“Half an hour, perhaps; maybe less. But it seemed long.”
“Do you—know—what kind of a house you’re in—this heah room—what it means?” he went on, very low and huskily.
“No, I don’t,” she replied, instantly, with sudden curiosity. Questions and explanations rushed to her lips. But this strangely acting Larry dominated her.
“No other man—came in heah? I—was the first?”
“Yes.”
Then Larry King seemed to wrestle with—himself—with the hold drink had upon him—with that dark and sinister oppression so thick in the room. Allie thrilled to see his face grow soft and light up with the smile she remembered. How strange to feel in Larry King a spirit of gladness, of gratefulness for something beyond her understanding! Again he drew her close. And Allie, keen to read and feel him, wondered why he seemed to want to hide the sight of his face.
“Wal—I reckon—I was nigh onto bein’ drunk,” he said, haltingly. “Shore is a bad habit of mine—Allie.... Makes me think of a lot of—guff—jest the same as it makes me see snakes—an’ things.... I’ll quit drinkin’, Allie.... Never will touch liquor again—now if you’ll jest forgive.”
He spoke gently, huskily, with tears in his voice, and he broke off completely.
“Forgive! Larry, boy, there’s nothing to forgive—except your not hurrying me to—to him!”
She felt the same violent start in him. He held her a moment longer. Then, when he let go of her and stepped back Allie saw the cowboy as of old, cool and easy, yet somehow menacing, as he had been that day the strangers rode into Slingerland’s camp.