TOM McNAIR has come back to God's country once more, this time bringing a wife with him, the late Miss Katherine Dowling. Tom has had a bit of hard luck in the East, but says he will be all right soon. Good luck to the newly-weds."
To Clare Hamel the news of Tom's marriage had come as a crushing blow. Even his accident paled into insignificance beside it. And she got small comfort at home.
"I never did think you'd land him," her mother said. "He's too slippery. But this girl won't hold him either, if that's any comfort to you."
It did comfort her, vaguely.
"Why won't she, mom?"
"She's a Dowling. She's cold," said Mrs. Hamel, turning a pork chop with her fork. "And she's hard; they all are. Not that Tom's any feather bed," she added.
Hope, which had been dead in Clare, lifted its head again. Her mother had a fund of good common sense. Tom would live with this girl for a while, tire of her, and then
It was mid-June when Kay and Tom McNair came home, and the hot summer of the semi-arid country was well advanced.
Except on the high peaks where the snow lay the year round, the white patches up above in the range which had persisted through May had already disappeared. But although the snow was gone the creeks were still full. They came roaring down from their mountains turbulent and free, only to be captured, turned into conduit, high-line ditch or low-lying trench and fed to the thirsty land. Then, their youth thus spent, their joyousness departed, depleted by their travail of grain and grass, they moved on sedately on their two-thousand mile journey to the sea, carrying thither their strange freight from the far-off back country, small drowned creatures, charred trees from some forgotten forest fire, perhaps an empty tin from a cattle camp.
Morning and evening in still pools the trout were beginning to ride, cutthroats with their red-gashed jaws, delicately tinted dolly-vardens, and rainbows. On the mountain slopes some of the evergreen trees showed red from winterkill, and lower down certain of the cottonwoods and elders had bent under the heavy snows and lived on, twisted and anemic, like creatures recovering from a long illness. The deer and elk had retreated into the depths of the range.
There was hope among the stockmen that early summer. The winter had been normal, and freight rates were coming down. Their cattle were fattening on the new grass. True, the good days were gone beyond recall; the public domain had been taken from them and given to homesteaders, who lived awhile, starved, sometimes died, and left their wives behind them when they went! But the plains and mountains of the back country showed more cattle than ever before. If only the summer was normal like the winter and spring, then, please God
The wheat men, too, were cheerful. There was a tariff wall against Canadian wheat, and their own fields were promising. True, they could not farm like the Newcomb job, north on the Reservation. Newcomb had made wheatgrowing an engineering matter, connected his farm machinery to great caterpillar engines, harrowed, drilled and sowed with a dozen clattering machines connected in sequence, thought in hundreds of thousands where they thought in fives and twos.
But their fields were green and promising. Now, if they had enough rain, and no grasshoppers or hail, then, please God
If. If. The eternal "if" of the Northwest, placing its hopes in the Almighty and a government which seemed to have forgotten it, and its confidence in itself and its strong men.
Tom was restless on the train until the last day. Then Kay, waking early, found him bending over and staring out at the rolling treeless country outside, with a queer look in his eyes.
"We're getting there, Kay," he said. "It begins to look like home."
She was astonished to hear his voice tremble.
He had been very quiet after that, content apparently to sit, her hand in his, and gaze out the window. He was even, she thought, somewhat tense during the hours when the train curved and swayed through the bad lands. She had taken to watching him in a way; she had sacrificed so much for him, was so completely bound up in him, so cut off from everything else, that his slightest action had significance for her.
"Isn't that cabin of Jake's down here somewhere, Tom?"
"Over that way." He made a vague gesture. "Let's forget that, girl."
He had told her very little of that winter before, nothing at all about the Miller, except that he was dead. She had learned to accept his reserves; that he lived a strong tumultuous inner life under a surface of stoical calm; that even she would never entirely know the depths of his heart or of his thoughts. But now she tried again.
"Was it as bad as all that?"
"It was all right." He stirred uneasily. "Lonely, that's all."
But he was cheerful enough when they reached the Martin House that night, and he limped up the stairs to the small close bedroom which was to be her home for so many weary weeks.
"Little old town sure looks good to me, Ed."
"It's sure missed you, Tom. Evening, Mrs. McNair. If you want to go right up"
Getting up the stairs was troublesome. She saw Ed watching from below, and that Tom was resenting that slow progress and Ed's intent gaze with equal bitterness. But once inside the room, he took off his hat and bending down, kissed her.
"Welcome home, girl," he said. "God knows what's geing to happen to us now, but here we are!"
He was still cheerful the next morning. He had sent out for a walking stick, and sending for George, the colored bell-hop and general factotum, gravely presented the crutches to him. Kay protested, but he only grinned at her.
"Why, say," he drawled, "if I went down the street on crutches the boys would shoot me, out of pity!"
She watched him starting out with anxiety and apprehension, so gay a figure was he, so carefully dressed, so helpless. But she did not show it.
He had made an elaborate toilet for the occasion, wearing the best of his show outfit, and grinning as he put it on.
