife," said Corliss.
Sundown doffed his sombrero sweepingly. "Welcome to Arizona, ma'am."
"This is my friend, Washington Hicks, Margery."
"Yes, ma'am," said Sundown. "It ain't my fault, neither. I had
nothin' to say about it when they hitched that name onto me. I reckon
I hollered, but it didn't do no good. Me pals"--and Sundown shrugged
his shoulder--"mostly gents travelin' for their health--got to callin'
me Sundown, which is more poetical. 'Course, when I got married--"
"Married!" exclaimed Corliss, grinning.
"You needn't to grin, Billy. Gettin' married's mighty
responsible-like."
Corliss made a gesture of apology. "So you're homesteading the
water-hole? Jack wrote to me about it. He didn't say anything about
your getting married."
"Kind of like his not sayin' anything about your gettin' hitched up,
eh? He said he was hearin' from you, but nothin' about Misses Corliss.
Please to expect my congratulations, ma'am--and you, too, Billy."
"Thank you!" said Mrs. Corliss, smiling. "Will has told me a great
deal about you."
"He has, eh? Well, I'm right glad to be acquainted by heresy. It kind
of puts you on to what to expect. But say, it's hot here. If you'll
drive back to me house, I'd sure like to show you the improvements."
"All right, Sun! We'll drive right in and wait for you."
They did not have to wait, however. Sundown, leaving his team at the
fence, took a short cut to the house. He entered the back door and
called to Anita.
"Neeter," he said, as she hastened to answer him, "they's some friends
of mine just drivin' up. If you could kind of make a quick change and
put on that white dress with the leetle roses sprinkled on it--quick;
and is--is he sleepin'?"
"Si! He is having the good sleep."
"Fine! I'll hold 'em off till you get fixed up. It's me ole pal,
Billy Corliss,--and he's brung along a wife. We got to make a good
front, seein' it's kind of unexpected. Wrastle into that purty dress
and don't wake him up."
"Si! I go queek."
"Why, this is fine!" said Corliss, entering, hat in hand, and gazing
about the room. "It's as snug and picturesque as a lodge."
"Beautiful!" exclaimed the enthusiastic Margery, gazing at the Navajo
rugs, the clean, white-washed walls against which the red ollas, filled
with wild flowers, made a pretty picture, and the great grizzly-bear
rug thrown across a home-made couch. "It's actually romantic!"
"Me long suit, lady. We ain't got much, but what we got goes with this
kind of country."
Margery smiled. "Oh, Will, I'd like a home like this. Just simple and
clean--and comfortable. It's a real home."
"Me wife's comin' in a minute. While she's--er--combin' her hair,
mebby you'd like to see some of the improvements." And Sundown marched
proudly to the new dining-room--an extension that he had built
himself--and waved an invitation for his guests to behold and marvel.
The dining-room was, in its way, also picturesque. The exceedingly
plain table was covered with a clean white cloth. The furniture, owing
to some fortunate accident of choice, was not ornate but of plain
straight lines, redeemed by painted ollas filled with flowers. The
white walls were decorated with two pictures, a lithograph of the
Madonna,--which seemed entirely in keeping with the general tone of the
room, but which would have looked glaringly out of place anywhere
else,--and an enlarged full-length photograph, framed, of an
exceedingly tall and gorgeous cowboy, hat in hand, quirt on wrist, and
looking extremely impressive. Beside the cowboy stood a great, shaggy
dog--Chance. And, by chance, the picture was a success.
"Why, it's you, Sun!" exclaimed Corliss, striding to the picture. "And
it's a dandy! I'd hang it in the front room."'
"That's what Neeter was sayin'. But I kind of like it in here. You
see, Neeter sets there and I set here where I can see me picture while
I'm eatin'. It kind of gives me a good appetite. 'Course, lookin' out
the window is fine. See them there mesas dancin' in the sun, and the
grass wavin' and me cows grazing and 'way off like in a dream them blue
hills! It's sure a millionaire picture! And it don't cost nothin'."
"That's the best of it!" said Corliss heartily. "We're going to
build--over on the mesa near the fork. You remember?"
