“God only knows, Merrick!” wailed Honey. “I can’t go out there and say he’s drunk. Oh, why didn’t the ⸺ fool get shot, or somethin’? I—I—aw ⸺, I’ve got to go out there. I hope to ⸺ the horse runs away and breaks my neck. But there ain’t much hopes,” dismally. “These Pinnacle livery horses never did run away from home. Well, I—thanks for helpin’ me put him to bed.”
Honey limped out, untied the horse and got into the buggy.
“I’d rather go to a funeral any old time,” he told the horse as they left town.”
“By ⸺, I’d rather go to my own funeral. But it can’t be helped; I’ve got to tell ’em.”
It is not difficult to imagine the frame of mind of those at the Flying H when eight-thirty passed and no sign of the groom and best man. The aged minister paced up and down the veranda, trying to make himself believe that everything was all right.
Down by the big gate stood Jim Wheeler, a dim figure beneath the hanging lantern. All hilarity had ceased in the kitchen. Uncle Hozie was seated in the living-room between Aunt Emma and Grandma Owens, grinning widely at nothing whatever.
Upstairs in a bedroom were Peggy Wheeler and Laura Hatton. An old clock on a dresser ticked loudly, its hands pointing at a quarter of nine. Peggy sat on a bed, her hands folded in her lap. She was a decided brunette, taller than Laura, brown-eyed; well entitled to the honor of being the most beautiful girl in the Tumbling River country.
There were tears in her brown eyes, and she bit her lip as Laura turned from the front window, shaking her blond head.
“Nobody in sight, Peggy. I just can’t understand it.”
Peggy shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to talk just now. Aunt Emma came slowly up the stairs and looked in at Peggy.