The Seventh Man | Page 7

than you'll ever be."
A smear of red danced before the vision of Gregg.
"I don't set up for no beauty prize. Tie a pink ribbon in Blondy's hair
and take him to a baby show if you want. He's about young enough to
enter."
If she could have found a ready retort her anger might have passed
away in words, but no words came, and she turned pale. It was here that
Gregg made his crucial mistake, for he thought the pallor came from
fear, fear which his sham jealousy had roused in her, perhaps. He
should have maintained a discreet silence, but instead, he poured in the
gall of complacency upon a raw wound.
"Blondy's all right," he stated beneficently, "but you just forget about
him tonight. You're going to that dance, and you're going with me. If
there's any explanations to be made, you leave 'em to me. I'll handle
Blondy."
"You handle Blondy!" she whispered. Her voice came back; it rang:
"You couldn't if he had one hand tied behind him." She measured him
for another blow. "I'm going to that dance and I'm going with Mr.
Hansen."
She knew that he would have died for her, and he knew that she would
have died for him; accordingly they abandoned themselves to sullen
fury.
"You're out of date, Vic," she ran on. "Men can't drag women around
nowadays, and you can't drag me. Not--one--inch." She put a vicious
little interval between each of the last three words.
"I'll be calling for you at seven o'clock."
"I won't be there."
"Then I'll call on Blondy."

"You don't dare to. Don't you try to bluff me. I'm not that kind."
"Betty, d'you mean that? D'you think that I'm yaller?"
"I don't care what you are."
"I ask you calm and impersonal, just think that over before you say it."
"I've already thought it over."
"Then, by God," said Gregg, trembling, "I'll never take one step out of
my way to see you again."
He turned, so blind with fury that he shouldered the door on his way
out and so, into the saddle, with Grey Molly standing like a figure of
rock, as if she sensed his mood. He swung her about on her hind legs
with a wrench on the curb and a lift of his spurs, but when she leaped
into a gallop he brought her back to the walk with a cruel jerk; she
began to sidle across the field with her chin drawn almost back to her
breast, prancing. That movement of the horse brought him half way
around towards the door and he was tempted mightily to look, for he
knew that Betty Neal was standing there, begging him with her eyes.
But the great, sullen pain conquered; he straightened out the mare for
the gate.
Betty was indeed at the door, leaning against it in a sudden weakness,
and even in her pain she felt pride in the grace and skill of Vic's
horsemanship. The hearts of both of them were breaking, with this
rather typical difference: that Gregg felt her to be entirely at fault, and
that she as fully accepted every scruple of the blame. He had come
down tired out and nervous from work he had done for her sake, she
remembered, and if he would only glance back once--he must know
that she was praying for it-- she would cry out and run down to him;
but he went on, on, through the gate.
A flash of her passion returned to her. "I shall go with Blondy--if it
kills me." And she flung herself into the nearest seat and wept.

So when he reached the road and looked back at last, the doorway
yawned black, empty, and he set his teeth with a groan and spurred
down the road for Alder. He drew rein at Captain Lorrimer's and
entered with curt nods in exchange for the greetings.
"Red-eye," he ordered, and seized bottle and glass as Lorrimer spun
them deftly towards him.
Captain Lorrimer picked up the bottle and gazed at it mournfully when
Vic had poured his drink.
"Son," he murmured, "you've sure raised an awful thirst."
Chapter IV.
King Hol
There is a very general and very erroneous impression that alcohol
builds the mood of a man; as a matter of fact it merely makes his
temper of the moment fast--the man who takes his first drink with a
smile ends in uproarious laughter, and he who frowns will often end in
fighting. Vic Gregg did not frown as he drank, but the corners of his
lips turned up a trifle in a smile of fixed and acid pleasantry and his
glance went from face to face in the barroom, steadily, with a trifling
pause at each pair