Ma Pettengill

  VII

  CHANGE OF VENUS

  Ma Pettengill and I rode labouring horses up a steep way between tworocky hillsides that doubled the rays of the high sun back upon us andsmothered the little breeze that tried to follow us up from the flatlands of the Arrowhead. We breathed the pointed smell of the sage and webreathed the thick, hot dust that hung lazily about us; a dust likepowdered chocolate, that cloyed and choked.

  As recreation it was blighting; and I said almost as much. Ma Pettengillwas deaf to it, her gray head in its broad-brimmed hat sternly bowed inmeditation as she wove to her horse's motion. Then I became aware thatshe talked to another; one who was not there. She said things I was surehe would not have liked to hear. She hung choice insults upon his nameand blistered his fair repute with calumnies. She was a geyser ofinvective, quiet perhaps for fifty yards, then grandly in action.

  "Call yourself a cowman, hey? What you ought to be is matron of afoundling asylum. Yes, sir!"

  This was among the least fearful of her dusty scornings. And I knewshe would be addressing one Homer Gale, temporary riding boss of theArrowhead. Indeed, Homer's slightly pleading accents were now verycolourably imitated by his embittered employer:

  "Yes'm, Mis' Pettengill, it's a matter of life and death; no less. I gotto git off for two days--a matter of life and death. Yes'm; I just gotto!"

  On the completion of this a hoarse hoot of scorn boomed through the hazeand Homer was told that men like himself often caused perfectly decentpeople to be tried for murder. And again Homer's rightful job was echoedas "Matron of a foundling asylum!"

  I felt the embarrassment of one unwittingly come upon the adjustment ofa private grievance. I dropped delicately a few paces behind, unnoticed,I thought; but Ma Pettengill waited for me to overtake her again.

  Then, as we pushed through the dust together, she told me that her dayswere swifter than a weaver's shuttle and spent without hope. If it wasn'tone thing it was another. What she'd like--she'd like to wake up in astrange place and find she'd clean forgot her name and address, likethese here parties you read about in the papers. And why wouldn't she? Adry year; feed short on the range; water holes dusty that never did godry before; half a hay crop and winter threatening right spang in thesummertime! Think of having to gather cattle off the range in the middleof August when other times you could let 'em run till the middle ofOctober! In fact, this was the kind of a year that cattle raisers had atechnical term for. It was known technically as one hell of a year, ifI wanted to be told.

  And having to do the work with mental defectives and cripples andBolsheviki, because every able-bodied puncher in the country hadgone over to create a disturbance in Europe! Hadn't she combed outthe county hospital and poor farm to get a haying crew? Didn't thebest cowboy now on the pay roll wear a derby hat and ride a motorcycleby preference? And paying seventy-five dollars to these imitationpunchers to fight her gentle saddle horses, no colt, it seemed, havingbeen ridden on the place in the memory of man.

  She didn't know; taking one thing with another, sometimes she almostwished that the world was going to stay unsafe for democracy.

  Of course this technically described bad year wasn't so bad one way,because the sheepmen would sure get a tasty wallop, sheep being mightyinformal about dying with the weather below zero and scant feed. Whencattle wasn't hardly feeling annoyed sheep would lie down and quitintruding on honest cattle raisers for all time. Just a little attentionfrom a party with a skinning knife was all they needed after that. And soon, back to Homer Gale, who had gone to Red Gap for two days on a matterof life and death--and of this the less repeated here the better.

  Now our narrow way spread to a valley where the sun's rays were morewidely diffused and the dust less pervasive. We could see a mile aheadto a vaster cloud of dust. This floated over a band of Arrowhead cattlebeing driven in from a range no longer sustaining. They were being drivenby Bolsheviki, so my informant disclosed.

  We halted above the road and waited for the dusty creatures to plod by usdown to the pleasant lea where feed was still to be had and water wassweet. Then came the Bolshevik rear guard. It consisted of SilasAtterbury and four immature grandchildren.

