Judith of the Godless Valley | Page 7

the trail and a coyote
barked derisively from beyond an alfalfa stack.
"Douglas," exclaimed Judith suddenly, "if I thought when I got married,
my husband would treat me like Dad does Mother, I'd never get
married. Getting married in real life isn't a bit like the books show it."
Douglas grunted. "I wouldn't worry about getting married for a few
years yet."
"I'm fourteen," returned Judith. "I've got a right to think about it. Don't
you ever?"
"No."
"You think about girls, though," insisted Judith.
"That isn't thinking about marrying, is it?"
"What do you think about mostly, Doug?"

Douglas sighed. "It's hard to say. I've been awful sad lately. I don't
know why. I think about that and I plan a lot about what I'm going to
do when I finish school."
"Would you like to marry Maud Day?"
"Who's talking about marrying!" shouted Doug with sudden and
overwhelming exasperation. "What makes 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