Lin McLean - Owen Wister (read after TXT) 📗

I to Miss Jessamine. ‘You have not walled up Lin McLean,’ I says to her. Wait, Lin, wait. Yus needn’t to tell me that’s a lie. I know a man thinks he’s walled up for a while.”

“She could have told you it was a lie,” said the cow-puncher.

“She did not. ‘Let him get a home,’ says she. ‘I want him to be happy.’ ‘That flash in your eyes talks different,’ says I. ‘Sure enough yus wants him to be happy. Sure enough. But not happy along with Miss Second Best.’

“Lin, she looked at me that piercin’!

“And I goes on, for I was wound away up. ‘And he will be happy, too,’ I says. ‘Miss Second Best will have a talk with him about your picture and little “Neighbor,” which he’ll not send back to yus, because the hurt in his heart is there. And he will keep ‘em out of sight somewheres after his talk with Miss Second Best.’ Lin, Lin, I laughed at them words of mine, but I was that wound up I was strange to myself. And she watchin’ me that way! And I says to her: ‘Miss Second Best will not be the crazy thing to think I am any wife of his standing in her way. He will tell her about me. He will tell how onced he thought he was solid married to me till Lusk came back; and she will drop me out of sight along with the rest that went nameless. They was not uncomprehensible to you, was they? You have learned something by livin’, I guess! And Lin—your Lin, not mine, nor never mine in heart for a day so deep as he’s yourn right now— he has been gay—gay as any I’ve knowed. Why, look at that face of his! Could a boy with a face like that help bein’ gay? But that don’t touch what’s the true Lin deep down. Nor will his deep-down love for you hinder him like it will hinder you. Don’t you know men and us is different when it comes to passion? We’re all one thing then, but they ain’t simple. They keep along with lots of other things. I can’t make yus know, and I guess it takes a woman like I have been to learn their nature. But you did know he loved you, and you sent him away, and you’ll be homeless in yer house when he has done the right thing by himself and found another girl.’

“Lin, all the while I was talkin’ all I knowed to her, without knowin’ what I’d be sayin’ next, for it come that unexpected, she was lookin’ at me with them steady eyes. And all she says when I quit was, ‘If I saw him I would tell him to find a home.’”

“Didn’t she tell yu’ she’d made me promise to keep away from seeing her?” asked the cow-puncher

Mrs. Lusk laughed. “Oh, you innocent!” said she.

“She said if I came she would leave Separ,” muttered McLean, brooding.

Again the large woman laughed out, but more harshly.

“I have kept my promise,” Lin continued.

“Keep it some more. Sit here rotting in your chair till she goes away. Maybe she’s gone.”

“What’s that?” said Lin. But still she only laughed harshly. “I could be there by tomorrow night,” he murmured. Then his face softened. “She would never do such a thing!” he said, to himself.

He had forgotten the woman at the table. While she had told him matters that concerned him he had listened eagerly. Now she was of no more interest than she had been before her story was begun. She looked at his eyes as he sat thinking and dwelling upon his sweetheart. She looked at him, and a longing welled up into her face. A certain youth and heavy beauty relighted the features.

“You are the same, same Lin everyways,” she said. “A woman is too many for you still, Lin!” she whispered.

At her summons he looked up from his revery.

“Lin, I would not have treated you so.”

The caress that filled her voice was plain. His look met hers as he sat quite still, his arms on the table. Then he took his turn at laughing.

“You!” he said. “At least I’ve had plenty of education in you.”

“Lin, Lin, don’t talk that brutal to me to-day. If yus knowed how near I come shooting myself with ‘Neighbor.’ That would have been funny!

“I knowed yus wanted to tear that pistol out of my hand because it was hern. But yus never did such things to me, fer there’s a gentleman in you somewheres, Lin. And yus didn’t never hit me, not even when you come to know me well. And when I seen you so unexpected again to-night, and you just the same old Lin, scaring Lusk with shooting them chickens, so comic and splendid, I could ‘a’ just killed Lusk sittin’ in the wagon. Say, Lin, what made yus do that, anyway?”

“I can’t hardly say,” said the cow-puncher. “Only noticing him so turruble anxious to quit me—well, a man acts without thinking.”

“You always did, Lin. You was always a comical genius. Lin, them were good times.”

“Which times?”

“You know. You can’t tell me you have forgot.”

“I have not forgot much. What’s the sense in this?”

“Yus never loved me!” she exclaimed.

“Shucks!”

“Lin, Lin, is it all over? You know yus loved me on Bear Creek. Say you did. Only say it was once that way.” And as he sat, she came and put her arms round his neck. For a moment he did not move, letting himself be held; and then she kissed him. The plates crashed as he beat and struck her down upon the table. He was on his feet, cursing himself. As he went out of the door, she lay where she had fallen beneath his fist, looking after him and smiling.

