Bud Childers sat before the open fire in his log shack on Big Laurel
Cove. He sat alone. It is not good for a man to be alone unless he is
either poet or philosopher. Bud was neither. And yet, on the board
table which, with a few rough chairs, was the only article in the way
of furniture the room contained, stood a bottle and in the bottle a
withered branch from a laurel bush, plucked just beyond the ford where
he had first seen Roxie Kester. It would have been foolhardy of any one
to accuse Bud of expressing here a poetic idea. The chances are that he
would have accepted this as a challenge. He knew nothing about poets or
poetry or poetic ideas, he was not that kind. Maybe a squirrel brought
in the branch, and if any one cared to dispute that statement Bud was
ready.
But no one did dispute it. He was alone. Being alone will play strange
tricks with a man--with any man. It will bring to light, like digging
in the ground, many curious things, both good and bad.
Two weeks had passed since Bud first met Roxie--a disappointing two
weeks. Four times within that period he had waylaid her on the road
before the Howe house and walked by her side as far as her home. He had
spoken her fair and spoken her foul--losing his temper once and making
a threat. Maddened by her stubbornness he had rested a heavy hand upon
her arm.
“Y’are comin’,” he had said. “Y’are comin’ if I hev to carry yuh.”
And she, pulling herself free, had clenched her two little fists.
“If we had us men-folks home, you’d be slow sayin’ that, Bud Childers.”
Which was not altogether true. Men-folk or no men-folk, he meant to
have her. He meant to have her because he wanted her more than he had
ever wanted anything in his life. There was something peculiar about
this. He had desired things before, but never like this. If what he
wished came easily, he took it; if not, he forgot. As long as he had
a roof over his head, a plot of land of his own, enough to eat, and a
little money, he could always worry along. Mostly he lived each day
as it came, content enough in his mountain kingdom. Even when he
first began to feel the loneliness of the nights and to look about for
a wife, it was with indifferent interest in the woman herself. His
interest in Roxie was, perhaps, even at the start, quicker than that
he had ever felt for others of her sex, but he had not anticipated any
such desire as that which had now taken possession of him.
He had wanted her first because she was a woman and he a man. Then
he had wanted her because she was good to look upon; dainty and
clean-limbed and shy as a fawn. Finally he wanted her because she was
Roxie Kester; because she was herself. Just what this meant he did not
know, except that now, to-day, he felt she was the one woman who could
ever break his loneliness; this new loneliness which she herself had
created.
It is one thing to be lonely; another to be alone. Without her, he
was alone. This did not mean merely that he was by himself. That is
a negative condition. It meant an acute consciousness of the absence
of another. That is positive. It left him not content to wait, and
impelled him to action.
Bud was like a child in his impatience over delay. Patience is not
an inborn virtue; it is the product of high development. It involves
self-control which is the ultimate goal of civilization. Like a child,
too, Bud felt a desire to be equivalent to a proprietary right. Wanting
Roxie, he was entitled to her.
And so, sitting alone before his fire rolling and smoking innumerable
cigarettes, Bud planned how he might get her. To him it seemed only a
matter of gaining possession. The future would look after the rest.
He was sure of himself there. She was stubborn and as full of fight
as a mountain wildcat, but she would tame. He even smiled a little in
anticipation of that struggle. She would tame. He had broken horses and
he had broken men. His thin lips hardened. He could also break a woman.
Break her, yes, but after that, he could break any one else who tried
to harm her. Once she was his own, then valley folk or mountain folk
had better have a care how they trespassed. He would relish the
opportunity to prove himself. He would relish it at this moment. God,
if only he could get out and shoot for her! If only it were as simple
as that!
But it was not some one else he must fight now; it was the girl
herself. She had heard stories about him. That was the trouble. Well,
some of them were true enough, but they had nothing to do with the
present. What was past was past. He had done nothing but defend his
rights. Once she was his, he would defend her rights too.
The thing to do first was to get her. There was just one way to
accomplish this if she wouldn’t come; that was to bring her. He could
not carry her before a minister against her will, but he could fetch
her up here. He could keep her here one night and then--she would go to
the minister quickly enough after that.
Bud’s breath came faster as he planned. His face hardened around the
mouth, but it grew mellow about the eyes. To have her here--to have
her here! It was something to grow breathless about just to picture
her--say in that chair over yonder. She might tear at him with her
little fingers; she might cry, but even so she would be here. She would
be part of this room; part of his life. He would no longer be alone.
Then, lifting his hectic eyes, Bud caught sight of the sprig of laurel
in the bottle on the table. It was like a bit of her--like her in a
tender mood, a pleading mood. He rose and paced the room, his gaunt
shadow following him silently. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t
mean for to hurt her. He was going to marry her all right and proper,
and she’d be glad as soon as she got used to him. He’d give her
everything she wanted; plenty of new dresses and money and candy. He’d
go down to the village with her and let her buy all the new furniture
she wanted. He’d let her keep the house clean and he would wipe the mud
off’n his feet when he came in. He’d aim to please her every way she
wanted. In a little while she’d get used to him.
So Bud planned, and the sooner his plans were carried out the better.
There wasn’t any sense in keeping her riled up or in keeping himself
riled up. To-morrow night was as good as any. No sense in keeping riled
up.