Sundown's flush was inexplicable to Margery, but Corliss understood.
He had ridden the trail toward the fork one night. . . . But that was
past, atoned for. . . . He would live that down.
"It's a purty view, over there," said Sundown gently.
And the two men felt that that which was not forgotten was at least
forgiven--would never again be mentioned.
"And me kitchen," said Sundown, leading the way, "is Neeter's. She
runs it. There's more good eats comes out of it than they is fancy
crockery in it, which just suits me. And out here"--and the party
progressed to the back yard--"is me new corral and stable and
chicken-coop. I made all them improvements meself, durin' the winter.
Reckon you saw the gasoline-engine what does the pumpin' for the tanks.
I wanted to have a windmill, but the engine works faster. It's kind of
hot, ma'am, and if you'll come in and set down I reckon me wife's got
her hair--"
"Wah! Wah! Wah!" came in a crescendo from the bedroom.
Sundown straightened his shoulders. "Gee Gosh, he's gone and give it
away, already!"
Corliss and his wife glanced at their host inquisitively.
"Me latest improvement," said Sundown, bowing, as Anita, a plump brown
baby on her arm, opened the bedroom door and stood bashfully looking at
the strangers.
"And me wife," he added.
Corliss bowed, but Margery rushed to Anita and held out her arms. "Oh,
let me take him!" she cried. "What big brown eyes! Let me hold him!
I'll be awfully careful! Isn't he sweet!"
They moved to the living-room where Anita and Margery sat side by side
on the couch with the baby absorbing all their attention.
Sundown stalked about the room, his hands in his pockets, vainly
endeavoring to appear very mannish and unconcerned, but his eye roved
unceasingly to the baby. He was the longest and most upstanding
six-feet-four of proud father that Margery or her husband had ever had
the pleasure of meeting.
"He's got Neeter's eyes--and--and her--complexion, but he's sure got me
style. He measures up two-feet-six by the yardstick what we got with
buyin' a case of bakin'-soda, and he ain't a yearlin' yet. I don't
just recollec' the day but I reckon Neeter knows."
"He's great!" exclaimed Corliss. "Isn't he, Margery?"
"He's just the cutest little brown baby!" said Margery, hugging the
plump little body.
"He--he ain't so _turruble_ brown," asserted Sundown. "'Course, he's
tanned up some, seein' we keep him outside lots. I'm kind o' tanned up
meself, and I reckon he takes after me."
"He has a head shaped just like yours," said Margery, anxious to please
the proud father.
"Then," said Sundown solemnly, "he's goin' to be a pole."
Anita, proud of her offspring, her husband, her neat and clean home,
laughed softly, and held out her arms for the baby. With a kick and a
struggle the young Sundown wriggled to her arms and snuggled against
her, gravely inspecting the pink roses on his mother's white dress.
They were new to him. He was more used to blue gingham. The roses
were interesting.
"Yes, Billy's me latest improvement," said Sundown, anxious to assert
himself in view of the presence of so much femininity and a
correspondingly seeming lack of vital interest in anything save the
baby.
"Billy!" said Corliss, turning from where he had stood gazing out of
the window.
"Uhuh! We named him Billy after you."
Corliss turned again to the window.
Sundown stepped to him, misinterpreting his silence. He put his hand
on Corliss's shoulder. "You ain't mad 'cause we called him that, be
you?"
"Mad! Say, Sun,"--and Corliss laughed, choked, and brushed his eyes.
"Sun, I don't deserve it."
"Well, seein' what I been through since I was his size, I reckon I
don't either. But he's here, and you're here and your wife--and things
is fine! The sun is shinin' and the jiggers out on the mesa is
chirkin' and to-morrow's goin' to be a fine day. There's nothin' like
bankin' on to-morrow, 'specially if you are doin' the best you kin
today." And with this bit of philosophy, Sundown, motioning to
Corliss, excused himself and his companion as they strode to the
doorway and out to the open. There they talked about many things
having to do with themselves and others until Margery, hailing them
from the door, told them that dinner was waiting.
