CHAPTER XVI
KATE IS HELPFUL
At six o'clock Kate returned.
"It took me longer than I expected," she whispered, Dorothy and Mrs. Mace being in the kitchen. "It's just as we thought. Our friend, Mr. O'Leary, was back of the dance. He suggested it to Mrs. Ragsdale, and she got it up.
"I don't believe O'Leary heard any of our conversation. He met me down street and smirked and grinned and tried to invite himself up to see me to-night. But I settled him. I said I'd be busy for the next two weeks. Look here, Tom, don't look so worried. If he heard what we said, don't you suppose he'd leave town immediately? Of course he would. He wouldn't dare stay."
"I ain't so shore about that. He's no fool, Pete O'Leary ain't. He knows there ain't no real evidence against him. We only got suspicions, that's all. Enough for us, all right, but nothin' like enough to land him. No, he wouldn't vamoose right now. That'd give him away. He'll stay an' bluff it through as long as he can. Then, again, if he pulls out he ain't no good to the 88 no more. He's needed up here to let 'em know how things are pannin' out. Say, yuh didn't let them ladies suspicion what yuh was after, did yuh?"
"Of course not. I have a little sense. I made my inquiries quite casually in the course of conversation. Don't fret, they won't have a thing to gossip about."
"That's good. I might 'a' knowed yuh'd be careful."
With a start he realized that he was commending her, actually commending the girl who had once informed him in withering accents that she would never marry an ignorant puncher. Here she was pathetically anxious to execute his every wish. Apparently she had stopped flirting, too.
As she flitted between his room and the kitchen he looked at her out of amazed eyes. Measuring her by her one-time frivolous and coquettish actions, the new Kate was rather astonishing. Man-like, Loudon began to suspect some trap. The lady was too good to be true.
"Bet she's tollin' me on," he told himself. "I'll ask her again, an' then pop'll go the weasel. No, sirree, I know when I'm well off. As a friend, so long as she acts thisaway, she's ace-high, but I'll bet after marriage she'd develop tempers an' things like that Sue Shimmers girl Scotty told me about. Shore she would. Not a doubt of it. Yessir, single cussedness for Tom Loudon from now on henceforward. I'll gamble an' go the limit, it's got double blessedness backed clean off the table."
Lying in bed was not doing Tom Loudon a bit of good. He was fast becoming priggishly cynical. Which attitude of mind may have been natural, but was certainly abominably ungallant.
Long after the others in the house were asleep Loudon lay awake. His brain was busy fashioning plans for the undoing of the 88 outfit. It suddenly struck him that the guileful O'Leary undoubtedly wrote letters. A knowledge of the addresses on those letters was of paramount importance. It would wonderfully simplify matters.
The storekeeper, Ragsdale, was the Bend postmaster. Loudon knew that Ragsdale was not given to idle chatter. He resolved to take Ragsdale into his confidence.
In the morning after breakfast, Kate, first making sure that Mrs. Mace and Dorothy were out of earshot, stooped over the bed.
"Tom," she said, "don't you think I'd better find out whether O'Leary writes any letters and, if he does, to whom he writes them?"
Loudon stared at her in astonishment.
"Huh—how did yuh think o' that?" he blurted out.
"I don't know. It came to me last night. It's a good idea, don't you think?"
"Shore, it's a good idea. I was thinkin' the same thing myself. But don't yuh bother. I'll find out soon's I'm able to get around."
"Don't be silly. You'll be on your back ten days at the least. O'Leary may write several in the meantime, and the sooner we know about it the better. Now I can find out very easily. Mrs. Ragsdale, the prying soul, reads the addresses on every letter coming in or going out. None ever escapes her eagle eye. And she's a great gossip. I've only seen her half-a-dozen times, but nevertheless she's managed to give me detailed histories of the private lives of most of the inhabitants. She enjoys talking to me because I never interrupt, so you see how simple it will be."
"But I don't like to use you thisaway," objected Loudon. "Yuh've done enough, too much, as it is."
"Nonsense! It will be great fun turning Mrs. Ragsdale's tattlings into useful information. Tattle! Why, she even told me how much you approved of me at the dance. According to her story you came and shouted your opinion into her ear. Did you?"