"Got to hit them in the eye the first thing," he told her. "If they've got any idea that I'm down and out, they can take an eyeful and forget it. In a couple of weeks I'll be riding a horse with the best of them."
"But you can't mount, can you?"
"Shucks!" he said, "until this old leg loosens up, if I can't find an Indian pony that can be mounted from the off side, I can get one and learn it in a week."
"Teach it, you mean, don't you?"
"You're having a great time making me over, aren't you?" he said, but without rancor. "'Please don't use a toothpick where folks can see you.' 'You don't need to fold your napkin; they won't use it again anyhow.' Now it's the way I talk! If I've got to think about the way I say things I'll have to stop talking."
He kissed her and went out. And, whatever was to come, that first morning of Tom's in his own land, among his own people, was one of almost complete happiness. Some instinct kept him away from Doctor Dunham at first. Instead, he found himself making a more or less triumphal procession through the town. His cane clicked half a dozen feet and stopped. Men emerged from stores and offices to greet him, or halted cars and called to him. Half a dozen small boys followed him at a respectful distance, and an old Indian woman, frankly curious, added herself to his train.
He glowed and expanded.
"Hey, you fellows! Come on out. Here's Tom McNair."
And they came out, leaving their small businesses, their desks and counters, and surrounded him. He had brought to their circumscribed lives a touch of romance and color; he had traveled, been applauded and had his picture in the papers day after day. Then he had been shot, and no sooner had the town had the thrill of that when it learned that he had married Kay Dowling! For forty years the Dowling name had been one to conjure with in that part of the state, and now Tom—their Tom—had married a Dowling!
"Say, lemme touch you for luck, boy."
"You bet. But you don't call this leg luck, do you?"
"Well, look who's here! Why, Tom, you old son of a gun, when did you get back?"
"Last night."
"Missis with you?"
"Yes. We're at the Martin House for a day or so. Come in and see us."
"Sure will."
He expanded, the sense of constriction around his heart left him.
He asked questions. The Mallorys were all right. The Potter Cattle Company had been putting in some scientific sheep pens and dipping vats. And Bill was still on the railroad and seemed to like it.
But he passed the Emporium without looking in.
Finally, however, he had left the business portion of the street behind him, and his exhilaration gradually left him. The end of his cane seemed to sink in the hot paving, and small beads of sweat broke out on his face. Once when he was a youngster, about to ease himself into the saddle in his first bucking contest, he had known the same feeling of now or never. Only then he had been alone. If he broke his back or his neck it was his business. Now
The doctor was at home. His ancient Ford was at the curb, but the old man himself was inside the open door, carefully pouring something out of a bottle onto the back of a woebegone little French poodle.
"Beats me," he said, scarcely looking up, "where she gets the dratted things. Stand still, Lily May, stand still!"
Tom grinned. He knew the old doctor. The little dog squirmed, the liquid poured down onto the dusty carpet, a bird in a cage somewhere inside began to sing. Not until the bottle was empty and a released Lily May had shot down the steps and under the porch, did Dr. Dunham so much as glance at him again.
"One bad horse too many, eh, Tom?"
He forced a grin.
"You can call it that if you like, doc."
"And after you've allowed all that disinfected emasculated white-aproned crowd in the East to paw over you, you've come to me, eh?"
"They grabbed me when I couldn't fight back."
The doctor chuckled.
"Come in, Tom," he said. "Come on in and let's see what the sons of bitches have done to you."
He did not wash his hands, but, dirty as they were, they they were both skillful and kind as he cut off the bandages and poked here and there.
"Had pictures, of course?"
"Pictures! Sure, got an album full. Going to hand it to my kids, to show their friends. 'That's father's left leg at the age of twenty-eight!'"
He laughed, his throat tight, and the examination went on.
"What did those fellows say?"
"Oh, they cheered me up all they could; said it would always be stiff. Said I'd better learn a new trade."
The doctor stood up and glanced out the window.
"Well, what could you do?" he inquired.
Tom stared at him. His color slowly faded.
"That's all, is it?" he said slowly. "There's nothing to do? I don't care how far you go, doc. Dig in if you like, cut it open, cut it off—if you can't fix it."
"I'm not God. I can't make a new joint. And that one's gone."
He began in his business-like fashion to rebandage the leg, but he did not look up. In silence he finished, in silence Tom drew on his sock and his slipper. When that was done the old man disappeared, returning with a glass to take down a bottle from his shelves.
"I've got a little prune juice and sugar here," he said. "It's what they sell me now for spiritus frumenti, but it's got a kick to it. Better have some."
But Tom declined, not because he did not want the liquor, but because he was afraid it would unman him. He had a sickening fear that he might break down, and that the unkempt wise old man across from him knew it, for he did not insist. He put the bottle away, and Tom rose and picked up his cane.
"Well, that's that!" he said. "I always did have the luck of a lousy calf. Live all winter and die in the spring."
"You've had some good luck too, according to the papers."
