He could guess her thoughts and searched his mind for arguments, but he was not a man of words, and none would offer themselves now. He sensed the rising strangeness between them, and sought desperately for something to sweep it away.
He reached out for her and drew her to him, but there was a stiffness in her back, and no willingness. She was coming to him, but she had yielded nothing.
She looked up at him. “Promise me you won’t use your gun again.” He dropped his hands from her arms and drew back a little. “I’d be a fool to make such a promise. This is a land of guns.” Angrily she turned away from him. “I think what they say of you is true! You like to kill!” Then she added, “And you don’t love me. If you did, you’d do what I want!” “No,” he replied quietly, “I wouldn’t.
To do what you want would be no proof of love. I’m my own man. I have to live my life as it comes to me, according to my own conscience.” “Conscience!” she flared. “You don’t know the meaning of the word!” Turning abruptly, she went inside. Helplessly he walked back to the porch and stood there in the darkness. Why had he not promised and ended the argument? There was a good chance they would never see Barker again. Yet he knew, even as the thought came to him, that he could make no such promise.
He hoped never to use a gun again, yet if the time came when it was necessary, use it he would.
He remained where he was until the fire inside was down to coals and all were in bed but himself, and even then he hesitated, ,forthe old restlessness was upon him.
The soft wind still blew, only more lightly now, and somewhere out under the sky a lone wolf howled at the moon, and the echoes gave back their answer from the strong-walled cliffs, and sounded again and again from the crags and shoulders of the mountain.
He stepped down from the porch and walked around the corrals, soft-footed as a big cat. On the porch again, standing in the darkness, he rolled a last cigarette, then lit it in carefully cupped hands. cc Janice… Janice…” He whispered the name softly into the darkness.
And the darkness gave back no answer. Only the wolf howled again, and the long wind whispered down the ranges.
A T DAYLIGHT King Mabry rolled out of his bed and dressed quickly. Healy was already up and puttering about in the outer room. Mabry heard wood splintering, then the crackle of flames. As he stamped his feet into his boots he heard the door slam and knew Healy had gone out. Mabry swung his gun belt around his lean hips and buckled it.
He flipped his gun lightly, as was his habit, to make sure it was free in its holster. Walking into the outer room, he poured water into a basin and bathed. The wash bench outside the door was too cold for these winter mornings. When he had his hair combed, he crossed to the fire and added a few sticks, then poured coffee. Janice was up and dressed, and when she heard him moving she came to the door and spoke to him.
The coffee was fresh, hot, and strong. He took his cup in his hand and walked to the door. Healy was nowhere in sight, evidently in the barn feeding the horses.
Janice poured a cup and joined him at the table.
She looked fresh, competent, and lovely, much as she had seemed at Hat Creek when he first saw her. “I’m sorry, King. Really sorry. But you wouldn’t have me go against what I believe, would you?” “Better have some coffee.” He indicated the cup she held. Dodie came from the bedroom, and a few minutes later Maggie emerged, walking carefully, but under her own power. She was thinner, but her eyes were bright.
“Never let it be said,” Mabry commented, “that the Irish aren’t tough.” “I’ll make it,” Maggie replied grimly. “I’ll make it yet.” Janice looked across the table at Mabry, who avoided her eyes. The room was growing warm and the smell of coffee was pleasant. Outside there was frost on the ground, and frost atop the corral bars. In here it was cozy and warm. Maggie looked around, and when she spoke her tone held a touch of wi/lness. “It’s a nice place. A woman could do a lot with it. And those trees! I always loved big old trees.” “In the spring,” Mabry said, “the hills are green. The peaks over there always have a little snow, but down here the meadows are soft and the cattle walk knee-deep in grass.” “And I’ll be walking the boards of some dusty stage,” Maggie said, “and dressing in a stuffy little dressing room.” “You’d never want to do anything else, Maggie,” Dodie said. “If you had a home like this, someday you’d smell grease paint or hear a spatter of applause and you’d be gone again.” “Maybe… maybe. But I’d still like to try it.” Mabry finished his coffee cup and put wood on the fire. He knew there were things to be said.
Janice was wanting to say them or expecting him to say them, and he felt like doing anything but talking.
“Where’s Tom?” Dodie asked suddenly.
“Outside. Feeding the horses, most likely.” King walked to the window and glanced out. The sandstone hills were bleak and frosty this morning. Only here and there was there any snow, lying in white streaks in crevices where the sun never reached. He walked back to the table and, putting down his cup, rolled a smoke. Janice went twice to the window to look out, and the second time Mabry glanced up, meeting her eyes. “Where is he?” she asked.
“I’m hungry.” “I’ll fix something for him now,” Dodie said. “We’d all better eat if we’re going to get an early start.” Dodie took the frying pan and put in some grease. There was bacon, and she found some eggs. She held one aloft. “I never expected these! I was beginning to think nobody ate anything out here but beef and beans!” Janice got to her feet, “I want some fresh air. I’ll go help Tom.” She went out quickly, drawing the door shut behind her. Grease sputtered in the frying pan. Mabry watched Dodie breaking eggs and slicing bacon. “Don’t let it get you, King,” Dodie said. “She’ll change.” He glanced at her, but made no reply. The smell of bacon frying was making him hungrier.
He drew deep on his cigarette and sat back in the buffalo-hide chair, liking the warm feeling of the house, the sound of the fire, the comfortable sounds of a woman moving about.
Even a place like this… just so a man could call it home. What did it get a man to be forever wandering? He saw a lot comof country, and he learned a lot, but what was the use of that unless it could be passed on to somebody? He remembered when he was a youngster, fresh to the plains, remembered the call of distance, the challenge of strange valleys, of canyons up which no man had gone, of far heights and the lonely places of the desert. He had wanted it all then, he had hoped never to stop. He had loved the smell of lonely campfires, the crisp feeling of awakening on a frosty morning, even the smell of the buffalo-chip fires. He remembered seeing thousands upon thousands of buffaloes, each with frost on its shaggy shoulders and head. He remembered the creaking of the saddle and the challenge of a distant rider….
That was for a man when he was feeling the first sap of youth in him. It was good to keep some of it always, as he would, but there was a time when any man worth his salt wanted a wife and a home and a son. Gloomily he got to his feet and walked across the room. A man had to put roots down, to build something, not to be just a restless drifter with a saddle and a blanket roll.
A man needed something to call his own, something to work at and constantly improve. What was a life worth if it was wasted in idle drifting? Sure, a man had to see the world. He had to look at the far horizons, he had to see the lights of strange towns; he had to measure his strength with the strength of other men.
Beyond a certain age a drifting man was like a lost dog, and had much the same look about him.
Maybe he was a fool not to listen to Janice.
After all, they might never see Barker again, and in the Blues or near Bear Lake a man might lose himself. There were a lot of Mormons down that way, and mostly they were a peaceloving lot. If he stopped wearing a gun, or wearing it in sight, then he might never have to use it.