  Grandpa Atterbury was ninety-three and doing his first labour since heretired, at eighty-five. The grandchildren, two male and two female,should have been playing childish games. And they were Bolsheviki,all because they had refused to bring in this bunch of stock exceptfor the wage customarily paid to trained adults. Even the youngest,known as Sissy Atterbury, aged eight and looking younger, despite hergray coating of powdered alkali, had tenaciously held out for a grownman's pay, which made her something even worse than a Bolshevik; itmade her an I.W.W.

  But, as Ma Pettengill said, what could a lady do when Fate had astranglehold on her. There was, indeed, nothing to do but tell Sissy totell one of her incendiary brothers to get up close to grandpa, and yellgood and loud at him, and make him understand he was to get a count onthat bunch at the first gate, because it didn't look to us that there wasover three hundred head where there ought to be at least five hundred.

  And then there was nothing to do but ride ahead of the toiling beastsand again down the narrow way that would bring us to the lowlands of theArrowhead, where the dust no longer choked and one could see green andsmell water. From the last mesa we looked out over the Arrowhead's flatfields, six thousand acres under fence, with the ranch house andoutbuildings hazy in the distance.

  It was a pleasant prospect and warmed Ma Pettengill from her mood ofchill negation. She remarked upon the goodliness of the scene, quite asif the present were not a technical year for cattle raisers. Then, aswe jogged the six miles home by peaceful thoroughfares, the lady, beingquestioned persistently and suitably, spoke with utter freedom of HomerGale, who had shamefully deserted his job for two days at the busiestend of the season, when a white man wouldn't of thought of leaving, evenon a matter of life and death.

  Had Homer the shadow of an excuse? We shall see.

  Well, then, this here celluloid imitation of a cowman that I been usingviolent words about come into the valley three years ago and rapidly gota lot of fame by reason of being a confirmed bachelor and hating theyoung of the human species with bitterness and constancy. I was the onethat brought him in; I admit that. First time I seen him he was being aroistering blade in the Fashion Waffle Kitchen down at Red Gap. He waswith Sandy Sawtelle and a couple other boys from the ranch here, andSandy tells me later that he is looking for work, being a good cowhand.I said he looked like something else, being dressed in an uproariouscheck suit of clothes that would instantly of collected a crowd in mostcity streets. But Sandy says that's all right; he's a regler cowman andhad to wear these startling garments for a disguise to get him safe outof Idaho.

  It seems he'd been crowded out of that thriving state by a yearningand determined milliner that had witnesses a-plenty and intended todo something about it. Defendant claimed he hadn't even meant anythingof the sort and was just being a good pal; but it looked like the cruelteeth of the law was going to bite right into his savings if thisbreach-of-promise suit ever come to trial, the lady having letters fromhim in black and white. So Homer had made a strategic retreat, avoidingcontact with the enemy, and here he was. And how about taking him on atthe Arrowhead, where he could begin a new life?

  Needing another hand just then, I fussed none at all about Homer'sscandalous past. I said he could throw in with us; and he did. When hegot dressed in a legal manner he looked like he couldn't be anything elsebut a cowhand. About forty and reliable, he looked. So I sent him to asummer camp over on the Madeline plains, where I had a bunch of cattle ongovernment range. Bert Glasgow lived in a shack with his wife and familythere and had general charge, and Homer was to begin his new life byhelping Bert.

  His new life threatened to be short. He showed up here late the thirdnight after he went over, looking sad and desperate and hunted. He didlook that way more or less at all times, having one of these long, sadmoustaches and a kind of a bit-
into face. This night he looked worse thanusual. I thought the hellhounds of the law from Idaho might of took uphis winding trail; but no. It was the rosy-cheeked tots of Mr. and Mrs.Bert Glasgow that had sent him out into the night.

  "Say," he says, "I wouldn't have you think I was a quitter, but if youwant to suicide me just send me back to that horrible place. Children!"he says. "That's all; just children! Dozens of 'em! Running all over theplace, into everything, under everything, climbing up on you, stickingtheir fingers into your eyes--making life unbearable for man and beast.You never once let on to me," he says reproachfully, "that this Bert hadchildren."

  "No," I says; "and I never let on to you that he's got a mole on his chineither. What of that?"

