Lonesome Land | Page 7

He was intensely proud of his name, and his pleasure was almost
pathetic when one pronounced it without curtailment in his presence.
His skinniness was also a matter of pride. And when you realize that he
was an indefatigable gossip, and seemed always to be riding at large,
gathering or imparting trivial news, you should know fairly well
Polycarp Jenks.
"I see Man Fleetwood's might' near sober enough to git married,"
Polycarp began, coming up to the two and leaning a sharp elbow upon
the bar beside Kent. "By granny, gitting married'd sober anybody!
Dinner time he was so drunk he couldn't find his mouth. I met him up
here a little ways just now, and he was so sober he remembered to pay
me that ten I lent him t' other day--he-he! Open up a bottle of pop,
James.
"His girl's been might' near crying her eyes out, 'cause he didn't show
up. Mis' Hawley says she looked like she was due at a funeral 'stid of a
weddin'. 'Clined to be stuck up, accordin' to Mis' Hawley--shied at
hearin' about Walt--he-he! I'll bet there ain't been a transient to that
hotel in the last five year, man or woman, that ain't had to hear about
Walt and the shotgun--Pop's all right on a hot day, you bet!
"She's got two trunks and a fiddle over to the depot--don't see how 'n
the world Man's going to git 'em out to the ranch; they're might' near as
big as claim shacks, both of 'em. Time she gits 'em into Man's shack

she'll have to go outside every time she wants to turn around--he-he!
By granny--two trunks, to one woman! Have some pop, Kenneth, on
me.
"The boys are talkin' about a shivaree t'-night. On the quiet, y' know.
Some of 'em's workin' on a horse fiddle now, over in the lumber yard.
Wanted me to play a coal-oil can, but I dunno. I'm gittin' a leetle old for
sech doings. Keeps you up nights too much. Man had any sense, he'd
marry and pull outa town. 'Bout fifteen or twenty in the bunch, and a
string of cans and irons to reach clean across the street. By granny, I'm
going to plug m' ears good with cotton when it comes off--he-he!
'Nother bottle of pop, James."
"Who's running the show, Polycarp?" Kent asked, accepting the glass
of soda because he disliked to offend. "Funny I didn't hear about it."
Polycarp twisted his slit of a mouth knowingly, and closed one slit of
an eye to assist the facial elucidation.
"Ain't funny--not when I tell you Fred De Garmo's handing out the
invites, and he sure aims to have plenty of excitement--he-he! Betcher
Manley won't be able to set on the wagon seat an' hold the lines
t'-morrow--not if he comes out when he's called and does the thing
proper--he-he! An' if he don't show up, they aim to jest about pull the
old shebang down over his ears. Hope'll think it's the day of judgment,
sure--he-he! Reckon I might's well git in on the fun--they won't be no
sleepin' within ten mile of the place, nohow, and a feller always sees
the joke better when he's lendin' a hand. Too bad you an' Fred's on the
outs, Kenneth."
"Oh, I don't know--it suits me fine," Kent declared easily, setting down
his glass with a sigh of relief; he hated "pop."
"What's it all about, anyway?" quizzed Polycarp, hungering for the
details which had thus far been denied him. "De Garmo sees red
whenever anybody mentions your name, Kenneth--but I never did hear
no particulars."

"No?" Kent was turning toward the door. "Well, you see, Fred claims
he can holler louder than I can, and I say he can't." He opened the door
and calmly departed, leaving Polycarp looking exceedingly foolish and
a bit angry.
Straight to the hotel, without any pretense at disguising his destination,
marched Kent. He went into the office--which was really a
saloon--invited Hawley to drink with him, and then wondered audibly
if he could beg some pie from Mrs. Hawley.
"Supper'll be ready in a few minutes," Hawley informed him, glancing
up at the round, dust-covered clock screwed to the wall.
"I don't want supper--I want pie," Kent retorted, and opened a door
which led into the hallway. He went down the narrow passage to
another door, opened it without ceremony, and was assailed by the odor
of many things--the odor which spoke plainly of supper, or some other
assortment of food. No one was in sight, so he entered the dining room
boldly, stepped to another door, tapped very lightly upon it, and went in.
By this somewhat roundabout method he invaded the parlor.
Manley Fleetwood was lying upon an extremely uncomfortable couch,
of the kind