McLean walked down Box Elder Creek through the trees toward the stable, where Lusk had gone to put the horse in the wagon. Once he leaned his hand against a big cottonwood, and stood still with half-closed eyes. Then he continued on his way. “Lusk!” he called, presently, and in a few steps more, “Lusk!” Then, as he came slowly out of the trees to meet the husband he began, with quiet evenness, “Your wife wants to know—” But he stopped. No husband was there. Wagon and horse were not there. The door was shut. The bewildered cow-puncher looked up the stream where the road went, and he looked down. Out of the sky where daylight and stars were faintly shining together sounded the long cries of the night hawks as they sped and swooped to their hunting in the dusk. From among the trees by the stream floated a cooler air, and distant and close by sounded the splashing water. About the meadow where Lin stood his horses fed, quietly crunching. He went to the door, looked in, and shut it again. He walked to his shed and stood contemplating his own wagon alone there. Then he lifted away a piece of trailing vine from the gate of the corral, while the turkeys moved their heads and watched him from the roof. A rope was hanging from the corral, and seeing it, he dropped the vine. He opened the corral gate, and walked quickly back into the middle of the field, where the horses saw him and his rope, and scattered. But he ran and herded them, whirling the rope, and so drove them into the corral, and flung his noose over two. He dragged two saddles—men’s saddles— from the stable, and next he was again at his cabin door with the horses saddled. She was sitting quite still by the table where she had sat during the meal, nor did she speak or move when she saw him look in at the door.

“Lusk has gone,” said he. “I don’t know what he expected you would do, or I would do. But we will catch him before he gets to Drybone.”

She looked at him with her dumb stare. “Gone?” she said.

“Get up and ride,” said McLean. “You are going to Drybone.”

“Drybone?” she echoed. Her voice was toneless and dull.

He made no more explanations to her, but went quickly about the cabin. Soon he had set it in order, the dishes on their shelves, the table clean, the fire in the stove arranged; and all these movements she followed with a sort of blank mechanical patience. He made a small bundle for his own journey, tied it behind his saddle, brought her horse beside a stump. When at his sharp order she came out, he locked his cabin and hung the key by a window, where travellers could find it and be at home.

She stood looking where her husband had slunk off. Then she laughed. “It’s about his size,” she murmured.

Her old lover helped her in silence to mount into the man’s saddle—this they had often done together in former years—and so they took their way down the silent road. They had not many miles to go, and after the first two lay behind them, when the horses were limbered and had been put to a canter, they made time quickly. They had soon passed out of the trees and pastures of Box Elder and came among the vast low stretches of the greater valley. Not even by day was the river’s course often discernible through the ridges and cheating sameness of this wilderness; and beneath this half-darkness of stars and a quarter moon the sage spread shapeless to the looming mountains, or to nothing.

“I will ask you one thing,” said Lin, after ten miles.

The woman made no sign of attention as she rode beside him.

“Did I understand that she—Miss Buckner, I mean—mentioned she might be going away from Separ?”

“How do I know what you understood?”

“I thought you said—”

“Don’t you bother me, Lin McLean.” Her laugh rang out, loud and forlorn— one brief burst that startled the horses and that must have sounded far across the sagebrush. “You men are rich,” she said.

They rode on, side by side, and saying nothing after that. The Drybone road was a broad trail, a worn strip of bareness going onward over the endless shelvings of the plain, visible even in this light; and presently, moving upon its grayness on a hill in front of them, they made out the wagon. They hastened and overtook it.

“Put your carbine down,” said McLean to Lusk. “It’s not robbers. It’s your wife I’m bringing you.” He spoke very quietly.

The husband addressed no word to the cow-puncher “Get in, then,” he said to his wife.

“Town’s not far now,” said Lin. “Maybe you would prefer riding the balance of the way?”

“I’d—” But the note of pity that she felt in McLean’s question overcame her, and her utterance choked. She nodded her head, and the three continued slowly climbing the hill together.

From the narrows of the steep, sandy, weather-beaten banks that the road slanted upward through for a while, they came out again upon the immensity of the table-land. Here, abruptly like an ambush, was the whole unsuspected river close below to their right, as if it had emerged from the earth. With a circling sweep from somewhere out in the gloom it cut in close to the lofty mesa beneath tall clean-graded descents of sand, smooth as a railroad embankment. As they paused on the level to breathe their horses, the wet gulp of its eddies rose to them through the stillness. Upstream they could make out the light of the Drybone bridge, but not the bridge itself; and two lights on the farther bank showed where stood the hog-ranch opposite Drybone. They went on over the table-land