After dinner the men foregathered in the shade of an acacia and smoked,
saying little, but each thinking of the future. Sundown in his
peculiarly optimistic and half-melancholy way, and Corliss with mingled
feelings of hope and regret. He had endeavored to live down his past
away from home. He had succeeded in a measure: had sought and found
work, had become acquainted with his employer's daughter, told her
frankly of his previous manner of life, and found, not a little to his
astonishment, that she had faith in him. Then he wrote to his brother,
asking to come back. John Corliss was more than glad to realize that
Will had straightened up. If the younger man was willing to reclaim
himself among folk who knew him at his worst, there must be something
to him. So Corliss had asked his brother to give him his employer's
address; had written to the employer, explaining certain facts
regarding Will's share in the Concho, and also asking that he urge Will
to come home. Just here Miss Margery had something to say, the
ultimate result of which was a more definite understanding all around.
If Will was going back to Arizona, Margery was also going. And as
Margery was a young woman quietly determined to have her way when she
knew that it was right to do so, they were married the day before Will
Corliss was to leave for Arizona. This was to be their honeymoon.
All of which was in Will Corliss's mind as he lay smoking and gazing at
the cloudless sky. It may be added to his credit that he had not
returned because of the money that was his when he chose to claim it.
Rather, he had realized--and Margery had a great deal to do with his
newer outlook--that so long as he stayed away from home he was
confessing to cowardice. Incidentally Margery, being utterly feminine,
wanted to see Arizona and the free life of the range, of which Corliss
had told her. As for Nell Loring . . . Corliss sighed.
"It sure is hot," muttered Sundown. "'Course, you'll stay over and
light out in the mornin' cool. You and me can sleep in the front room.
'T ain't the fust time we rustled for a roost. And the wimmen-folks
can bunk in the bedroom. Billy he's right comf'table in his big
clothes-basket. He's a sure good sleeper, if I do say it."
"We could have gone on through," said Corliss, smiling. "Of course
we'd have been late, but Margery likes driving."
"Well, if you had 'a' gone through--and I'd 'a' _ketched_ you at
it--I--I--I'd 'a' changed Billy's name to--to somethin' else." And
Sundown frowned ferociously.
Corliss laughed. "But we didn't. We're here--and it's mighty good to
breathe Arizona air again. You never really begin to love Arizona till
you've been somewhere else for a while."
"And bein' married helps some, too," suggested Sundown.
"Yes, a whole lot. Margery's enthusiasm makes me see beautiful things
that I'd passed a hundred times before I knew her."
"That's correc'," concurred Sundown. "Now, take Gentle Annie, for
instance--"
"You mean Mrs.--er--Sundown?"
"Nope! Me tame cow. 'Annie' is American for 'Anita,' so I called her
that. Now, that there Gentle Annie's just a regular cow. She ain't
purty--but she sure gives plenty milk. Neeter got me to seein' that
Gentle Annie's eyes was purty and mournful-like and that she was a
right handsome cow. If your wife's pettin' and feedin' somethin', and
callin' it them there smooth Spanish names, a fella's wise to do the
same. It helps things along."
"Little Billy, for instance," suggested Corliss.
"Leetle Billy is right! But he couldn't help bein' good-lookin', I
guess. He's different. Fust thing your wife said wuz he took after
his pa."
"You haven't changed much," said Corliss, smiling.
"Me? Mebby not--outside; but say, inside things is different. I got
feelin's now what I never knowed I had before. Why, sometimes, when
Neeter is rockin' leetle Bill, and singing and me settin' in the door,
towards evenin', and everything fed up and happy, why, do you know, I
feel jest like cryin'. Plumb foolish, ain't it?"
"I don't know about that, Sun."
"Well, you will some day," asserted Sundown, taking him literally. "'T
ain't gettin' married what makes a man, but it's a dum' poor one what
don't make the best of things if he is hitched up to a good girl. Only
one thing--it sure don't give a fella time to write much po'try."
Corliss did not smile. "You're living the poetry," he said with simple
sincerity.
"Which is correc', Billy. And speakin' of po'try, I reckon I got to go
feed them pigs. They's gruntin' somethin' scand'lous for havin'
comp'ny to our house--and anyhow, they's like to wake up leetle Bill."
And Sundown departed to feed his pigs.