"I knowed it!" groaned Loudon. "I knowed she'd tell! I only said——"
"Never mind getting red. I didn't mind a bit. I hoped you did like me. I wanted you to."
Here was thin ice. Loudon, pink about the ears, squirmed inwardly.
"I—I," he stuttered, then, with a rush, "yo're doin' too much, I tell yuh. I'll see about these letters when I get up."
"No, you won't. I want to, and I'm going to. It's settled and you needn't argue. I'll go to the postoffice right away. After dinner I'll tell you all about it."
"Wait a minute!" cried Loudon, but Kate was gone.
Loudon had little time to reflect on feminine wilfulness, for Mrs. Mace insisted on spending the morning with him. Dorothy helped her spend it. The buzz of their chatter was lulling. Loudon dozed off and slept till Mrs. Mace awakened him at noon.
"Nice way to treat two ladies," sniffed Mrs. Mace. "Nice way, I must say. Here we come in to entertain yuh while Kate's away and yuh fall asleep, so yuh do. Bet yuh wouldn't have fell asleep if Kate had been here. No, I guess not. You'd have been chipper enough—grinnin' and smilin' all over yore face. But yuh can't even be polite to Dorothy and me."
"Why, ma'am, I——"
"Oh, never mind makin' excuses. We understand. It's all right. Say"—Mrs. Mace stooped down and guarded one side of her mouth with her hand—"say, when's the weddin' comin' off?"
"Weddin'? What weddin'?"
"Oh, yes, I wonder what weddin'. I do, indeed. Well, of course yuh don't have to tell if yuh don't want to. I'll ask Kate. Dorothy"—she straightened and called over her shoulder—"you can bring in Mr. Loudon's dinner. He's decided to stay awake long enough to eat it."
He ate his dinner alone, but he did not enjoy it. For, in the kitchen, Dorothy and Mrs. Mace with painful thoroughness discussed all the weddings they had ever seen and made divers thinly veiled remarks concerning a certain marriage that would probably take place in the fall.
"Say," called Loudon, when he could endure their chatter no longer, "say, would yuh mind closin' that door? I got a headache."
Silence in the kitchen for a brief space of time. Then, in a small demure voice, Mrs. Mace said:
"What was that? I didn't quite catch it."
With elaborate politeness Loudon repeated his request.
"Oh, no," said Mrs. Mace, "the door must be left open. Mis' Burr said so. A sick-room needs lots of fresh air. I wouldn't dare close the door. Mis' Burr wouldn't like it."
"She'd scalp us if we closed it during the day," observed Dorothy.
The wretched Loudon could almost see the wink which accompanied this statement.
"But he's got a headache," said Mrs. Mace. "We'd ought to do somethin' for that. Can't allow him to have a headache, Dorothy. You get the towels an' I'll get some cold water. We'll bathe his head for him. That'll fix him up."
"It ain't as bad as all that," denied Loudon. "It's goin' away already. An' I don't want my head bathed nohow. An' I ain't goin' to have it bathed, an' that's flat!"
At this juncture Kate entered the kitchen, announcing that she was starved. Dorothy and Mrs. Mace, both talking at once, asserted that Loudon had a violent headache and would not allow them to alleviate his suffering; that he had been a most troublesome patient and had kept them busy attending to his manifold desires.
"Don't you believe 'em!" cried Loudon. "I ain't done a thing. They been pesterin' me all mornin'. Won't let me sleep or nothin'."
"There! Listen to him!" exclaimed Mrs. Mace. "We did our level best to please, an' that's all the thanks we get. C'mon, Dorothy, let's go over to my house. We ain't wanted now. Yore dinner's in the oven, Kate. He's had his. Hope you'll have better luck managin' him than we did. I'd sooner wrangle forty hosses than one sick man."
The slam of the kitchen door put a period to her remarks. Kate entered Loudon's room, a pucker of concern between her eyebrows.
"Have you really a headache?" she inquired.
"Of course I haven't. But they was botherin' me—oh, I dunno, makin' fool remarks an' all like that. Say, did yuh find out anythin'?"
