Lonesome Land by B. M. Bower (reading strategies book .TXT) 📖

“He thought it was I burned out that, brand; did you notice what he said?” Val, as frequently happens in times of stress, spoke first of a trivial matter, before her mind would grasp the greater issues.

“He'll never make it,” said Kent, speaking involuntarily his thought. “There comes old Jake Bondy, now, down the hill. Still, I dunno—if Michael takes to the water all right—”

“If the sheriff comes here, what shall we tell him? Shall we—”

“He won't. He's turning off, don't you see? He must have got a sight of Man from the top of the hill. Michael's tolerably fresh, and Jake's horse isn't; that makes a big difference.”

Val weakened unexpectedly, as the full meaning of it all swept through her mind.

“Oh, it's horrible!” she whispered. “Kent, what can we do?”

“Not a thing, only keep our heads, and don't give way to nerves,” he hinted. “It's something out of our reach; let's not go all to pieces over it, pal.”

She steadied under his calm voice.

“I'm always acting foolish just at the wrong time—but to think he could—”

“Don't think! You'll have enough of that to do, managing your own affairs. All this doesn't change a thing for you. It makes you feel bad—and for that I could kill him, almost!” So much flashed out, and then he brought himself in hand again. “You've still got to pack your trunks, and take the train home, just the same as if this hadn't happened. I didn't like the idea at first, but now I see it's the best thing you can do, for the present. After awhile—we'll see about it. Don't look out, if it upsets you, Val. You can't do any good, and you've got to save your nerves. Let pull down the shade—”

“Oh, I've got to see!” Perversely, she caught up the field glasses from the table, drew them from their case, and, letting down the upper window sash with a slam, focused the glasses upon the river. “He usually crosses right at the mouth of the coulee—” She swung the glasses slowly about. “Oh, there he is—just on the bank. The river looks rather high—oh, your horse doesn't want to go in, Kent. He whirls on his hind feet, and tried to bolt when Manley started in—”

Kent had been watching her face jealously. “Here, let me take a look, will you? I can tell—” She yielded reluctantly, and in a moment he had caught the focus.

“Tell me what you see, Kent—everything,” she begged, looking anxiously from his face to the river.

“Well, old Jake is fogging along down the coulee—but he ain't to the river yet, not by a long shot! Ah-h! Man's riding back to take a run in. That's the stuff—got Michael's feet wet that time, the old freak! They came near going clean outa sight.”

“The sheriff—is he close enough—” Val began fearfully. “Oh, we're too far away to do a thing!”

Kent kept his eyes to the glasses. “We couldn't do a thing if we were right there. Man's in swimming water already. Jake ain't riding in—from the motions he's ordering Man back.”

“Oh, please let me look a minute! I won't get excited, Kent, and I'll tell you everything I see—please!” Val's teeth were fairly chattering with excitement, so that Kent hesitated before he gave up the glasses. But it seemed boorish to refuse. She snatched at them as he took them from his eyes, and placed them nervously to her own.

“Oh, I see them both!” she cried, after a second or two. “The sheriff's got his rifle in his hands—Kent, do you suppose he'd—”

“Just a bluff, pal. They all do it. What—”

Val gave a start. “Oh, he shot, Kent! I saw him take aim—it looked as if he pointed it straight at Manley, and the smoke—” She moved the glasses slowly, searching the river.

“Well, he'd have to be a dandy, to hit anything on the water, and with the sun in his eyes, too,” Kent assured her, hardly taking his eyes from her face with its varying expression. Almost he could see what was taking place at the river, just by watching her.

“Oh, there's Manley, away out! Why, your Michael is swimming beautifully, Kent! His head is high out of the water, and the water is churning like—Oh, Manley's holding his rifle up over his head—he's looking back toward shore. I wonder,” she added softly, “what he's thinking about! Manley! you're my husband—and once I—”

“Draw a bead on that gazabo on shore,” Kent interrupted her faint faring up of sentiment toward the man she had once loved and loved no more.

Val drew a long breath and turned the glasses reluctantly from the fugitive. “I don't see him—oh, yes! He's down beside a rock, on one knee, and he's taking a rest across the rock, and is squinting along—oh, he can't hit him at that distance, can he, Kent? Would he dare—why, it would be murder, wouldn't it? Oh-h—he shot again!”

Kent reached up a hand and took the glasses from her eyes with a masterful gesture. “You let me look,” he said laconically. “I'm steadier than you.”

Val crept closer to him, and looked up into his face. She could read nothing there; his mouth was shut tight so that it was a stern, straight line, but that told her nothing. He always looked so when he was intent upon something, or thinking deeply. She turned her eyes toward the river, flowing smoothly across the mouth of the coulee. Between, the land lay sleeping lazily in the hazy sunlight of mid-autumn. The grass was brown, the rocky outcroppings of the coulee wall yellow and gray and red—and the river was so blue, and so quiet! Surely that sleepy coulee and that placid river could not be witnessing a tragedy. She turned her head, irritated by its very calmness. Her eyes dwelt wistfully upon Kent's half-concealed face.

“What are they doing now, Kent?” Her tone was hushed.

“I can't—exactly—” He mumbled absently, his mind a mile away. She waited a moment.

“Can you see—Manley?”

This time he did not answer at all; he seemed terribly far off, as if only his shell of a body remained with her in the room.

“Why don't you talk?” she wailed. She waited until she could endure no more, then reached up and snatched the glasses from his eyes.