His left sleeve having fallen, he rolled it back, tied the strings of the apron tighter about his plump middle, and advanced to the battle. His hand touched the shoulder of the girl.
“Sally!”
“Shut your face!” moaned a stifled voice.
But he took his courage between his teeth and persisted.
“Sally, somethin’ is wrong.”
“Nothin’ you can right, Fatty,” said the same woe-stricken voice.
“Sally, if somebody’s been gettin’ fresh with you—”
Her arms jerked down; she whirled and faced him with clenched fists; her eyes shining more brightly for the mist which was in them.
“Fresh with me? Why, you poor, one-horned yearling, d’you think there’s anybody in Eldara man enough to get fresh with me?”
Bert retreated a step; caution was a moving element in his nature. From a vantage point behind a table, however, he ventured: “Then what is wrong?”
Her woe, apparently, was greater than her wrath.
She said sadly: “I dunno, Bert. I ain’t the man I used to be—I mean, the woman.”
He waited, his small eyes gentle. What woman can altogether resist sympathy, even from a fat man and a cook? Not even the redoubtable soul of a Sally.
She confessed: “I feel sort of hollow and gone—around the stomach, Fatty.”
“Eat,” suggested the cook. “I just took out a pie that would—”
“But it ain’t the stomach. It’s like bein’ hungry and wantin’ no food. Fatty, d’you think I’m sick?”
“You look kind of whitish.”
“Fatty, I feel—”
She hesitated, as though too great a confession were at her lips, but she stumbled on: “I feel as if I was afraid of somethin’, or someone.”
“That,” said Bert confidently, “ain’t possible. It’s the stomach, Sally. Something ain’t agreed with you.”
She turned from him with a vague gesture of despair.
“If this here feelin’ is goin’ to keep up—why, I wisht I was dead—I wisht I was dead!”
She went on to the swinging door, paused there to dab her eyes swiftly, started to whistle a tune, and in this fashion marched back to the eating-room. Fatty, turning back to the stove, shook his head; he was more than ever convinced in his secret theory that all women are crazy.
Sally found that a new man had entered, one whom she could not remember having seen before. She went to him at once, for it seemed to her that she would die, indeed, if she had to look much longer on the familiar, unshaven faces of the other men in the room.
“Anything you got,” said the stranger, who was broad of hands and thick of neck and he cast an anxious eye on her. “I hear you seen something of a thinnish, dark feller named Bard.”
“What d’_you_ want with him?” asked Sally with dangerous calm.
“I was aimin’ to meet up with him. That’s all.”
“Partner, if you want to stand in solid around here, don’t let out that you’re a friend of his. He ain’t none too popular; that’s straight and puttin’ it nice and easy.”
“Which who said I was his friend?” said the other with heat.
She turned away to the kitchen and reappeared shortly, bearing his meal. The frown with which she departed had disappeared, and she was smiling as brightly as ever while she arranged the dishes in front of him. He paid no attention to the food.
“Now,” she said, resting both hands on the table and leaning so that she could look him directly in the eye: “What’s Bard done now? Horse—gun-fighter—woman; which?”
The other loosened the bandanna which circled his bull neck.
“Woman,” he said hoarsely, and the blood swelled his throat and face with veins of purple.
“Ah-h-h,” drawled the girl, and straightening, she dropped both hands on her hips. It was a struggle, but she managed to summon another smile.
“Wife—sister—sweetheart?”
The man stared dubiously on her, and Sally, mother to five hundred wild rangers, knew the symptoms of a man eager for a confidant. She slipped into the opposite chair.
“It might be any of the three,” she went on gently, “and I know because I’ve seen him work.”
“Damn his soul!” growled the other by way of a prefix to his story. “It ain’t any of the three with me. This Bard—maybe he tried his hand with you?”
Whether it was rage or scorn that made her start and redden he could not tell.
“Me?” she repeated. “A tenderfoot get fresh with me? Stranger, you ain’t been long in Eldara or you wouldn’t pull a bonehead like that.”
“’Scuse me. I was hopin’ that maybe you took a fall out of him, that’s all.”
He studied the blue eyes. They had been tinted with ugly green a moment before, but now they were clear, deep, dark, guileless blue. He could not resist. The very nearness of the woman was like a gentle, cool hand caressing his forehead and rubbing away the troubles.
“It was like this,” he began. “Me and Lizzie had been thick for a couple of years and was jest waitin’ till I’d corralled enough cash for a start. Then the other day along comes this feller Bard with a queer way of talkin’ school language. Made you feel like you was readin’ a bit out of a dictionary jest to listen to him for a minute. Liz, she never heard nothin’ like it, I figure. She got all eyes and sat still and listened. Bein’ like that he plumb made a fool out of Liz. Kidded her along and wound up by kissing her good-bye. I didn’t see none of this; I jest heard about it later. When I come up and started talkin’ jest friendly with Liz she got sore and passed me the frosty stare. I didn’t think she could be doin’ more than kiddin’ me a bit, so I kept right on and it ended up with Liz sayin’ that all was over between us.”
He paused on his tragedy, set his teeth over a sigh, and went on: “The feller ain’t no good. I know that from a chap that come to the house a few hours after Bard left. Nash was his name—”
“What!”
“Nash. Feller built husky around the shoulders—looks like a fighter. Know him?”
“Pretty well. D’you say he come to your house right after Bard left it?”
“Yep. Why?”
“How long ago was this?”
“About three days.”
“Three days?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’.”
“You look like you was goin’ to murder some one, lady.”
Her laughter ended with a jerk and jar.
“Maybe I am. G’wan! Tell me some more about what Nash said.”
“Why, he didn’t say much. Hinted around that maybe Bard had walked off with the piebald hoss he was ridin’.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Lady,” said the other a little coldly, “you say that like you was a friend of Bard’s.”
“Me? There ain’t nobody around these parts man enough to say to my face that I’m a friend of that tenderfoot.”
“I’m