  Then the poor lollop tries to tell me what of it. I saw he really hadbeen under a nervous strain, all right. Suffering had put its hot ironon him. First, he just naturally loathed children anyway. Hadn't he runaway from a good home in Iowa when he was sixteen, account of being theoldest of seven? He said some things in general about children that wouldof got him no applause at a mothers' meeting. He was simply afraid tolook a child in the eye; and, from what he'd like to do to 'em all, itseemed like his real middle name was Molech. Wasn't that the party withhostile views about children? Anyway, you could see that Homer's idea ofa real swell festivity would be to hide out by an orphan asylum somenight until the little ones had said their prayers and was tucked allpeaceful into their trundle beds and then set fire to the edifice ineight places after disconnecting the fire alarm. That was Homer, and hewas honest; he just couldn't help it.

  And Bert's tikes had drove him mad with their playful antics. He saidhe'd be set down for a bite of dinner and one of 'em would climb up hisback and feel his hair--not saying a word, just taking hold of it; thenit would jump down and another would climb up and do the same thing, andhim not daring to defend himself. He'd got so worked up he was afraid tostay on the place.

  "And you know," he says--"what I can't understand--danged if Bert don'tseem to kind of like 'em. You may think I'm a liar, but he waited for onethe other morning when it squealed at him and kept a hold of its handclean down to the hay barn. What do you think of that? And besides thesethat go round infesting the place outside he's got a short yearling and along two-year-old that have to be night-herded. I listened to 'em everynight. One yelled and strangled all last night, till I s'posed, ofcourse, it was going to perish everlastingly; but here this morning itwas acting like nothing at all had happened.

  "All I can say is, Bert don't have much luck. And that littlest yelleralways unswallowing its meals with no effort whatever! It's horrible!And the mother, with no strength of character--feeble-minded, Ireckon--coddles 'em! She never did cuss 'em out proper or act humantoward 'em. Kids like them, what they need--upside down and three quickhard ones. I know!"

  I was fool enough to argue with him a bit, trying to see if he didn'thave a lick of sense. I told him to look how happy Bert was; and howhis family had made a man of him, him getting more money and saving morethan ever in his past life. Homer said what good would all that money dohim? He'd only fool it away on his wife and children.

  "He regrets it, all right," says Homer. "I says to myself the other day:'I bet a cookie he'd like to be carefree and happy like me!'"

  Homer was a piker, even when he made bets with himself. And the short ofit was I sent a man that didn't hate children over to Bert's and keptHomer on the place here.

  He stayed three months and said it was heaven, account of not having themunnecessary evils on the place that would squirm round a man's legs andfeel of his hair and hide round corners and peek at him and whisper abouthim. Then I changed foremen and Scott Humphrey, the new one, broughtthree towheads with him of an age to cause Homer the anguish of thedamned, which they done on the first day they got here by playing that hewas a horse and other wild animals, and trying to pull the rest of hishair out.

  He come in and cut himself out of my life the day after, shaking his headand saying he couldn't think what the world was coming to. As near as Icould make him, his idea was that the world was going to be swamped withyoung ones if something wasn't done about it, like using squirrel poisonor gopher traps.

  I felt like I wanted to cuff him up to a peak and knock the peak off; butI merely joked and said it was too bad his own folks hadn't come to thinkthat way while he could still be handled easy. I also warned him it wasgoing to be hard to find a job without more or less children on theoutskirts, because ours was a growing state. He said there must be a fewsane people left in the world. And, sure enough, he gets a job over tothe Mortimers'--Uncle Henry and Aunt Mollie being past seventy and havingnothing to distress Homer.

  Of course the secret of this scoundrel's get-away from Idaho had gotround the valley, making him a marked man. It was seen that he was a bornflirt, but one who retained his native caution even at the most tryingmoments. Here and there in the valley was a hard-working widow that theright man could of consoled, and a few singles that would of listened toreason if properly approached; and by them it was said that Homer was afiend for caution. He would act like one of them that simply won't takeno for an answer--up to a certain point. He would seem to be going furin merry banter, but never to words that the law could put any expensiveconstruction on. He would ride round to different ranches and mingle atdances and picnics, and giggle and conduct himself like one doomed fromthe cradle to be woman's prey--but that was all.

