“Yes, of course. But she’s just like the rest of the women in this town. They’re all backwoods, that’s what they are—backwoods. If they’d ever been outside of Manzanita, and seen something, they wouldn’t be so confounded narrow. They don’t want to have any fun themselves and they don’t want anybody else to have any. I never saw such a place!”
The Judge sighed and turned to the door. “Mebbe it’d a-been better if I hadn’t opened my mouth,” he said. “But—it seemed serious, kinda. So long, Homer.” He went out, his hands in the outer pockets of his coat, his head down.
That night, no light burned until a late hour on the unpainted desk in the place of Justice. After supper, young Judge Gideon Carr strolled down to the Occidental and sprinkled the ashes of his pipe upon the only stretch of cement sidewalk in town. And ten o’clock found him still there, tipped back against the wall beside the high swinging doors that screened the barroom from passers-by in the street.
Shortly after ten, two figures approached the hotel from the direction of the shipping-shed. One was short and thick-set; the other wore a hat banded with bright silk. The street was illy lighted, and they did not see the figure by the door until the thick-set man, who was leading, was within arm’s length of it. Then the Judge moved, looking up into the faces of the two. Luce gave him a swift glance and entered the barroom. But Homer halted suddenly, called a nervous good-night after his companion, turned away sharply, and hurried into the darkness toward home.
The next evening found the Judge again tipped back in a chair beside the barroom entrance. But the third evening he came to his station at a late hour and, before sitting down, parted the swinging doors to stand between them a moment, leisurely surveying the brightly-lighted room.
Each night afterward he returned—always at a different hour. Midnight of the day the first refrigerator cars intended for the pear shipment were shunted upon the siding at the shipping-shed he again came face to face with Jim Luce at the Occidental. The rancher had been drinking, and walked unsteadily, so the Judge stepped out of his way. But Luce recognised him, and turned upon him with a curse.
“You been spyin’ on me,” charged Luce thickly. “Just as if I ain’t got a right to spend my money like I want to! I say, you been spyin’ on me, an’ you can’t deny it.” He wavered from side to side before the tall figure of the Judge. “But you cut it out. You hear me? You cut it out.”
“What do I want to spy on you for?” inquired the Judge mildly. “You’re full, Jim.”
“You’re mixin’ up in my business,” shrilled the other. “But I’ll pay that alimony when I git good an’ ready.”
The swinging doors were opening now and men were coming out.