“There’s a spare cot in our tent,” said the doctor, “and you’re welcome to it if you feel that you can trust yourself in our company. We mess together in a sort of communistic fashion.”
Walker was profuse in his gratitude.
“I’ll feel easy among decent people!” he declared. “I’m mostly decent myself, and my family’s one of the best in this state. Don’t you size me up by what you saw me do tonight, will you?”
“The best of us slip up once in a while,” Slavens said.
Walker had some business of clearing his throat. And then:
“Are you–that is–is she, related to you?” 62
“Oh, no,” laughed the doctor. “I’m sorry she isn’t.”
“She’s a peach; don’t you think so?”
“Undoubtedly,” admitted the doctor. “Well, here we are–at home.”
They stood outside a little while, their faces turned toward the town. It was quieting down now. Here and there a voice was raised in drunken song or drunken yelp; here and there a pistol-shot marked the location of some silly fellow who believed that he was living and experiencing all the recklessness of the untamed West. Now and then the dry, shrill laughter of a woman sounded, without lightness, without mirth, as if it came from the lips of one who long, long ago, in the fever of pain and despair, had wept her heart empty of its tears. Now and again, also, a wailing cornet lifted its lone voice, dying away dimly like a disappearing light.