  Funny how he'd escaped through the years, him having apparently the weakand pliant nature that makes the ideal husband, and having reached thetime of life when he was putting sheep dip on his hair where the liningshone through on top. But so it was. And his views on children had alsobecome widely known. Mothers used to grab up their youngest ones whenhe'd go into the post office down at Kulanch or meet one on the road.He made no hit at all with such views among them that had learned better.Still there was hopeful ones that thought he might be made to take a jokesooner or later, and the fact that he was known to save his wages and hada nice little stake laid by didn't work against him any with such partiesas might have a chance to be swept off their feet by him in a mad moment.

  Then over at the Mortimers' place he meets Mrs. Judson Tolliver, aplausible widow lady who come into the valley every once in a while todo sewing round at different ranches. She was a good-built, impressiveperson, with a persuading manner; one of these competent ones that cantake charge of affairs and conduct them unassisted, and will do so ifnot stopped. Uncle Henry Mortimer brought her to the house in his lightwagon one morning, with her sewing machine in the back. And Homer wasthere to help her out and help out with the machine and see it was placedright in the sitting room; and then help out with her satchel and ask ina gentlemanly manner if everything was all right--and everything was:Thank you so much, Mr. Gale!

  This party was no simpering schoolgirl. She was thirty-five or so andsquare-jawed, and did her hair plain, and had a managing voice thatwould go good at club meetings. She read library books and was a goodconversationalist. And what did she do the first evening, when Homer wasmending one of his shirts by the kitchen lamp, but wrench it away fromhim roguishly and do the job herself, while she entertained him withconversation. It was bound to be entertaining, for she started in aboutwhat trials children was to their tormented parents and how the worldwould be brighter and better if it consisted entirely of adults.

  Any one might of thought she'd been hearing gossip about Homer's likesand dislikes. I know that's what I thought afterward, when he opened hissoul to me. She said what a mercy it was that half a dozen yelling demonswasn't in this house at that moment to make life an evil thing for all.And Homer sunned right up and took the talk away from her. While she donehis mending he spoke heatedly of little children in his well-known happyvein, relating many incidents in his blasted career that had brought himto these views. The lady listened with deep attention, saying "Ah, yes,Mr. Gale!" from time to time, and letting on there must be a strong bondof sympathy between them because h
e expressed in choice words what shehad so often felt.

  Homer must of been kind of swept off his feet at that very moment,and the rapids just below him. I guess he'd already been made mushysentimental by seeing the ideal romantic marriage between Uncle Henry andhis wife--forty years or so together and still able to set down in peaceand quiet without having something squirm over you to see what you had inyour pockets or ask what made your hair come out that funny way, till youwished a couple she-bears would rush out and devour forty-two of 'em.

  It was the first of quite many evenings when Homer and the lady wouldset with a dish of apples and fried cakes between 'em and denouncethe world's posterity. The lady was even suffering grave doubts aboutmarriage. She said having to make her own way after she lost her husbandhad made her relish her independence too much to think of ever giving itup again lightly. Of course she wouldn't say that possibly at some timein the dim future a congenial mate that thought as she did on vitaltopics--and so forth--just enough to give Homer a feeling of securitythat was wholly unwarranted. Wasn't he the heedless Hugo?

  He was quite wordy about the lady to me when he come over on an errandone day. He told me all about these delightful talks of theirs, and whatan attractive person she was, sound as a nut, and companionable andgood-looking without being one of these painted dolls. He said, to seeher above her sewing, she was a lovely view that he never tired of gazingat, and to hear her loathe children was music to the ear. He said shewas a rare woman. I said she must be and asked him if he had committedhimself.

  "Well, I don't say I have and I don't say I haven't," he says; "but hereI be, standing with reluctant feet at the parting of the ways. And whoknows what might happen? I know I've had some darned close shaves fromdoing a whole lot worse in my time."

  So I wished him the best of luck with this lady child hater; not that Ithought he'd really get what was coming to him. He was so crafty. He wasone of them that love not well but too wisely, as the saying is. Still,there was a chance. He was scared to death of fire and yet he would keepon playing with it. Some day the merry old flames might lick him up. Ihoped for the best.

