Bruce of the Circle A Part 11

The laugh was on the short cowboy and he joined it heartily.

"But if that's true--that brother stuff--," he said, when he could be heard, "seems to me you're throwin' in with a fine sample of stalwart manhood!"

Then they were off on a concerted d.a.m.nation of Ned Lytton and under its cover Bayard thanked his stars that Nora had been right, that Yavapai had been satisfied with jumping at the conclusion that Ann could not be her husband's wife.

"But I'll tell you, Bruce," went on Tommy, as Bayard started to leave, "if I was as pretty a fellow as you are, I'd make a play for that gal myself! If she'd only get to know me an' know 'bout my brains, it'd all be downhill an' shady. But she won't. You got th' looks; I've got th'

horse power in my head. Can't we form a combination?"

"I'm sort of again' combinations ... where women are concerned," Bruce answered, and walked out before they could see the seriousness that possessed him.

On his way out of town Bayard pa.s.sed two friends but did not look at them nor appear to hear their salutations. He was a mile up the road before his absorption gave way to a shake of the head and the following summing up, spoken to the jogging Abe:

"Gosh, Pardner, back there they've all got me in love with her. I had a hard time keepin' my head, when they tried to josh me about it. I ain't ever admitted it to myself, even, but has that--not admittin' it--got anything to do with it, I wonder? Does it keep it from bein' so? Why should I get hot, if it ain't true?"

When they were in sight of the ranch, he spoke again,

"How 'n th' name of G.o.d can a man help lovin' a woman like that?"

And in answer to the a.s.sertion that popped up in his mind, he cried aloud: "He ain't no man; _he_ ain't ... an' she loves him!"

He put the stallion into a high lope then, partly to relieve the stress of his thinking, partly because he suddenly realized that he had been away from the ranch many hours. This was the first time that Lytton had been up and about when he departed and he wondered if, in the interval, the man had left the ranch, had stolen a march on him, and escaped to Yavapai or elsewhere to find stimulant.

Lytton's improvement seemed to have been marked in the last two days.

That forenoon, when Bayard told him he was to go to town, the man had insisted on helping with the work, though his body was still weak. He had been pleasant, almost jovial, and it was with pride that the rancher had told Ann of the results he had obtained by his care and his patience; had spoken with satisfaction in spite of the knowledge that ultimate success meant a snuffing out of the fire that burned in his heart ... the fire that he would not yet admit existed.

Arrived at the ranch, Bruce forced the sorrel against his gate, leaned low to release the fastening and went on through. He was grave of face and silent and he walked toward the house after dismounting, deep in thought, struggling with the problem of conduct which was evolving from the circ.u.mstance in which he found himself.

On the threshold, after looking into the kitchen, he stood poised a moment. Then, with a cry of anger he strode into the room, halted and looked about him.

"You d.a.m.ned liar!" he cried into the silence.

Ned Lytton lay across the bed, face downward, breathing m.u.f.fled by the tumbled blankets, and on the floor beside him was an empty whiskey bottle.

"You liar!" Bayard said again. "You strung me this mornin', didn't you?

This was why you was so crazy to help me get an early start! You coyote!"

He moved noisily across the room and halted again to survey the scene. A cupboard had been roughly emptied and the clock had been overturned when Lytton searched its shelf; in another room an old dresser stood gaping, the things it had contained in a pile on the floor, its drawers flung in a corner. Everywhere was evidence of a hurried search for a hidden thing. And that sought object was the bottle, the contents of which had sent the prostrate figure into its present state.

"You're just ... carrion!" he said, disgustedly, staring at Lytton.

Then, with set face, he undressed the man, laid him gently on the pillows and covered him well.

"G.o.d help me to remember that you're a cripple!" he muttered, and turned to straighten the disorder of his house.

An hour later Bayard drew a chair to the bedside, seated himself and frowned steadily at the sleeping man.

"I've got to remember you're a cripple ... got to," he said, over and over. "For her sake, I must. An' I can't ... trust myself near her ... I can't!"

The drunken man roused himself with a start and stared blearily, unintelligently into the other's face.

"Tha's righ', Ole Man," he mumbled. "Tha's ri'...."

CHAPTER VIII

A HEART SPEAKS

With forebodings Bruce Bayard went to Ann Lytton the next day. She saw trouble on his face as he entered her room.

"What is it?" she asked, quietly, steadying herself, for she was ever ready for the worst.

He only continued to look gravely at her.

"Don't be afraid to tell me, Mr. Bayard. I can stand it; you can't hide it."

He looked at her, until he made sure that she was not speculating, that she was certain that he brought her bad news.

"Yesterday, while I was here, your husband ransacked my house an' found a quart of whiskey I had...."

"Oh! After he sent you away, making you feel..."

"You know him right well, ma'am," he interrupted. "Yes, I guess all his show of bein' himself in th' mornin' was to get me to move out so he could look for th' booze. He knew it was there; he'd been waitin' this chance, I expect."

"How awful! What a way to treat you."

He smiled. "Don't mind me, ma'am; I'm thinkin' about you."

She looked back at him bravely.

"And the other day ... when you left, you tried to make me stop thinking these kind things about you," she challenged. "You suggested that your interest in Ned and in me might not be fine."

It did not occur to either of them that at such a moment, under those conditions which they told themselves prevailed, talk and thought of their own special relations was out of place.

"I'm only doin' what I can ... for you," he a.s.sured her. "An' I guess it ain't much I can do. I'm kind of a failure at reformin' men, I guess. I want to keep on tryin', though. I,"--he moistened his lips--"I don't like to think of givin' up an' I don't like to think of turnin' him over to you like he is."

She smiled appreciatively, downing her misery for the moment, and hastened to say:

"Don't you think it would be better, if I were there now? You see, I could be with him all the time, watch him, help him over the worst days.

It surely wouldn't set him back to see me now."

"And might it not be that living alone with you, away from the things he needs: good care, the comforts he's been brought up to know, the right food...."

So confused was Bayard before the conviction that he must meet this argument, that he proceeded without caution, without thought of the foundation of lies on which his separation of husband and wife rested, he burst out:

"But he has them there! Here, ma'am, he'd been seein' an' hearin' folks, he'd be tempted continually. Out there ... why, ma'am, he don't see n.o.body, hear nothin'. He couldn't be more comfortable. There ain't a house in Yavapai, not one this side o' Prescott, that's better fixed up.