Lonesome Land | Page 4

crude
and strange, and the saloons so numerous and terrifying in their very
bald simplicity.
She was worried about Manley, and she wished that cowboy would
come out of the saloon and bring her lover to her. She had never
dreamed of being treated in this way. No one came near her--and she
had secretly expected to cause something of a flutter in this little town

they called Hope.
Surely, young girls from the East, come out to get married to their
sweethearts, weren't so numerous that they should be ignored. If there
were other people in the hotel, they did not manifest their presence,
save by disquieting noises muffled by intervening partitions.
She grew thirsty, but she hesitated to explore the depths of this dreary
abode, in fear of worse horrors than the parlor furniture, and all the
places of refreshment which she could see from the window or the door
looked terribly masculine and unmoral, and as if they did not know
there existed such things as ice cream, or soda, or sherbet.
It was after an hour of this that the tears came, which is saying a good
deal for her courage. It seemed to her then that Manley must be dead.
What else could keep him so long away from her, after three years of
impassioned longing written twice a week with punctilious regularity?
He knew that she was coming. She had telegraphed from St. Paul, and
had received a joyful reply, lavishly expressed in seventeen words
instead of the ten-word limit. And they were to have been married
immediately upon her arrival.
That cowboy had known she was coming; he must also have known
why Manley did not meet her, and she wished futilely that she had
questioned him, instead of walking beside him without a word. He
should have explained. He would have explained if he had not been so
very anxious to get inside that saloon and get drunk.
She had always heard that cowboys were chivalrous, and brave, and
fascinating in their picturesque dare-deviltry, but from the lone
specimen which she had met she could not see that they possessed any
of those qualities. If all cowboys were like that, she hoped that she
would not be compelled to meet any of them. And why didn't Manley
come?
It was then that an inner door--a door which she had wanted to open,
but had lacked courage--squeaked upon its hinges, and an ill-kept

bundle of hair was thrust in, topping a weather-beaten face and a
scrawny little body. Two faded, inquisitive eyes looked her over, and
the woman sidled in, somewhat abashed, but too curious to remain
outside.
"Oh yes!" She seemed to be answering some inner question. "I didn't
know you was here." She went over and removed the newspaper from
the portrait. "That breed girl of mine ain't got the least idea of how to
straighten up a room," she observed complainingly. "I guess she thinks
this picture was made to hang things on. I'll have to round her up again
and tell her a few things. This is my first husband. He was in politics
and got beat, and so he killed himself. He couldn't stand to have folks
give him the laugh." She spoke with pride. "He was a real handsome
man, don't you think? You mighta took off the paper; it didn't belong
there, and he does brighten up the room. A good picture is real
company, seems to me. When my old man gets on the rampage till I
can't stand it no longer, I come in here and set, and look at Walt. 'T ain't
every man that's got nerve to kill himself--with a shotgun. It was
turrible! He took and tied a string to the trigger--"
"Oh, please!"
The landlady stopped short and stared at her. "What? Oh, I won't go
into details--it was awful messy, and that's a fact. I didn't git over it for
a couple of months. He coulda killed himself with a six-shooter; it's
always been a mystery why he dug up that old shotgun, but he did. I
always thought he wanted to show his nerve." She sighed, and drew her
fingers across her eyes. "I don't s'pose I ever will git over it," she added
complacently. "It was a turrible shock."
"Do you know," the girl began desperately, "if Mr. Manley Fleetwood
is in town? I expected him to meet me at the train."
"Oh! I kinda thought you was Man Fleetwood's girl. My name's
Hawley. You going to be married to-night, ain't you?"
"I--I haven't seen Mr. Fleetwood yet," hesitated the girl, and her eyes
filled again with tears. "I'm afraid something may have happened to

him. He--"
Mrs. Hawley glimpsed the tears, and instantly became motherly in her
manner. She