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

“Is this straight goods?” he demanded. “Why don't you stop it?”

“Fred De Garmo's running this show. My influence wouldn't go as far—”

Fleetwood turned to the girl, and his manner was masterful. “I'm going out with Kent—oh, Val, this is Mr. Burnett. Kent, Miss Peyson. I forgot you two aren't acquainted.”

From Valeria's manner, they were in no danger of becoming friends. Her acknowledgment was barely perceptible. Kent bowed stiffly.

“I'm going to see about this, Val,” continued Fleetwood. “Oh, my head's better—a lot better, really. Maybe we'd better leave town—”

“If your head is better, I don't see why we need run away from a lot of silly noise,” Valeria interposed, with merciless logic. “They'll think we're awful cowards.”

“Well, I'll try and find out—I won't be gone a minute, dear.” After that word, spoken before another, he appeared to be in great haste, and pushed Kent rather unceremoniously through the door. In the dining room, Kent diplomatically included the landlady in the conference, by a gesture of much mystery bringing her in from the kitchen, where she had been curiously peeping out at them.

“Got to let her in,” he whispered to Manley, “to keep her face closed.”

They murmured together for five minutes. Kent seemed to meet with some opposition from Fleetwood—an aftermath of Valeria's objections to flight—and became brutally direct.

“Go ahead—do as you please,” he said roughly. “But you know that bunch. You'll have to show up, and you'll have to set 'em up, and—aw, thunder! By morning you'll be plumb laid out. You'll be headed into one of your four-day jags, and you know it. I was thinking of the girl—but if you don't care, I guess it's none of my funeral. Go to it—but darned if I'd want to start my honeymoon out like that!”

Fleetwood weakened, but still he hesitated. “If I didn't show up—” he began hopefully. But Kent wittered him with a look.

“That bunch will be two-thirds full before they start out. If you don't show up, they'll go up and haul you outa bed—hell, Man! You'd likely start in to kill somebody off. Fred De Garmo don't love you much better than he loves me. You know what him and his friends would do then, I should think.” He stopped, and seemed to consider briefly a plan, but shook his head over it. “I could round up a bunch and stand 'em off, maybe—but we'd be shooting each other up, first rattle of the box. It's a whole lot easier for you to get outa town.”

“I'll tell somebody you got the bridal chamber,” hissed Arline, in a very loud whisper. “That's number two, in front. I can keep a light going and pass back 'n' forth once in a while, to look like you're there. That'll fool 'em good. They'll wait till the light's been out quite a while before they start in. You go ahead and git married at seven, jest as you was going to—and if Kent'll have the team ready somewheres, I can easy sneak you out the back way.”

“I couldn't get the team out of town without giving the whole deal away,” Kent objected. “You'll have to go horseback.”.

“Val can't ride,” Fleetwood stated, as if that settled the matter.

“Damn it, she's got to ride!” snapped Kent, losing patience. “Unless you want to stay and go on a toot that'll last a week, most likely.”

“Val belongs to the W.C.T.U.,” shrugged Fleetwood. “She'd never—”

“Well, it's that or have a fight on your hands you maybe can't handle. I don't see any sense in haggling about going, now you know what to expect. But, of course,” he added, with some acrimony, “it's your own business. I don't know what the dickens I'm getting all worked up over it for. Suit yourself.” He turned toward the door.

“She could ride my Mollie—and I got a sidesaddle hanging up in the coal shed. She could use that, or a stock saddle, either one,” planned Mrs. Hawley anxiously. “You better pull out, Man.”

“Hold on, Kent! Don't rush off—we'll go,” Fleetwood surrendered. “Val won't like it, but I'll explain as well as I can, without—Say! you stay and see us married, won't you? It's at seven, and—”

Kent's fingers curled around the doorknob. “No, thanks. Weddings and funerals are two bunches of trouble I always ride 'way around. Time enough when you've got to be it. Along about nine o'clock you try and get out to the stockyards without letting the whole town see you go, and I'll have the horses there; just beyond the wings, by that pile of ties. You know the place. I'll wait there till ten, and not a minute longer. That'll give you an hour, and you won't need any more time than that if you get down to business. You find out from her what saddle she wants, and you can tell me while I'm eating supper, Mrs. Hawley. I'll 'tend to the rest.” He did not wait to hear whether they agreed to the plan, but went moodily down the narrow passage, and entered frowningly the “office.” Several men were gathered there, waiting the supper summons. Hawley glanced up from wiping a glass, and grinned.

“Well, did you git the pie?”

“Naw. She said I'd got to wait for mealtime. She plumb chased me out.”

Fred De Garmo, sprawled in an armchair and smoking a cigar, lazily fanned the smoke cloud from before his face and looked at Kent attentively.