The Forfeit | Page 4

going
and telling its teacher first. And now the mail."
She left her father's side and moved to the table, a very picture of gentle
decision and practice.
"Three for you, my daddy," she cried, dropping three letters on his
chest, where his shirt gaped just below his neck. Then she turned about.
"Only one for you, honest Jeff. Just one, and I've guessed at the writing
till I'm sick."
Jeff was smiling up with frank amusement.
"Say, that's great. It's got you beat. Well," he added, as he picked up the
letter, "I'll just keep you right on guessing. Where's yours?"
The girl laughed merrily.
"Had mine. I don't guess any right-acting girl would sit easy in the
saddle twelve miles without reading her mail. Say----" she paused. The
smile had died out of her eyes. Jeff's expression had abruptly changed.
He was regarding the address on his envelope with startled seriousness.
Then she went on quickly: "Guess I'll wait till you're both through. I'll
get right out an' off-saddle. Then for supper."
In the parlor the silence remained unbroken. It became unduly
prolonged. Bud finished his mail. Jeff was still reading his. It was not a
long letter. He had already read it twice through. Now he again turned
back to its beginning.

Bud observed him closely. He saw the knitted brows. The curious set of
the man's lips. His absorbed interest. Nor did he interrupt. He contented
himself with that patient waiting which betrayed much of the solid
strength of his character.
Presently Jeff looked up. But his eyes did not seek his friend. They
were turned upon the open window, his gaze wandering out toward the
distant hills, which marked the confines of Rainbow Hill Valley.
Still the other refrained from speech. Finally it was Jeff, himself, who
broke the silence.
"Bud," he began, without withdrawing his gaze from the scene beyond
the window, "it's a letter from Ronald. It's the second word I've had of
him in--five years."
Bud nodded.
"The twin."
Jeff's gaze came slowly, thoughtfully back to Bud's face.
"Sure. We're twins."
An unusual softness crept into the eyes of the man at the table.
"I'm kind of wondering, Bud," he went on presently, "wondering if you
get all that means--means to me. I don't know." He passed a hand
slowly across his brow, as though to brush aside growing perplexities.
"I don't seem to get all it means myself. No, I don't. The whole thing's
so queer," he went on, with a nervous, restless movement in his chair.
"It sort of seems crazy, too." He laughed meaninglessly. Then he
suddenly leaned forward with flushed cheeks and hot eyes. "Bud, don't
think me crazy, but--well, say, I'm only part of me without Ronny near.
Oh, I don't guess that explains. But it's what I feel--and I can't just talk
it right. You don't get it? No, of course you don't. I can see it in your
eyes. You think I'm right for the foolish-house. Listen. Is it possible--is
it ordinary reason that when twins are born, the nature of one normal

child can be divided between the two, one having what the other feller
lacks? There, that's how I feel about it. It's the way it is with Ronny and
me. All that he is not, I am. I haven't one of his better features. Say,
Bud, I'm a pretty cold sort of man. I'd have made a fair sort of Puritan if
I'd been on earth a century or so ago. I've little enough humor. I don't
care for play. I don't care for half the fun most folks see in life. I'd
sooner work than eat. And Ronny--well, Ronny isn't just any of those
things. He's just a boy, full of every sort of human notion that's
opposite to mine. And I'm crazy for him. Say, Bud, I love him better
than anything in life. If anything happened to that boy, why, I guess all
that's worth while in me would die plumb out."
He paused. Bud's shrewd eyes remained studying the emotion-lit
features of this usually unemotional man. He felt he was being admitted
to a peep at a soul that was rarely, if ever, bared, and he wondered at
the reason. Was it a calculated display, or was it the outlet for an
emotion altogether too strong for the man's restraint? He inclined to the
former belief.
"Nothin' has happened?" he enquired presently, in his direct fashion.
Jeff laughed without any visible sign of lightness.
"No," he said. Then with a deep sigh. "Thank God nothing has
happened. But----"
"Then the trouble----?"
"The trouble? Say, Bud, try to get it all as I see it. It's difficult. The
boy's away up trapping and shooting--for a living--somewhere in the
Cathills. He's away