The Two-Gun Man

by Charles Alden Seltzer

  CHAPTER XVII

  A BREAK IN THE STORY

  Mary Radford had found the day too beautiful to remain indoors and sodirectly after dinner she had caught up her pony and was off for a ridethrough the cottonwood. She had been compelled to catch up the ponyherself, for of late Ben had been neglectful of this duty. Until thelast week or so he had always caught her pony and placed the saddle onit before leaving in the morning, assuring her that if she did not rideduring his absence the pony would not suffer through being saddled andbridled. But within the last week she thought she detected a change inBen's manner. He seemed preoccupied and glum, falling suddenly into ataciturnity broken only by brief periods during which he condescendedto reply to her questions with--it seemed--grudging monosyllables.

  Several times, too, she had caught him watching her with furtiveglances in which, she imagined, she detected a glint of speculation.But of this she was not quite sure, for when she bluntly questioned himconcerning his moods he had invariably given her an evasive reply.Fearing that there might have been a recurrence of the old trouble withthe Two Diamond manager--about which he had told her during her firstdays at the cabin--she ventured a question. He had grimly assured herthat he anticipated no further trouble in that direction. So, unableto get a direct reply from him she had decided that perhaps he wouldspeak when the time came, and so she had ceased questioning.

  In spite of his negligence regarding the pony, she had not given up herrides. Nor had she neglected to give a part of each morning to thestory.

  The work of gradually developing her hero's character had been anabsorbing task; times when she lingered over the pages of the story shefound herself wondering whether she had sounded the depths of hisnature. She knew, at least, that she had made him attractive, for ashe moved among her pages, she--who should have been satiated with himbecause of being compelled to record his every word and movement--foundhis magnetic personality drawing her applause, found that he hauntedher dreams, discovered one day that her waking moments were filled withthoughts of him.

  But of late she had begun to suspect that her interest in him was notall on account of the story; there were times when she sat longthinking of him, seeing him, watching the lights and shadows ofexpression come and go in his face. Somewhere between the realFerguson and the man who was impersonating him in her story was aninvisible line that she could not trace. There were times when shecould not have told whether the character she admired belonged to thereal or the unreal.

  She was thinking much of this to-day while she rode into the subduedlight of the cottonwood. Was she, absorbed in the task of putting areal character in her story, to confess that her interest in him wasnot wholly the interest of the artist who sees the beauties and virtuesof a model only long enough to paint them into the picture? Theblushes came when she suddenly realized that her interest was notwholly professional, that she had lately lingered long over her model,at times when she had not been thinking of the story at all.

  Then, too, she had considered her friends in the East. What would theysay if they knew of her friendship with the Two Diamond stray-man? Thestandards of Eastern civilization were not elastic enough to includethe man whom she had come to know so well, who had strode as boldlyinto her life as he had strode into her story, with his steady, sereneeyes, his picturesque rigging, and his two guns, their holsters tied sosuggestively and forebodingly down. Would her friends be able to seethe romance in him? Would they be able to estimate him according tothe standards of the world in which he lived, in which he moved sogracefully?

  She was aware that, measured by Eastern standards, Ferguson fell farshort of the average in those things that combine to produce thepolished gentleman. Yet she was also aware that these things were mereaccomplishments, a veneer acquired through constant practice--and thatusually the person known as "gentleman" could not be distinguished bythese things at all--that the real "gentleman" could be known onlythrough the measure of his quiet and genuine consideration andunfailing Christian virtues.

  As she rode through the cottonwood, into that deep solitude whichbrings with it a mighty reverence for nature and a solemn desire forcommunion with the soul--that solitude in which all affectationdisappears and man is face to face with his Maker--she tried to thinkof Ferguson in an Eastern drawing room, attempting a sham courtesy,affecting mannerisms that more than once had brought her own soul intorebellion. But she could not get him into the imaginary picture. Hedid not belong there; it seemed that she was trying to force a livingfigure into a company of mechanical puppets. And so they were--puppetswho answered to the pulling strings of precedent and establishedconvention.

  But at the same time she knew that this society which she affected todespise would refuse to accept him; that if by any chance he should begiven a place in it he would be an object of ridicule, or at the leastpassive contempt. The world did not want originality; would notwelcome in its drawing room the free, unaffected child of nature. No,the world wanted pretense, imitation. It frowned upon truth andapplauded the sycophant.

  She was not even certain that if she succeeded in making Ferguson areal living character the world would be interested in him. But shehad reached that state of mind in which she cared very little about theworld's opinion. She, at least, was interested in him.

  Upon the same afternoon--for there is no rule for the mere incidents oflife--Ferguson loped his pony through the shade of the cottonwood. Hewas going to visit the cabin in Bear Flat. Would she be at home?Would she be glad to see him? He could not bring his mind to give himan affirmative answer to either of these questions.

