Joe sagged visibly and Honey caught him by the arm.
“You better set down,” advised Len.
Joe allowed Honey to lead him to a chair, where he slumped weakly, staring wide-eyed at Honey.
“My weddin’ night?” he whispered. “Honey, don’t lie to me!”
“Nobody lyin’ to yuh, Joe.”
Joe slid down in the chair, his face the colour of wood ashes. He lifted his right hand almost to his face, but let it fall to his knee.
“Don’t lie, Honey!” It was a weak whisper. There was still hope left.
“I ain’t lyin’, Joe,” said Honey sadly. “Good God, I wish I was! Len was there; he can tell yuh. I waited for yuh, like I said I would, Joe. But you never showed up. It was after eight o’clock when I went huntin’ yuh, and split yore hide, I found yuh in the Arapaho, drunk as a boiled owl.”
“Drunk as a boiled owl,” whispered Joe.
“Y’betcha. I couldn’t take yuh, Joe. I’d do anythin’ for yuh, and you know it; but I couldn’t take yuh out there that-away, so I put yuh to bed.”