KISSES--A MAN REFUSES THEM
There was a kerosene lamp in Sanderson's room, and when, after an hour
of gloomy silence in the dark, he got up and lit the lamp, he felt
decidedly better. He was undressing, preparing to get into bed, when
he was assailed with a thought that brought the perspiration out on him
again.
This time it was a cold sweat, and it came with the realization that
discovery was again imminent, for if, as Mary had said, she had kept
Sanderson's letter to her father, there were in existence two
letters--his own and Will Bransford's--inevitably in different
handwriting, both of which he had claimed to have written.
Sanderson groaned. The more he lied the deeper he became entangled.
He pulled on his trousers, and stood shoeless, gazing desperately
around the room.
He simply must destroy that letter, or Mary, comparing it with the
letter her brother had written would discover the deception.
It was the first time in Sanderson's life that had ever attempted to
deceive anybody, and he was in the grip of a cringing dread.
For the first time since he occupied the room he inspected it, noting
its furnishings. His heart thumped wildly with hope while he looked.
It was a woman's room--Mary's, of course. For there were decorations
here and there--a delicate piece of crochet work on a dresser; a sewing
basket on a stand; a pincushion, a pair of shears; some gaily
ornamented pictures on the walls, and--peering behind the dresser--he
saw a pair of lady's riding-boots.
He strode to a closet door and threw it open, revealing, hanging
innocently on their hooks, a miscellaneous array of skirts, blouses,
and dresses.
Mary had surrendered her room to him. Feeling guilty again, and rather
conscience-stricken, as though he were committing some sacrilegious
action, he went to the dresser and began to search among the effects in
the drawers.
They were filled with articles of wearing apparel, delicately fringed
things that delight the feminine heart, and keepsakes of all
descriptions. Sanderson handled them carefully, but his search was not
the less thorough on that account.
And at last, in one of the upper drawers of the dresser, he came upon a
packet of letters.
Again his conscience pricked him, but the stern urge of necessity drove
him on until he discovered an envelope addressed to the elder
Bransford, in his own handwriting, and close to it a letter from Will
Bransford to Mary Bransford.
Sanderson looked long at the Bransford letter, considering the
situation. He was tempted to destroy that, too, but he reflected,
permitting a sentimental thought to deter him.
For Mary undoubtedly treasured that letter, and when the day came that
he should tell her the truth, the letter would be the only link that
would connect her with the memory of her brother.
Sanderson could not destroy it. He had already offended Mary Bransford
more than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother's letter would
be positively heinous.
Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with Will
Bransford's signature on them, and it might be well to preserve this
particular letter in case he should be called upon to forge Will
Bransford's signature.
So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to its
place, retaining his own letter to Bransford. Smiling grimly now, he
again sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blaze
to the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of it
but a crinkly ash. Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed,
feeling more secure.
Determined not to submit to any more of Mary's caresses, and feeling
infinitely small and mean over the realization that he had already
permitted her to carry her affection too far, he frowned at her when he
went into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replying
when she wished him a cheery, "Good morning," and grasping her arms
when she attempted to kiss him.
He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.
"I ain't used to bein' mushed over," he told her. "We'll get along a
heap better if you cut out the kissin'."
"Why, Will!" she said, her lips trembling.
She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leaving
Sanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.
They breakfasted in silence--almost. Sanderson saw her watching
him--covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.
And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with a
taunting half-smile.
"Didn't you sleep good, Will?"
Sanderson looked fairly at her. That "Will" was already an irritation
to him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he was
playing. He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he was
determined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent a
repetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sister
variety.
He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when he
knew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tike
murdering him.
"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for the
name Bransford. That's why I changed my name to Sanderson. I never
liked to be called 'Will.' Hereafter I want you to call me
Sanderson--Deal Sanderson. Then mebbe I'll feel more like myself."
She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.
It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, and
that in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and her
brother of yesterday.
She got up after a time, holding her head high, and left the room,
saying as she went out:
"Very well; your wishes shall be respected. But it seems to me that
the name Bransford is one be proud of!"
Sanderson grinned into his plate. He felt more decent now than he had
felt since arriving at the Double A. If he could continue to prevent
her from showing any affection for him--visible, at least--he would
feel that the deception he was practising was less criminal. And when
he went away, after settling the differences between Mary Bransford and
Dale, he would have less to reproach himself with.
He did not see Mary again that morning. Leaving the dining-room, he
went outside, finding Barney Owen in the bunkhouse in the company of
several other Double A men.
Owen introduced him to the other men--who had ridden in to the
ranchhouse the previous night, and were getting ready to follow the
outfit wagon down the river into the basin to where the Double A herd
was grazing.
Sanderson watched the men ride away, then he turned to Owen.
"I'm ridin' to Las Vegas, to get a look at the will, an' see what the
records have got to say about the title to the Double A. Want to go?"
"Sure," the little man grinned.