  But of one thing he was certain--she had treated him differently fromthe other Two Diamond men who had attempted to win her friendship. Washe to think then that she cared very little whether he came to thecabin or not? He smiled over his pony's mane at the thought. He couldnot help but see that she enjoyed his visits.

  When he rode up to the cabin he found it deserted, but with a smile heremounted Mustard and set out over the river trail, through thecottonwood. He was sure that he would find her on the hill in theflat, and when he had reached the edge of the cottonwood opposite thehill he saw her.

  When she heard the clatter of his pony's hoofs she turned and saw him,waving a hand at him.

  "I reckoned on findin' you here," he said when he came close enough tobe heard.

  She shyly made room for him beside her on the rock, but there wasmischief in her eye. "It seems impossible to hide from you," she saidwith a pretense of annoyance.

  He laughed as he came around the edge of the rock and sat near her."Was you really tryin' to hide?" he questioned. "Because if you was,"he continued, "you hadn't ought to have got up on this hill--where Icould see you without even lookin' for you."

  "But of course you were not looking for me," she observed quietly.

  He caught her gaze and held it--steadily. "I reckon I was lookin' foryou," he said.

  "Why--why," she returned, suddenly fearful that something had happenedto Ben--"is anything wrong?"

  He smiled. "Nothin' is wrong," he returned. "But I wanted to talk toyou, an' I expected to find you here."

  There was a gentleness in his voice that she had not heard before, anda quiet significance to his words that made her eyes droop away fromhis with slight confusion. She replied without looking at him.

  "But I came here to write," she said.

  He gravely considered her, drawing one foot up on the rock and claspinghis hands about the knee. "I've thought a lot about that book," hedeclared with a trace of embarrassment, "since you told me that you wasgoin' to put real men an' women in it. I expect you've made them dothe things that you've wanted them to do an' made them say what youwanted them to say. That part is right an' proper--there wouldn't beany sense of anyone writin' a book unless they could put into it whatthey thought was right. But what's been botherin' me is this; how canyou tell whether the things you've made them say is what they wouldhave said if they'd had any
chance to talk? An' how can you tell whattheir feelin's would be when you set them doin' somethin'?"

  She laughed. "That is a prerogative which the writer assumes withoutquestion," she returned. "The author of a novel makes his charactersthink and act as the author himself imagines he would act in the samecircumstances."

  He looked at her with amused eyes. "That's just what I was tryin' toget at," he said. "You've put me into your book, an' you've made me doan' say things out of your mind. But you don't know for sure whether Iwould have done an' said things just like you've wrote them. Mebbe ifI would have had somethin' to say I wouldn't have done things your wayat all."

  "I am sure you would," she returned positively.

  "Well, now," he returned smiling, "you're speakin' as though you waspretty certain about it. You must have wrote a whole lot of the story."

  "It is two-thirds finished," she returned with a trace of satisfactionin her voice which did not escape him.

  "An' you've got all your characters doin' an' thinkin' things that youthink they ought to do?" His eyes gleamed craftily. "You got a manan' a girl in it?"

  "Of course."

  "An' they're goin' to love one another?"

  "No other outcome is popular with novel readers," she returned.

  He rocked back and forth, his eyes languidly surveying the rim of hillsin the distance.

  "I expect that outcome is popular in real life too," he observed."Nobody ever hears about it when it turns out some other way."

  "I expect love is always a popular subject," she returned smiling.

  His eyes were still languid, his gaze still on the rim of distant hills.

  "You got any love talk in there--between the man an' the girl?" hequestioned.

  "Of course."

  "That's mighty interestin'," he returned. "I expect they do a good bitof mushin'?"

  "They do not talk extravagantly," she defended.

  "Then I expect it must be pretty good," he returned. "I don't likemushy love stories." And now he turned and looked fairly at her. "Ofcourse," he said slyly, "I don't know whether it's necessary or not,but I've been thinkin' that to write a good love story the writer oughtto be in love. Whoever was writin' would know more about how it feelsto be in love."

  She admired the cleverness with which he had led her up to this point,but she was not to be trapped. She met his eyes fairly.

  "I am sure it is not necessary for the writer to be in love," she saidquietly but positively. "I flatter myself that my love scenes arerather real, and I have not found it necessary to love anyone."

  This reply crippled him instantly. "Well, now," he said, eyeing her,she thought, a bit reproachfully, "that comes pretty near stumpin' me.But," he added, a subtle expression coming again into his eyes, "yousay you've got only two-thirds finished. Mebbe you'll be in lovebefore you get it all done. An' then mebbe you'll find that you didn'tget it right an' have to do it all over again. That would sure be toobad, when you could have got in love an' wrote it real in the firstplace."

  "I don't think that I shall fall in love," she said laughing.

  He looked quickly at her, suddenly grave. "I wouldn't want to thinkyou meant that," he said.

  "Why?" she questioned in a low voice, her laughter subdued by hisearnestness.

  "Why," he said steadily, as though stating a perfectly plain fact,"I've thought right along that you liked me. Of course I ain't beenfool enough to think that you loved me"--and now he reddened alittle--, "but I don't deny that I've hoped that you would."