"That depends on how you look at it. If I can't keep her"
Outside Lily May had abandoned her refuge under the porch, and was now rolling frenziedly in the grass. On Tom's reappearance, however, she once more sought sanctuary. Of the train which had followed him up the street only the Indian woman had persisted. She now stood on the opposite corner, and there was a certain satisfaction in her glance. Tom saw her, and in all his agony of mind recognized the heavy sagging figure, the broad impassive face.
Suddenly fury seized him by the throat. He limped across the street and confronted her.
"You tell Little Dog for me," he said, white-faced, "that if I ever lay eyes on him I'll kill him. You savvy?"
"Little Dog no here."
"I know damned well he isn't here. He'd better not be."
She gazed at him, her small deep-set eyes unfathomable. Then suddenly she smiled, with a flash of white teeth, turned away from him, slapped her buttocks with a gesture of derision and moved on. Tom stood where she had left him, ashamed of the fury which still consumed him, and fairly frightened by it. His hands were trembling, his breathing audible. There was no trace now of the blithe and gallant figure which had left the Martin House that morning; the sweat on his face was cold, small black flecks danced before his eyes. In that mood he could have killed, or died. The thought of Main Street again with its friendly back-slapping, its outstretched hands, its easy optimism, was insupportable. Of Kay he dared not think at all.
What he craved, like a drunkard liquor, was the open country once more, and solitude. To be alone, and to look, off and off, to where behind some distant butte the sky kept rendezvous with the earth; or to follow some narrow twisting trail over the edge of the world and beyond. To feel once more the spring and warmth of a horse's body between his knees; to watch the sunrise on a frosty morning, and see the moisture rise like smoke from the backs of the warming herd; to ride in at night by starlight guided by some welcoming light, to the good company of strong men, and to be one of them.
And now, never more! All over. All done. All through.
After a time he moved on. The Indian woman had disappeared. The doctor had come out, got into his ancient car and rattled away. Lily May was dejectedly sitting on the porch. Tom pulled his hat down over his eyes and turned instinctively toward the back country and peace.
The move was purely instinctive. He was still weak; the sweat poured off his face, the hand which clutched the heavy stick was blistered; but by some volition, of the spinal cord rather than the brain perhaps, he kept on. His slow progress stirred up the thick dust, which settled on his haggard face and tortured young eyes. He was like some wounded animal, crawling off to die alone.
It must have been an hour before he realized that the draggled white poodle had followed him. He stopped and tried to send her back, but she only lay down and wriggled in the dust at his feet. He regarded her somberly.
"Come on, then," he said. "You're as much dog as I am man anyhow." . . .
He was very quiet when he got back to the hotel.
"Some of the boys are planning a celebration up in thirty-four tonight," Ed told him. "They want you there at eight o'clock."
"What are they celebrating? This leg of mine?"
But he knew he would have to go. They were his friends; the memory of their cordial greetings that morning was still fresh in his mind. He was tired; he had eaten nothing since morning. And upstairs in that bare room his girl-wife was sitting alone, waiting for him. What he needed was to be in the twilight with her, and there to pour out his profound discouragement and his fears. And to be comforted. Oh, certainly to be comforted.
Kay was waiting for him. She had done what she could to make the bare shabby room comfortable. The gold fittings of her dressing case lay on the bureau, the sagging double bed was neatly made. She asked him no questions, gave him a quick glance as he kissed her and then looked away.
"Well, don't you want to know what he said?"
"I didn't like to ask, Tom. Besides, I think I know."
He wandered to the bureau and absently picked up one of the gold trinkets there. Suddenly his bitterness welled up again.
"Why don't you go home? Back to this sort of thing? I've been telling you all along that I'm through, but you won't believe it."
"Certainly you're not through, Tom. And I'm strong, I can work."
"And keep me? I'll cut my throat first."
At eight o'clock he went to thirty-four. Kay, listening to the tap-tap of his stick, was too filled with love and pity to feel any resentment. Maybe these men could do for him what she could not, cheer him, encourage him. But as time went on the nature of that cheering was only too obvious; voices rose, Tom's among them. George, the shirt-sleeved colored boy, was carrying trays and glasses past her room, a traveling salesman stuck his head out and shouted for quiet.
Then—at eleven o'clock it was—the door to thirty-four opened, and the crowd emerged into the hall. She could hear loud talking.
"Aw, get back, Tom. Jush a little shong to make her welcome!"
"Come on now, fellows, all together!"
There was a shuffling, restrained laughter, and suddenly a thud and silence. Then pandemonium broke loose. She got out of bed and stood inside her door, trembling. There was a free for all fight going on, within fifteen feet of her. She shot the bolt desperately and stood leaning against it.
Then above the confusion she heard a knock at the door, and Tom's voice, thick but triumphant.
"Lemme in, girl."
She opened the door, and he stood there, swaying but smiling.
"Tha' bunch of roughnecks wanted to sherenade you," he said, "but I told them you hadn't any ear for mushic."
A minute later he was sound asleep on the bed, still fully dressed.
The noise in the passage had ceased. Kay drew a chair to the window and stared out, dry-eyed, at the twinkling lights of the street. The town was very quiet, and the night wind from the mountains brought to her the faintly aromatic odor of the sage in the back country.
She sat there until morning.