  A few days after that I went down to the foreman's house late in theafternoon to see him about a shipment we had to make. Scott was offsomewhere, but his sister was in; so I set talking with her, andwaiting. This here Minna Humphrey was a hectic, blighted girl of thirty,sandy-haired, green-eyed, and little--no bigger than a bar of soap aftera day's washing. What had blighted the poor thing was having to teachpublic school for a dozen years. She'd been teaching down to Kulanchethat year and had just closed up. We set out in front of the house andMinna told me she was all in; and how she'd ever got through the seasonshe didn't know.

  She went on to speak of little children. Fire in her voice? Murder!According to Minna, children had ought to be put in cages soon as theycan walk and kept there till they are grown; fed through the bars andshot down if they break out. That's what twelve years' enforced contactwith 'em had done to Minna's finer instincts. She said absolutely nothingin the world could be so repugnant to her as a roomful of the littleanimals writing on slates with squeaky pencils. She said other thingsabout 'em that done her no credit.

  And while I listened painfully who should be riding up but Homer Gale!

  "Here," I says to Minna; "here's a man you'll be a joyous treat to; justlet him come in and listen to your song a while. Begin at the beginningand say it all slow, and let Homer have some happy moments."

  So I introduced the two, and after a few formalities was got over I hadMinna telling in a heartfelt manner what teaching a public school waslike, and what a tortured life she led among creatures that should neverbe treated as human. Homer listened with glistening eyes that got quitemoist at the last. Minna went on to say that children's mothers wasalmost as bad, raging in to pick a fuss with her every time a child hadbeen disciplined for some piece of deviltry. She said mothers give herpretty near as much trouble as the kids themselves.

  It was a joyous and painful narrative to Homer. He said why didn't Minnatake up something else? And Minna said she was going to. She'd beenworking two summers in Judge Ballard's office, down to Red Gap, and wasgoing to again this summer, soon as she regained a little vitality; andshe hoped now she'd have a steady job there and never have to go back tothe old life of degradation. Homer sympathized warmly; his heart hadreally been touched. He hoped she'd rise out of the depths to somethingtolerable; and then he told her about Bert's five horrible children thatdrove him out into the brush--and so forth.

  I listened in a while; and then I says to Homer ain't it nice for him tomeet someone else that thinks as he does on this great vital topic, Minnaseeming to find young ones as repulsive as Mrs. Judson Tolliver? And howabout that lady anyway? And how is his affair coming on? I never dreamedof starting anything. I was being friendly.

  Homer gets vivacious and smirks something horrible, and says, well, hedon't see why people make a secret of such things; and the fact is thatthat lady and him have about decided that Fate has flung 'em togetherfor a lofty purpose. Of course nothing was settled definite yet--no datesnor anything; but probably before long there'd be a nice little homeadorning a certain place he'd kept his eye on, and someone there keepinga light in the window for him--and so on. It sounded almost too good tobe true that this old shellback had been harpooned at last.

  Then Minna spoke up, when Homer had babbled to a finish, and smirked andlooked highly offensive. She says brightly:

  "Oh, yes; Mrs. Judson Tolliver. I know her well; and I'm sure, Mr. Gale,I wish you all the happiness in the world with the woman of your choice.She's a very sterling character indeed--and such a good mother!"

  "How's that?" says Homer. "I didn't hear you just right. Such a goodwhat?"

  "I said she's such a good mother," Minna answers him.

  Homer's smirk kind of froze on his face.

  "Mother to what?" he says in a low, passionate tone, like an actor.

  "Mother to her three little ones," says Minna. Then she says again quick:"Why, what's the matter, Mr. Gale?" For Homer seemed to have been tookbad.

  "Great Godfrey!" he says, hardly able to get his voice.

  "And, of course, you won't mind my saying it," Minna goes on, "becauseyou seem so broad-minded about children, but when I taught primary in RedGap last year those three little boys of hers gave me more trouble thanany other two dozen of the pests in the whole room."

  Homer couldn't say anything this time. He looked like a doctor wasknifing him without anesthetics.

  "And to make it worse," says Minna, "the mother is so crazy about them,and so sensitive about any little thing done to them in the way ofdiscipline--really, she has very little control of her language wherethose children are concerned. Still, of course, that's how any goodmother will act, to be sure; and especially when they have no father.

