Lonesome Land, B. M. Bower [motivational books for students .TXT] 📗

all away, would he, unless there was going to be trouble?”

“If he came in here and got the calves, it looks as if he meant business, all right.” Kent frowned absently at the white window curtain. “I've seen the time,” he added reflectively, “when I'd be all broke up to have Man get into trouble. We used to be pretty good friends!”

“A year ago it would have broken my heart,” Val sighed. “We do change so! I can't quite understand Why I should feel so indifferent about it now; even the other day it was terrible. But when I felt his fingers—” she stopped guiltily. “He seems a stranger to me now. I don't even hate him so very much. I don't want to meet him, though.”

“Neither do I.” But there was a different meaning in Kent's tone. “So you're going to quit?” He looked at her thoughtfully—“You'll leave your address, I hope!”

“Oh, yes.” Val's voice betrayed some inward trepidation. “I'm not running away; I'm just going.”

“I see.” He sighed, impatient at the restraint she had put upon him. “That don't mean you won't ever come back, does it? Or that the trains are going to quit carrying passengers to your town? Because you can't always keep me outa your 'problem,' let me tell you. Is it against the rules to ask when you're going—and how?”

“Just as soon as I can get my trunks packed, and Polycarp—or somebody—comes to help me load them into the spring wagon. I promised Arline Hawley I would be in town to-night. I don't know, though—I don't seem to be making much progress with my packing.” She smiled at him more brightly. “Let's wade ashore, pal, and get to work instead of talking about things better left alone. I know just exactly what you're thinking—and I'm going to let you help me instead of Polycarp. I'm frightfully angry with him, anyway. He promised me, on his word of honor, that he wouldn't mention a thing—and he must have actually hunted for a chance to tell! He didn't have the nerve to come to the house yesterday, when he was here with Fred—perhaps he won't come to-day, after all. So you'll have to help me make my getaway, pal.”

Kent wavered. “You're the limit, all right,” he told her after a period of hesitation. “You just wait, old girl, till you get that conscience of yours squared! What shall I do? I can pack a war-bag in one minute and three-quarters, and a horse in five minutes—provided he don't get gay and pitch the pack off a time or two, and somebody's around to help throw the hitch. Just tell me where to start in, and you won't be able to see me for dust!”

“You seem in a frightful hurry to have me go,” Val complained, laughing nevertheless with the nervous reaction. “Packing a trunk takes time, and care, and intelligence.”

“Now isn't that awful?” Kent's eyes flared with mirth, all the more pronounced because it was entirely superficial. “Well, you take the time and care, Mrs. Goodpacker, and I'll cheerfully furnish the intelligence, This goes, I reckon?” He squeezed a pink cushion into as small a space as possible, and held it out at arm's length.

“That goes—to Arline. Don't put it in there!” Val's laughter was not far from hysteria. Kent was pretending to stuff the pink cushion into her hand bag.

“Better take it; you'll—”

The front door was pushed violently open and Manley almost fell into the room. Val gave a little, inarticulate cry and shrank back against the wall before she could recover herself. They had for the moment forgotten Manley, and all he stood for in the way of heartbreak.

A strange-looking Manley he was, with his white face and staring, bloodshot eyes, and the cruel, animal lines around his mouth. Hardly recognizable to one who had not seen him since three or four years before, he would have been. He stopped short just over the threshold, and glanced suspiciously from one to the other before he came farther into the room.

“Dig up some grub, Val—in a bag, so I can carry it on horseback,” he commanded. “And a blanket—where did you put those rifle cartridges?” He hurried across the room to where his rifle and belt hung upon the wall, just over the little, homemade bookcase. “I had a couple of boxes—where are they?” He snatched down the rifle, took the belt, and began buckling it around him with fumbling fingers.

Mechanically Val reached upon a higher shelf and got him the two boxes of shells. Her eyes were fixed curiously upon his face.

“What has happened?” she asked him as he tore open a box and began pushing the shells, one by one, into his belt.

“Fred De Garmo—he tried to arrest me—in town—I shot him dead,” He glanced furtively at Kent. “Can I take your horse, Kent? I want to get across the river before—”

“You shot—Fred—” Val was staring at him stupidly. He whirled savagely toward her.

“Yes, and I'd shoot any man that walked up and tried to take me. He was a fool if he thought all he had to do was crook his finger and say 'Come along.' It was over those calves—and I'd say you had a hand in it, if I hadn't found that calf, and saw how you burned out the brand before you turned it loose. You might have told me—I wouldn't have—” He shifted his gaze toward Kent. “The hell of it is, the sheriff happened to be in town for something; he's back a couple of miles—for God's sake, move! And get that flour and bacon, and some matches. I've got to get across the river. I can shake 'em off, on the other side. Hurry, Val!”

She went out into the kitchen, and they heard her moving about, collecting the things he needed.

“I'll have to take your horse, Kent.” Manley turned to him with a certain wheedling tone, infinitely disgusting to the other. “Mine's all in—I rode him down, getting this far. I've got to get across the river, and into the hills the other side—I can dodge 'em over there. You can have my horse—he's good as yours, anyway.” He seemed to fed a slight discomfort at Kent's silence. “You've always stood by me—anyway, it wasn't so much my fault—he came at me unawares, and says 'Man Fleetwood, you're my prisoner!' Why, the very tone of him was an insult—and I won't stand for being arrested—I pulled my gun and got him through the lungs—heard 'em yelling he was dead—Hurry up with that grub! I can't wait here till—”

“I ought to tell you Michael's no good for water,” Kent forced himself to say. “He's liable to turn back on you; he's scared of it.”

“He won't turn back with me—not with old Jake Bondy at my heels!” Manley snatched the bag of provisions from Val when she appeared, and started for the door.

“You better leave off some of that hardware, then,” Kent advised perfunctorily. “You're liable to have to swim.”

“I don't care how I get across, just so—” A panic seemed to seize him then. Without a word of thanks or farewell he rushed out, threw himself into Kent's saddle without taking time to tie on his bundle of bacon and flour, or remembering the