  "Oh, dear!" she laughed; "and so you have planned it all out! And Iwas hoping that you would not prove so deep as that. You know," shewent on, "you promised me a long while ago that you would not fall inlove with me."

  "I don't reckon that I said that," he returned. "I told you that Iwasn't goin' to get fresh. I reckon I ain't fresh now. But I expect Icouldn't help lovin' you--I've done that since the first day."

  She could not stop the blushes--they would come. And so would thatthrilling, breathless exultation. No man had ever talked to her likethis; no man had ever made her feel quite as she felt at this moment.She turned a crimson face to him.

  "But you hadn't any right to love me," she declared, feeling sure thatshe had been unable to make him understand that she meant to rebukehim. Evidently he did not understand that she meant to do that, for heunclasped his hand from his knee and came closer to her, standing atthe edge of the rock, one hand resting upon it.

  "Of course I didn't have any right," he said gravely, "but I loved youjust the same. There's been some things in my life that I couldn'thelp doin'. Lovin' you is one. I expect that you'll think I'm prettyfresh, but I've been thinkin' a whole lot about you an' I've got totell you. You ain't like the women I've been used to. An' I reckon Iain't just the kind of man you've been acquainted with all your life.You've been used to seein' men who was all slicked up an' clever. Iexpect them kind of men appeal to any woman. I ain't claimin' to benone of them clever kind, but I've been around quite a little an' Iain't never done anything that I'm ashamed of. I can't offer you aheap, but if you----"

  She had looked up quickly, her cheeks burning.

  "Please don't," she pleaded, rising and placing a hand on his arm,gripping it tightly. "I have known for a long time, but I--I wanted tobe sure." He could not suspect that she had only just now begun torealize that she was in danger of yielding to him and that theknowledge frightened her.

  "You wanted to be sure?" he questioned, his face clouding. "What is itthat you wanted to be sure of?"

  "Why," she returned, laughing to hide her embarrassment, "I wanted tobe sure that you loved me!"

  "Well, you c'n be sure now," he said.

  "I believe I can," she laughed. "And," she continued, finding itdifficult to pretend seriousness, "knowing what I do will make writingso much easier."

  His face clouded again. "I don't see what your writin' has got to dowith it," he said.

  "You don't?" she demanded, her eyes widening with pretended surprise."Why, don't you see that I wanted to be sure of your love so that Imight be able to portray a real love scene in my story?"

  He did not reply instantly, but folded his arms over his chest andstood looking at her. In his expression was much reproach and not alittle disappointment. The hopes that had filled his dreams had beenruined by her frivolous words; he saw her at this moment a woman whohad trifled with him, who had led him cleverly on to a declaration oflove that she might in the end sacrifice him to her art. But in thismoment, when he might have been excused for exhibiting anger; forheaping upon her the bitter reproaches of an outraged confidence, hewas supremely calm. The color fled from his face, leaving it slightlypale, and his eyes swam with a deep feeling that told of the strugglethat he was making.

  "I didn't think you'd do it, ma'am," he said finally, a littlehoarsely. "But I reckon you know your own business best." He smiledslightly. "I don't think there's any use of you an' me meetin'again--I don't want to be goin' on, bein' a dummy man that you c'nwatch. But I'm glad to have amused you some an' I have enjoyed myself,talkin' to you. But I reckon you've done what you wanted to do, an' soI'll be gettin' along."

  He smiled grimly and with an effort turned and walked around the cornerof the rock, intending to descend the hill and mount his pony. But ashe passed around to the side of the rock he heard her voice:

  "Wait, please," she said in a scarcely audible voice.

  He halted, looking gravely at her from the opposite side of the rock.

  "You wantin' to get somethin' more for your story?" he asked.

  She turned and looked over her shoulder at him, her eyes luminous witha tell-tale expression, her face crimson. "Why," she said smiling athim, "do you really think that I could be so mean?"

  He was around the rock again in half a dozen steps and standing aboveher, his eyes alight, his lips parted slightly with surprise andeagerness.

  "Do you mean that you wantin' to make sure that I lov
ed you wasn't allfor the sake of the story?" he demanded rapidly.

  Her eyes drooped away from his. "Didn't you tell me that a writershould be in love in order to be able to write of it?" she asked, herface averted.

  "Yes." He was trembling a little and leaning toward her. In thisposition he caught her low reply.

  "I think my love story will be real," she returned. "I havelearned----" But whatever she might have wanted to add was smotheredwhen his arms closed tightly about her.

  A little later she drew a deep breath and looked up at him with moist,eloquent eyes.

  "Perhaps I _shall_ have to change the story a little," she said.

  He drew her head to his shoulder, one hand caressing her hair. "If youdo," he said smiling, "don't have the hero thinkin' that the girl ismakin' a fool of him." He drew her close. "That cert'nly was a mightybad minute you give me," he added.