Dust | Page 8

he were to take
Robinson's advice: fix up a bit and--marry?
Nellie had often urged the advantages of this, but he had never had
much to do with women; they did not belong in his world and he had

not missed them; he had never before felt a need of marriage. Upon the
few occasions when, driven by his sister's persistence, he had vaguely
considered it, he had shrunk away quickly from the thought of the
unavoidable changes which would be ushered in by such a step. This
shack, itself--no one whom he would want would, in this day, consent
to live in it, and, if he should marry, his wife must be a superior woman,
good looking, and with the push and energy of his mother. He thought
of all she had meant to his father; and there was Nellie, not to be
spoken of in the same breath, yet making Bert Mall a good wife. What
a cook she was! Memories of her hot, fluffy biscuits, baked chicken,
apple pies and delicious coffee, carried trailing aromas that set his
nostrils twitching. It would be pleasant to have satisfying meals once
more, to be relieved, too, of the bother of the three hundred chickens, to
have some one about in the evenings. True, there would be expense, oh,
such expense--the courting, the presents, the wedding, the building, the
furniture, and, later, innumerable new kinds of bills. But weren't all the
men around him married? Surely, if they, not nearly as well off as
himself, could afford it, so could he.
Besides, wasn't it all different now that he held this check in his hand?
These sixteen thousand dollars were not the same dollars which he had
extorted from close-fisted Nature. Each of those had come so lamely,
was such a symbol of sweat and aching muscles, that to spend one was
like parting with a portion of himself, but this new, almost incredible
fortune, had come without a turn of his hand, without an hour's labor.
To Martin, the distinction was sharp and actual.
He figured quickly. Five thousand dollars would do wonders. With that
amount, he would build so substantially that his neighbors could no
longer feel the disapprobation in which, according to Nellie, he was
beginning to be held, because of his sordid, hermit-like life. That five
thousand could buy many cows and additional acreage--but just now a
home and a wife would be better investments. Yes, he would marry and
a house should be his bait. That was settled. He would drive into Fallon
at once to see the carpenter and deposit the check.
He was already out of the house when a thought struck him. Suppose
he were to meet just the woman he might want? These soiled,
once-blue overalls, these heavy, manure-spotted shoes, this greasy,
shapeless straw hat, with its dozen matches showing their red heads

over the band, the good soils and fertilizers of Kansas resting placidly
in his ears and the lines of his neck--such a Romeo might not tempt his
Juliet; he must spruce up.
On an aged soap-box behind the house, several inches of grey water in
a battered tin-pan indicated a previous effort. He tossed the greasy
liquid to the ground and from the well, near the large, home-built barn,
refilled the make-shift basin. Martin's ablutions were always a
strenuous affair. In his cupped hands he brought the water toward his
face and, at the moment he was about to apply it, made pointless
attempts to blow it away. This blowing and sputtering indicated the
especial importance of an occasion--the more important, the more
vigorously he blew. Today, the cold water gave a healthy glow to his
face, which, after much stropping of his razor, he shaved of a week's
growth of beard, tawny as his thick, crisp hair where the sun had not
yet bleached it. This, he soaked thoroughly, in lieu of brushing, before
using a crippled piece of comb. The dividing line between washed and
unwashed was one inch above his neckband and two above his wrists.
Even when fresh from a scrubbing, his hands were not entirely clean.
They had been so long in contact with the earth that it had become
absorbed into the very pores of his skin; but they were powerful hands,
interesting, with long palms and spatulate fingers. The black strips at
the end of each nail, Martin pared off with his jackknife.
He entered the house a trifle nervously, positive that his only clean shirt,
at present spread over his precious shot-gun, had been worn once more
than he could have wished, but, after all, how much of one's shirt
showed? It would pass. The coat-shirt not yet introduced, a man had to
slip the old-fashioned kind over his head, drag it