"Not much of any value, I'm afraid. But you're the better judge of that. Pete O'Leary writes to only one person—William Archer of Marysville. O'Leary writes to him once a week usually, but for the last month he's written twice a week, and this week he mailed four letters to Marysville."
"Archer—Archer," mused Loudon. "I can't think just now of anybody o' that name in Marysville. But that town ain't such a great way from the 88 ranch house—not more'n thirty mile at the most. Archer, whoever he is, could easy keep in touch with—with——"
"Don't boggle so over that man's name. You don't hurt my feelings in the least by mentioning Sam Blakely. Yes, he could keep in touch with Blakely very easily. I learned, too, that O'Leary receives letters about as frequently as he mails them. They are all in the same handwriting, and they are all postmarked Marysville. One came for him this morning. Mrs. Ragsdale let me see it, but the handwriting was strange to me. If it had been Blakely's I'd have recognized it. I'll keep in with Mrs. Ragsdale. I'll visit her every time a mail arrives."
"No, it ain't necessary. It's enough to know he writes to Marysville. First thing to do is see Archer, an' find out some of his habits. He's the link between Pete O'Leary an' the 88, that's a cinch."
"Then I really did learn something of value. I am glad. I was afraid it wouldn't be worth a very great deal, and I do so want to help you."
"Well, yuh shore have, Kate. Nobody could 'a' helped me any better. But don't do no more. There ain't no reason why you should. It ain't a woman's job anyhow."
"Oh, you've said that before. I intend to help you all I can. I'm as interested as you are in the ultimate crushing of the 88 outfit."
"Yes, but——"
"We won't discuss it, please. How does the ankle feel?"
"It's comin' along fine. I want to get up right now."
"Day after to-morrow you can get dressed if you like and sit out in the kitchen for a while. Oh, I know how hard it is to lie in bed, but one can't hurry a sprain. You have a lot of hard work ahead, and you must be in shape to go through with it. Listen, how would it be if I wrote to Mr. Richie of the Cross-in-a-box and asked him to find out about this Archer man?"
"No, I'd rather manage that myself. I'll go to Marysville."
"You can't! Why, the judge who issued that warrant for you lives there! You insist on going to Farewell, and that's madness. But visiting Marysville would be worse."
"Oh, no, it wouldn't. Nobody knows me there. I was never in the place in my life. It'll be a lot safer than Farewell."
"B-but I'm afraid! I know something will happen to you! I know it! I know it!"
"Nothin'll happen," said Loudon, acutely conscious that the situation was getting out of hand.
Presently his worst fears were realized. Kate, genuine misery in her dark eyes, stared at him silently. Her hands were gripped together so that the knuckles showed white. Suddenly she turned side wise, flung an elbow over the back of the chair and buried her face in her hands. She began to cry softly.
"Oh!" she wailed, her shoulders shaking. "Oh, I love you so! I love you so! And you don't care—you don't care a bit!"
Sobs racked her whole body. She completely lost control of herself and burst into a storm of passionate weeping. To Loudon it seemed that this state of affairs endured for an age, but not more than five minutes elapsed before Kate swayed to her feet and stumbled from the room. She did not close the door, and Loudon could hear her muffled gasps as she strove with her distress.
At that moment it seemed to him that the girl who had called him an ignorant puncher was a wraith of the dim and misty past. Certainly the present Kate Saltoun was a different person. She no longer flirted, she was plainly sorry for what she had done, and apparently she loved him utterly.
No man can remain unmoved while a beautiful woman weeps for love of him. Loudon was moved. He was impelled to call to her, to tell her to come to him. But he hesitated. He was not at all sure that his feeling was any emotion other than pity. He had spent miserable weeks schooling himself to forget his love and her. Now he did not know his own mind, and he could not decide what to do. While he lay hesitating he heard the scraping of a chair being pushed back, the sound of her feet crossing the floor, and the slam of the kitchen door.
Half an hour later Mrs. Mace came in like a whirlwind. She halted in the doorway and surveyed Loudon with unfriendly eyes. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it without uttering a word, flounced back into the kitchen and shut his door. Almost immediately she opened it.
"Want anythin'?" she inquired, ungraciously.
"No, thank yuh just the same," replied the mystified Loudon.
