Judith of the Godless Valley | Page 7

you such a fool, Jude?"
"How can I help talking about it when it's my mother your father's so rough with. Of course, you don't care."
"I do, too, care. I think a lot of her, but he don't mean half he says."
"Well, he'd better begin to stop knocking me around when he's mad, or I'll run away."
"Especially in the winter, I suppose," sniffed Douglas, "when it would be plain suicide."
"I don't care if it's in a blizzard," insisted Judith. "When I've had enough, I'll go."
Douglas laughed. "Hanged if I don't think you would, too, Jude. You've got the nerve of a wolverine."
"I hope Dad's tooth is better," said Judith, as dim buildings and a lighted window shone though the dusk.
"Are you really afraid of Dad?" asked Douglas suddenly.
"No," replied Judith, thoughtfully, "but sometimes I hate him."
"I think he's a pretty good old scout in spite of his temper," said the boy.
"Well," admitted Judith, "I guess I do too. At least, I can see why so many women like him. He's awful good-looking. I can see that now I'm growing up."
"Growing up!" mocked Douglas.
But before Judith could pick up the gauntlet, the horses came to pause before the lighted window. Judith jumped from Swift, unsaddled her and turned her into the corral. Then she went hurriedly into the house. Douglas unsaddled more slowly, and strode toward the sheds where calves were bellowing and cows lowing.
For half an hour he worked in the starlight, throwing alfalfa to the crowding stock. It was so cold that by the time he had finished he scarcely could turn the door-knob with his aching fingers. He entered the kitchen.
It was a large room, with the log walls neatly chinked and whitewashed. An unshaded kerosene lamp burned on the big table in the middle of the room. Judith was cutting bread. The air was heavy with smoke from frying beef. A tall, slender woman, with round shoulders, stood over the red-hot stove, stirring the potatoes. She was a very beautiful, very worn edition of Judith, though one wondered if she ever burned with even a small portion of Judith's eager, wistful fires. She turned as Douglas came in and gave him a quick smile.
"Cold, Douglas?" she asked.
The boy nodded. "Where's Dad?"
"In the other room. His tooth still aches, I guess."
"Is he sore because I'm late?" asked the boy, scowling.
Judith answered with a curious jerking of her breath. "He tried to kick me. I hate him!"
Douglas grunted and marched through the inner door into the one other room of the house. It was at least twenty-five feet square. The log walls were whitewashed like the kitchen and from one of the huge pine rafters hung a lamp which shed a pleasant light on a center table. Beds occupied three corners of the room. There were several comfortable rocking-chairs, a big mahogany bureau and a sewing-machine. Over the double bed hung an ancient saber and over a low bookcase was a framed sampler. There were several good old-fashioned engravings and some framed lithographs with numerous books and piles of dilapidated magazines. Doug's father stood by the table with a book in his hand.
John Spencer at forty-six was still a superb physical specimen, standing six feet two in his felt slippers. His face, so like, yet so unlike his son's, showed heavy lines from the nostril to the corner of the mouth. Beneath his eyes were faint pouches. The thick thatch of yellow hair had lost its yellow light and now was drab in tone. His flannel shirt, unbuttoned at the throat, showed a strong neck, and the rider's belt that circled the top of his blue denim pants outlined a waist as slim and hard as Doug's.
He looked up. "What do you mean by coming in at this hour, you young hound?"
"I think I might have Sunday afternoon to myself," said Douglas sulkily.
"So do I. But that don't mean you are to have all Sunday night, too. Did you feed the calves?"
"Yes."
"Next Sunday you be here by five o'clock, understand?"
"Yes."
"Supper's ready!" called Judith.
The table was covered by a red-checked cloth. A huge platter of fried beef, another of fried potatoes, another of baking-powder biscuits, and a pot of coffee steamed on the table. John did not speak until his first hunger had been satisfied. When he received his second cup of coffee, however, he said, "Well, my tooth's better. What happened this afternoon, children?"
Judith did not reply, but Douglas, with a chuckle, told the story of Mr. Fowler's discomfiture. John and Mary shouted with laughter.
"By old Sitting Bull, it serves him right!" John wiped his eyes. "What became of him?"
"O, he beat it for the Pass!" replied Douglas.
"What did you do after that?" inquired Mrs. Spencer.
"We went up to the post-office to get Peter to let us have a dance,