A DIFFICULT RESOLVE
For two days Kate burned in feverish reaction from her exposure,
wretched in mind and body. Her only effort in that time was to get
down to the corral and see that Bradley, acting as barn boy, should do
something for her cut and bruised pony.
Her father was still in Medicine Bend, and Van Horn, much to her
relief, had disappeared. When she left her bed she spent the morning
trying to rehabilitate her riding suit. The task called for all her
ingenuity and she was still in the kitchen working on it late in the
afternoon when Bradley came in.
He had no sooner sat down by the door to report to Kate at his ease,
than Kelly interrupted him with a call for wood. Even after he had
filled the box, Kelly warned him he would have to split more next
morning to get a supply ahead.
"Easy, Kelly," remonstrated Bradley, in his deeply tremulous voice.
"Easy. I can't split no wood t'morrow mornin', not for nobody."
"Why not?"
"Got to go to town."
"What for?"
Bradley declined to answer, but Kelly, persistent, bored into his
evasiveness until Kate tired at the discussion: "Tell him what you're
going for and be done with it," she said tartly. The reaction of three
days had not left her own nerves unaffected; she admitted to herself
she was cross.
Bradley, taken aback by this unexpected assault, still tried to
temporize. Kate refused to countenance it. When he saw he was in for
it, he appealed to her generosity: "It'd be most 's much 's my job's
worth if they knew here what I'm goin' to town tomorrow f'r."
"If that's all," said Kate, to reassure the old man, "I'll stand
between you and losing your job."
Bradley drew his stubby chin and shabby beard in and threw his voice
down into his throat: "D' y' mean that? Then don't say nothin', you
and Kelly. Least said, soonest mended. I'm goin' t' town t'morrow t'
see the biggest funeral ever pulled off in Sleepy Cat," he announced
with bleary dignity.
"What do you mean--whose funeral?" demanded Kate, looking at him
suddenly.
"Abe Hawk's. It's goin' t' be t'morrow er next day."
If the old man had meant to stupefy his questioner, he could not better
have succeeded. Kate turned deathly white. She bent over the table
and busied herself with her ironing. Bradley, pleased with his
confidence safely made, talked on. He found a pride in talking to
Kate, with Kelly in and out of the room, and launched into unrestrained
eulogies of the famed rustler, always the friend of the poor man, once
king of the great north range itself.
"It's a pity," murmured Kate, when she felt she must say something,
"that he ever went wrong."
Bradley had a point to offer even on that. "It's a pity they ever
blacklisted him; that was Stone's get-up. And Stone, when I was
sheriff, was the biggest thief in the county an' the county was four
times as big then as it is now--that's 'tween you 'n' me."
"Were you ever sheriff, Bill?"
"You won't believe it, but it's so--dash me 'n' dash drunkards one and
all."
"I hear, though," returned Kate, only because in her distress of mind
she could think of nothing else to say, "that Tom Stone has stopped
drinking."
"That man," was Bradley's retort, and he kept his tremulous voice still
far down in his throat, "is mean enough to do any d--d thing."
"You used to be sheriff?"
"Yes. And when I was sheriff, Kate, I found out it was better to trust
an honest man turned thief than a thief turned honest man."
Kate, listening to his halting maunderings, hardly heeded them. She
heard in her troubled ears the rush of mad waters; phantom voices
cracked again in pistoled oaths at the horses, the fear of sudden death
clutched at her heart, and in the dreadful dark a powerful arm caught
her again and drew her, helpless, out of an engulfing flood.
She got out of doors. The sunshine, clear and calm, belied the
possibility of a night such as Bradley's words had summoned. "Dead,"
she kept saying to herself. Laramie had been sure he would get out of
the creek. What could it mean?
She went back to the kitchen where Bradley, eating supper, had switched
from his long-winded topic. Kate had to question him: "What was the
matter with Abe? When did he die?" she asked, as unconcernedly as she
could.
There was little satisfaction in Bradley's slow, formal answer: "Some's
got it one way and some's got it another, Kate. I can't rightly say
what ailded him or when he died 'n' I guess nobody else can, f'r sure.
Some says he got shot; some says he was drownded 'a' las' Tuesday night
in the Crazy Woman; some says they's been a fight nobody's heard of
yit, 't' all. The only man that knows for sure--if he does know--is
the man that brought him into Sleepy Cat 'n' if he knows he won't
tell." He held out his big enameled cup. "Kelly, gi' me jus' a squirt
o' coffee, will y'?"
Kate, on nettles, waited to hear who had brought Hawk in. Bradley
would not volunteer the name. Some deference was due him as the
purveyor of the big news, and he meant that anyone curious of detail
should do the asking. Kate, realizing this, framed with reluctance the
question he was waiting for: "Who brought Abe in?"
Even so, she knew there would be but one answer. Bradley gulped
another mouthful of scalding coffee and set down his cup. "Jim
Laramie," he answered laconically.
She said to herself that Hawk had never got out of the creek; that he
had drowned miserably in the flood. She tortured herself with
conjecture as to exactly what had happened. And night brought no
relief. Sleepless, she tossed, marveling at how close his death had
come home to her. Every scrap of the meager news added to what she
already knew--pointed to what she most feared.
She lay propped up on her pillows and looked through the open window
out on the glittering stars. Strange constellations passed in
brilliant procession before her eyes. And while she lay thus
reflecting and revolving in her mind the loneliness and unhappiness of
her surroundings, a startling suggestion far removed from these doubts
offered itself to her mind. Repelled at first, it came back as if
demanding acceptance. And not until after she had promised herself she
would consider it, did her thoughts give her any peace. She fell into
an uneasy slumber and woke with day barely breaking; but without an
instant's delay she dressed and slipped from her room out to the barn.
Forehanded as she had been in getting an early start, Bradley was
already stirring. Pail in hand, the old man, standing in front of the
feed bin, stared at Kate speechless as she walked in on him.
"Who's sick?" he demanded after a moment.
"Nobody, Bill. I'm going to town with you, that's all."
"With _me_?"
She half laughed at herself and at his surprise. "I mean, I'm for town
early. Get up a pony for me--Spider Legs will do."
Born of long-forgotten experience in waiting for women, Bill Bradley,
as Kate walked away, put in a caveat: "I'm headin' out jus' soon's I
c'n get breakfast."
"I, too, Bill. I'll be across the divide before you are."
Curiosity would not down: "What y' goin' t' town f'r?" he called.
Turning half around, Kate, with a little shrug, paused. She would not
be ungracious: "To pick up a few things," she answered unconcernedly.
Bill, not satisfied, felt obliged to desist. "Startin' airly," was his
only grumble. Had he known what possibilities for that day had lodged
themselves in Kate's mind, he would not have been able to slip Spider
Legs' bridle over his ears. But his business being only to get up the
horse, he discharged it with shaky fidelity and for himself started
with high expectations for town. Had he been given to speculating on
the variableness of woman, he might have found a text in Spider Legs'
standing for hours after he was made ready. And in the end his
mistress unsaddled him and turned him back into the corral.
The truth was, Kate had been seized with cruel fits of doubt and for a
long time could not decide whether she ought to go to town or not. But
as often as she gave up the idea of going, a heart-strong impulse
pleaded against her uneasy restraint. She felt she _must_ go.