Mrs. Mace closed the door without comment. It was not opened again till Dorothy brought in his supper. She inquired politely after his health, but he could see that she was displeased with him.
"What's the matter with everybody?" he asked. "What makes Mis' Mace look at me like I was poison, an' what makes you look as if yuh had a pain?"
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," said Dorothy, severely, and marched out, her back stiff as a rifle-barrel.
"I've done somethin' desperate, whatever it is," he said, addressing the closed door. "I shore have. I might 'a' come to like that Dorothy girl real well—sometime maybe. But I never will now, an' that's no merry jest."
Gloomily he ate his supper. When Dorothy entered to take away the dishes he demanded to know why he should be ashamed of himself.
"Because you should!" she snapped. "I'm not going to bandy words with you! Just wait till mother comes home—just you wait!"
After which ominous utterance she departed. Loudon scratched his head and thought long and deeply.
"Now I'd like to know what I've done," he mused. "Mis' Mace don't like me a little bit, an' that Dorothy girl talks an' acts like I'd poisoned a well or scalped a dozen babies. It's one too many for me. But I'll know about it when Mis' Burr gets home, will I? That's fine, that is. I'll bet she'll explain till the cows come home. Why didn't I go to that hotel? I will as soon's I'm able. This house ain't no place for a peace-lovin' man."
He was rather relieved that Kate no longer came near him. It saved trouble. He did not quite know what he would say to Kate at their next meeting. What could he say? What, indeed? He pondered the question till he fell asleep, having arrived at no conclusion.
Next morning Jim Mace came to see him. Loudon besought Jim to help him move to the hotel.
"What's the matter?" said the surprised Jim. "Don't my wife an' Dorothy treat yuh right?"
"Shore they do, but I don't want to bother 'em no more. I'll be better off where I can cuss when I feel like it."
"Mis' Burr won't like it none, yore goin' off thisaway."
"I can't help that—I want to go."
"An' my wife won't like it, neither. Lordy, Tom, yuh don't know my wife. She'd hit the ceilin' if I was to tote yuh down to the hotel."
"Say," exclaimed Loudon, "can't a married man do nothin' without askin' his wife?"
"Not if he knows what's healthy," replied Jim Mace, warmly. "I tell yuh, Tom, yuh'll jump through a hoop if yore wife says so. Oh, yuh can laugh all yo're a mind to. Wait till yo're married, an' yuh'll see what I mean."
"I'll wait, yuh can gamble on that. Will yuh help me or do I have to walk there on my hands?"
"I won't help yuh a step. Yuh don't know what yo're askin', Tom. Honest, I'm sorry, but I wouldn't dare help yuh without Lil said I could. Fix it up with her an' I will."
When Jim had gone Loudon swore soulfully, and thought with amazement of the manner in which Jim was under his wife's thumb. If that was the effect of marriage upon a man he wanted none of it. He had no desire to be tied to any one's apron-strings. He wished to be able to call his soul his own. Marriage—bah!
"I want my clothes," he announced to Mrs. Mace at noon.
"Oh, yuh do, do yuh?" cried the lady. "Well, yuh can just want, so yuh can! Yuh won't get 'em, an' that's flat! An' Jim Mace nor nobody else ain't goin' to help yuh down to that hotel. Yo're a-goin' to stick right here. Jim told me yuh wanted to go, an' what I told him was a-plenty. Here yuh stay till yuh go back to the ranch."
"But I want to get up. I'm gettin' plumb weary o' stayin' in bed."
"It won't hurt yuh a bit. You'll have lots o' time to think over yore sins."
"I'll get up anyhow."
"You just try it! I'd shore admire to see yuh try it! You ain't goin' to play any fool tricks with that ankle if I have to get Jim an' a few o' the boys to hogtie yuh. Tell yuh what I will do. To-morrow, if you'll give me yore word not to leave the house till Mis' Burr or I say you can, I'll give yuh yore clothes an' you can sit in the kitchen."
"I suppose I'll have to," grumbled Loudon.
"You shore will if yuh want to get up," stated the uncompromising lady.
"All right. I give yuh my word. Lemme get up now. The ankle feels fine."
"To-morrow, to-morrow—not one second sooner."