Lonesome Land by B. M. Bower (life changing books to read .TXT) 📗

Val lifted her head and turned to him.

“There is something—or there was—or—oh, I can't think any more! I suppose”—doubtfully—“if you feel as you say you do, why—it would be—wicked to stay. But you don't; you must just imagine it.”

“Oh, all right,” Kent interpolated ironically.

“But if you go away—” She got up and stood before him, breathing unevenly, in little gasps. “Oh, you mustn't go away! Please don't go! I—there's something terrible happened—oh, Kent, I need you! I can't tell you what it is—it's the most horrible thing I ever heard of! You can't imagine anything more horrible, Kent!”

She twisted her fingers together nervously, and the blossoms dropped, one by one, on the ground. “If you go,” she pleaded, “I won't have a friend in the country, not a real friend. And—and I never needed a friend as much as I do now, and you mustn't go. I—I can't let you go!” It was like her hysterical fear of being left alone after the fire.

Kent eyed her keenly. He knew there must have been something to put her into this state—something more than his own rebellion. He felt suddenly ashamed of his weakness in giving way—in telling her how it was with him. The faint, far-off chuckle of a wagon came to his ears. He turned impatiently toward the sound. Polycarp was driving up the coulee with a load of wood; already he was nearing the gate which opened into the lower field. Kent stood up, reached out, and caught Val by the hand.

“Come on into the house,” he said peremptorily. “Polly's coming, and you don't want him goggling and listening. And I want you,” he added, when he had led her inside and closed the door, “to tell me what all this is about. There's something, and I want to know what. If it concerns you, then it concerns me a whole lot, too. And what concerns me I'm going to find out about—what is it?”

Val sat down, got up immediately, and crossed the room aimlessly to sit in another chair. She pressed her palms tightly against both cheeks, drew in her breath as if she were going to speak, and, after all, said nothing. She looked out of the window, pushing back the errant strand of hair.

“I can't—I don't know how to tell you,” she began desperately. “It's too horrible.”

“Maybe it is—I don't know what you'd call too horrible; I kinda think it wouldn't be what I'd tack those words to. Anyway—what is it?” He went close, and he spoke insistently.

She took a long breath.

“Manley's a thief!” She jerked the words out like as automaton. They were not, evidently, the Words she had meant to speak, for she seemed frightened afterward.

“Oh, that's it!” Kent made a sound which was not far from a snort. “Well, what about it? What's he done? How did you find it out?”

Val straightened in the chair and gazed up at him. Once more her tawny eyes gave him a certain shock, as if he had never before noticed them.

“After all our neighbors have done for him,” she cried bitterly; “after giving him hay, when his was burned and he couldn't buy any; after building stables, and corral, and—everything they did—the kindest, best neighbors a man ever had—oh, it's too shameful for utterance! I might forgive it—I might, only for that. The—the ingratitude! It's too despicable—too—”

Kent laid a steadying hand upon her arm.

“Yes—but what is it?” he interrupted.

Val shook off his hand unconsciously, impatient of any touch.

“Oh, the bare deed itself—well, it's rather petty, too—and cheap.” Her voice became full of contempt. “It was the calves. He brought home five last night—five that hadn't been branded last spring. Where he found them I don't know—I didn't care enough about it to ask. He had been drinking, I think; I can usually tell—and he often carries a bottle in his pocket, as I happen to know.

“Well, he had me make a fire and heat the iron for him, and he branded them—last night; he was very touchy about it when I asked him what was his hurry. I think now it was a stupid thing for him to do. And—well, in the night, some time, I heard a cow bawling around close, and this morning I went out to drive her away; the fence is always down somewhere—I suppose she found a place to get through. So I went out to drive her away.” Her eyes dropped, as if she were making a confession of her own misdeed. She clenched her hands tightly in her lap.

“Well—it was a Wishbone cow.” After all, she said it very quietly.

“The devil it was!” Kent had been prepared for something of the sort; but, nevertheless, he started when he heard his own outfit mentioned.

“Yes. It was a Wishbone cow.” Her voice was flat and monotonous. “He had stolen her calf. He had it in the corral, and he had branded it with his own brand—with a VP. With my initials!” she wailed suddenly, as if the thought had just struck her, and was intolerably bitter. “She had followed—had been hunting her calf; it was rather a little calf, smaller than the others. And it was crowded up against the fence, trying to get to her. There was no mistaking their relationship. I tried to think he had made a mistake; but it's of no use—I know he didn't. I know he stole that calf. And for all I know, the others, too. Oh, it's perfectly horrible to think of!”

Kent could easily guess her horror of it, and he was sorry for her. But his mind turned instantly to the practical side of it.

“Well—maybe it can be fixed up, if you feel so bad about it. Does Polycarp—did he see the cow hanging around?”

Val shook her head apathetically. “No—he didn't come till just a little while ago. That was this morning. And I drove her out of the coulee—her and her calf. They went off up over the hill.”

Kent stood looking down at her rather stupidly.

“You—what? What was it you did?” It seemed to him that something—some vital point of the story—had eluded him.

“I drove them away. I didn't think they ought to be permitted to hang around here.” Her lips quivered again. “I—I didn't want to see him—get—into any trouble.”

“You drove them away? Both of them?” Kent was frowning at her now.

Val sprang up and faced him, all a-tremble with indignation. “Certainly, both! I'm not a thief, Kent Burnett! When I knew—when there was no possible doubt—why, what, in Heaven's name, could I do? It wasn't Manley's calf. I turned it loose to go back where it belonged.”

“With a VP on its ribs!” Kent was staring at her curiously.

“Well, I don't care! Fifty VP's couldn't make the calf Manley's. If anybody came and saw that cow, why—” Val looked at him rafter pityingly, as if she could not quite understand how he could even question her upon that point. “And, after all,”