I reassured her as I bade her good-night and then sought Owen. I was beginning to have some temperature myself.
“Owen, if Clarence Van Winkle has a thousandth of a degree of temperature in the morning don’t tell him that he’ll be all right; let him go back to Denver or anywhere else he pleases. Imagine that man with typhoid, here.”
The next morning Alice appeared at breakfast alone. Clarence had no temperature, but he felt weak and thought he had better stay in bed. He continued to feel weak for three days, Alice dancing attendance white the rest of us tried to get the household and water running again.
When Clarence finally emerged from his seclusion, he was in high spirits, positively buoyant.
“Well, now I want to see everything, all the cattle, the cow-boys, branding, dehorning, a round-up and what is it you call it? Oh, yes, ‘broncho busting’. We have to go back to Denver tomorrow, you know.” He had to stop for want of breath.
Alice beamed fondly upon her enthusiastic bridegroom. Mine looked far from enthusiastic. Owen was a perfect host but he could not give a demonstration of a year’s work in one day. The horse-breaking was over for the season and the branded and dehorned cattle scattered over miles of country. This he endeavored to explain to Clarence who made no attempt to conceal his disappointment nor his petulance.
“Oh, how unfortunate. I’ve heard so much of the fascination of ranch life I thought I’d like to see a little of it. I thought you had broncho busting or something interesting or entertaining going on every day.”
Owen bit his lip. He was busy beyond words but he dropped everything and afternoon we took our guests for a drive over the ranch. The wagon was new and rattled and, wishing to spare Clarence’s delicate sensibilities, Owen put on some washers.
We were in the middle of the prairie miles from the house, Clarence had recovered his good humor since he was “actually seeing something”, as he tactfully expressed it, when one of the wheels began to drag. The washers proved to be too tight, we had a hot spindle. There was nothing to do but sit there in the blazing sun while the two men took off the wheel, removed a washer or two and greased the spindle.
I wouldn’t have missed it, the mere thought of that scene was a joy to me for months afterwards. Clarence Van Winkle red and perspiring from the effort of lifting a wheel, wiping his greasy hands on a piece of dirty waste! Alice’s face was a study. I had to keep my eyes fixed on the landscape after one look over the side of the wagon. I was afraid I should laugh out loud.