“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 ⸺ 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 thataway, so I put yuh to bed.”
Joe groaned painfully.
“They—they were out there—everybody, Honey?”
“Everybody, Joe. I tried to think up a lie to tell ’em, but my feet hurt so ⸺ bad that I couldn’t even think. I had to tell ’em the truth. It was nine o’clock. Aw, it was awful.”
Joe had sunk down in the chair, breathing like a runner who had just finished a hard race.
“I seen Peggy,” said Honey. “My ⸺, but she was beautiful! And you hurt her, Joe. I could tell she was hurt bad, but she jist said she was sorry.”
“Oh, my God, don’t!”
Joe lurched out of the chair, panting, hands clenched. Suddenly he flung his hands up to his eyes.