20 Western Novels You Should Read

Chapter 27

Chapter 2

TWO MAKE A QUARRELAt nine o'clock Bud went home. He was feeling very well

satisfied with himself for some reason which he did not try to

analyze, but which was undoubtedly his sense of having saved Bill

from throwing away six hundred dollars on a bum car; and the weight

in his coat pocket of a box of chocolates that he had bought for

Marie. Poor girl, it was kinda tough on her, all right, being tied

to the house now with the kid. Next spring when he started his run

to Big Basin again, he would get a little camp in there by the Inn,

and take her along with him when the travel wasn't too heavy. She

could stay at either end of the run, just as she took a notion.

Wouldn't hurt the kid a bit—he'd be bigger then, and the outdoors

would make him grow like a pig. Thinking of these things, Bud

walked briskly, whistling as he neared the little green house, so

that Marie would know who it was, and would not be afraid when he

stepped up on the front porch.

He stopped whistling rather abruptly when he reached the house,

for it was dark. He tried the door and found it locked. The key was

not in the letter box where they always kept it for the convenience

of the first one who returned, so Bud went around to the back and

climbed through the pantry window. He fell over a chair, bumped

into the table, and damned a few things. The electric light was

hung in the center of the room by a cord that kept him groping and

clutching in the dark before he finally touched the elusive bulb

with his fingers and switched on the light.

The table was set for a meal—but whether it was dinner or supper

Bud could not determine. He went into the little sleeping room and

turned on the light there, looked around the empty room, grunted,

and tiptoed into the bedroom. (In the last month he had learned to

enter on his toes, lest he waken the baby.) He might have saved

himself the bother, for the baby was not there in its new gocart.

The gocart was not there, Marie was not there—one after another

these facts impressed themselves upon Bud's mind, even before he

found the letter propped against the clock in the orthodox manner

of announcing unexpected departures. Bud read the letter, crumpled

it in his fist, and threw it toward the little heating stove. "If

that's the way yuh feel about it, I'll tell the world you can go

and be darned!" he snorted, and tried to let that end the matter so

far as he was concerned. But he could not shake off the sense of

having been badly used. He did not stop to consider that while he

was working off his anger, that day, Marie had been rocking back

and forth, crying and magnifying the quarrel as she dwelt upon it,

and putting a new and sinister meaning into Bud's ill-considered

utterances. By the time Bud was thinking only of the bargain car's

hidden faults, Marie had reached the white heat of resentment that

demanded vigorous action. Marie was packing a suitcase and

meditating upon the scorching letter she meant to write.

Judging from the effect which the letter had upon Bud, it must

have been a masterpiece of its kind. He threw the box of chocolates

into the wood-box, crawled out of the window by which he had

entered, and went down town to a hotel. If the house wasn't good

enough for Marie, let her go. He could go just as fast and as far

as she could. And if she thought he was going to hot-foot it over

to her mother's and whine around and beg her to come home, she had

another think coming.

He wouldn't go near the darn place again, except to get his

clothes. He'd bust up the joint, by thunder. He'd sell off the

furniture and turn the house over to the agent again, and Marie

could whistle for a home. She had been darn glad to get into that

house, he remembered, and away from that old cat of a mother. Let

her stay there now till she was darn good and sick of it. He'd just

keep her guessing for awhile; a week or so would do her good. Well,

he wouldn't sell the furniture—he'd just move it into another

house, and give her a darn good scare. He'd get a better one, that

had a porcelain bathtub instead of a zinc one, and a better porch,

where the kid could be out in the sun. Yes, sir, he'd just do that

little thing, and lay low and see what Marie did about that. Keep

her guessing—that was the play to make.

Unfortunately for his domestic happiness, Bud failed to take

into account two very important factors in the quarrel. The first

and most important one was Marie's mother, who, having been a widow

for fifteen years and therefore having acquired a habit of managing

affairs that even remotely concerned her, assumed that Marie's

affairs must be managed also. The other factor was Marie's craving

to be coaxed back to smiles by the man who drove her to tears.

Marie wanted Bud to come and say he was sorry, and had been a brute

and so forth. She wanted to hear him tell how empty the house had

seemed when he returned and found her gone. She wanted him to be

good and scared with that letter. She stayed awake until after

midnight, listening for his anxious footsteps; after midnight she

stayed awake to cry over the inhuman way he was treating her, and

to wish she was dead, and so forth; also because the baby woke and

wanted his bottle, and she was teaching him to sleep all night

without it, and because the baby had a temper just like his

father.

His father's temper would have yielded a point or two, the next

day, had it been given the least encouragement. For instance, he

might have gone over to see Marie before he moved the furniture out

of the house, had he not discovered an express wagon standing in

front of the door when he went home about noon to see if Marie had

come back. Before he had recovered to the point of profane speech,

the express man appeared, coming out of the house, bent nearly

double under the weight of Marie's trunk. Behind him in the doorway

Bud got a glimpse of Marie's mother.

That settled it. Bud turned around and hurried to the nearest

drayage company, and ordered a domestic wrecking crew to the scene;

in other words, a packer and two draymen and a dray. He'd show 'em.

Marie and her mother couldn't put anything over on him —he'd stand

over that furniture with a sheriff first.

He went back and found Marie's mother still there, packing

dishes and doilies and the like. They had a terrible row, and all

the nearest neighbors inclined ears to doors ajar—getting an

earful, as Bud contemptuously put it. He finally led Marie's mother

to the front door and set her firmly outside. Told her that Marie

had come to him with no more than the clothes she had, and that his

money had bought every teaspoon and every towel and every stick of

furniture in the darned place, and he'd be everlastingly

thus-and-so if they were going to strong-arm the stuff off him now.

If Marie was too good to live with him, why, his stuff was too good

for her to have.

Oh, yes, the neighbors certainly got an earful, as the town

gossips proved when the divorce suit seeped into the papers. Bud

refused to answer the proceedings, and was therefore ordered to pay

twice as much alimony as he could afford to pay; more, in fact,

than all his domestic expense had amounted to in the fourteen

months that he had been married. Also Marie was awarded the custody

of the child and, because Marie's mother had represented Bud to be

a violent man who was a menace to her daughter's safety—and proved

it by the neighbors who had seen and heard so much—Bud was served

with a legal paper that wordily enjoined him from annoying Marie

with his presence.

That unnecessary insult snapped the last thread of Bud's regret

for what had happened. He sold the furniture and the automobile,

took the money to the judge that had tried the case, told the judge

a few wholesome truths, and laid the pile of money on the desk.

"That cleans me out, Judge," he said stolidly. "I wasn't such a

bad husband, at that. I got sore—but I'll bet you get sore yourself

and tell your wife what-for, now and then. I didn't get a square

deal, but that's all right. I'm giving a better deal than I got.

Now you can keep that money and pay it out to Marie as she needs

it, for herself and the kid. But for the Lord's sake, Judge, don't

let that wildcat of a mother of hers get her fingers into the pile!

She framed this deal, thinking she'd get a haul outa me this way.

I'm asking you to block that little game. I've held out ten

dollars, to eat on till I strike something. I'm clean; they've

licked the platter and broke the dish. So don't never ask me to dig

up any more, because I won't—not for you nor no other darn man. Get

that."

This, you must know, was not in the courtroom, so Bud was not

fined for contempt. The judge was a married man himself, and he may

have had a sympathetic understanding of Bud's position. At any rate

he listened unofficially, and helped Bud out with the legal part of

it, so that Bud walked out of the judge's office financially free,

even though he had a suspicion that his freedom would not bear the

test of prosperity, and that Marie's mother would let him alone

only so long as he and prosperity were strangers.