“I have not told Mr. Gordon my troubles,” said Mary, gravely. “I should not dream of intruding with such petty affairs while his big fight is on—his glorious fight. He will avenge my father. Nothing matters but that. He has enough to bear—without a woman’s trivial grievances.”
“But he would be glad to take that little trouble for you if he knew,” persisted Louise. She was feeling small and of little worth in the strength of Mary’s sweeping independence. She was hauntingly sure that in like circumstances she would be weak enough to take her trouble to—a man like Gordon, for instance. It came to her, there in the dark, that maybe he loved Mary. She had no cause to wonder, if this were true. Mary was fine—beautiful, lovable, stanch and true and capable, and he had known her long before he knew there was such a creature in existence as the insignificant, old-maidenish, mouse-haired reporter from the East. The air of the room suddenly became stifling. She threw open a window. The soft, damp air of the cloudy, warm darkness floated in and caressed her hot cheeks. Away, away over yonder, beyond the twinkling camp-fires on the flat, across the river, away to the east, were her childhood’s home and her kin. Here were the big, unthinking, overbearing cow country and—the man who loved Mary Williston, maybe.
It was getting late bedtime. Men were shuffling noisily through the hall on their way to their rooms. Scraps of conversation drifted in to the two girls.
“He’s a fool to make the try without Williston.”
“It takes some folks a mighty long time to learn their place in this here county.”
“Well, I reckon he thinks the county kin afford to stand good for his fool play.”
“He’ll learn his mistake—when Jesse gets out.”
“Naw! Not the ghost of a show!”
“He’d ought to be tarred and feathered and shot full o’ holes, and shipped back to where he come from to show his kind how we deal with plumb idjits west o’ the river.”
“Well, he’ll dance a different stunt ’gainst this is over.”