  "I'm glad indeed the poor woman is to have someone like you that willtake the responsibility off her shoulders, because those boys are now atan age where discipline counts. Of course she'll expect you to be gentlewith them, even though firm. Oswald--he's eleven now, I believe--willsoon be old enough to send to reform school; but the younger ones, sevenand nine--My! such spirits as they have! They'll really need someonewith strength."

  Homer was looking as if this bright chatter would add twenty years to hisage. He'd slumped down on the stoop, where he'd been setting, like he'dhad a stroke.

  "So she's that kind, is she?" he kind of mutters. "A good thing I foundit out on her!"

  "The children live with their grandmother in Red Gap while their motheris away," says Minna. "They really need a strong hand."

  "Not mine!" says Homer. Then he got slowly up and staggered down a fewsteps toward the gate. "It's a good thing I found out this scandal on herin time," says he. "Talk about underhandedness! Talk about a woman hidingher guilty secret! Talk about infamy! I'll expose her, all right. I'mgoing straight to her and tell her I know all. I'll make her cower inshame!" He's out on his horse with his reckless
threat.

  "Now you've sunk the ship," I says to Minna. "I knew the woman wasleading a double life as fur as Homer was concerned, but I wasn't goingto let on to the poor zany. It's time he was speared, and this would ofbeen a judgment on him that his best friends would of relished keenly.Lots of us was looking forward to the tragedy with great pleasure. Youspoiled a lot of fun for the valley."

  "But it would not have been right," says Minna. "It would truly have beenthe blackest of tragedies to a man of Mr. Gale's sensitive fibres. Youcan't enter into his feelings because you never taught primary. Also, Ithink he is very far from being a poor zany, as you have chosen to callhim." The poor thing was warm and valiant when she finished this, lookinglike Joan of Arc or someone just before the battle.

  And Homer never went back and made the lady cower like he said he meantto. Mebbe it occurred to him on the way that she was not one of them thatcower easy. Mebbe he felt he was dealing with a desperate adventuress, ascunning as she was false-hearted. Anyway, he weakened like so many folksthat start off brave to tell someone so-and-so right to their faces. Hedidn't go back at all till the middle of the night, when he pussyfootedin and got his things out, and disappeared like he had stumbled down awell.

  Uncle Henry had to feed his own stock next morning, while Mrs. Tollivertook on in great alarm and wanted a posse formed to rescue Homer fromwherever he was. Her first idea was that he had been kidnapped and wasbeing held for ransom; but someway she couldn't get any one else veryhearty about this notion. So then she said he had been murdered, or waslying off in the brush somewhere with a broken leg.

  It was pointed out to her that Homer wouldn't be likely to come andcollect all his things in the night in order to keep a date with anassassin, or even to have his leg broke. About the third day she guessedpretty close to the awful truth and spoke a few calm words about puttingher case in the hands of some good lawyer.

  The valley was interested. It looked like a chance for the laugh of theyear. It looked like the lightnings of a just heaven had struck wherethey was long overdue. Then it was discovered that Homer was hiding outover in the hills with a man after coyotes with traps and poison. His jobmust of appealed to Homer's cynical nature at that moment--anything withtraps and poison in it.

  Dave Pickens was the man that found him, he not having much else to do.And he let Homer know the worst he could think of without mincing words.He said the deserted fiancee was going to bring suit against Homer forone hundred thousand dollars--that being the biggest sum Dave could thinkof--for breach of promise, and Homer might as well come out and face themusic.

  Homer did come out, bold as brass. He'd been afraid the lady mightgun him or act violent with something; but if she wasn't threateninganything but legal violence he didn't care. He just couldn't conceivethat a lady with three children could make a suit like that stick againstany man--especially three children that was known to be hellions. Hedidn't even believe the lady would start a suit--not with the facts ofher shame known far and wide. He was jaunty and defiant about this, andcome right out of hiding and agreed to work for me again, Scott Humphreyhaving sent his wife and children on a visit to Grandma Humphrey.

  But, lands. He didn't earn his salt. Friends and well-wishers took thejauntiness all out of him in no time. Parties rode from far and near toput him wise. Ranchers from ten miles up and down the creek would dropimportant work just to ride over and tell him harsh facts about the law,and how, as man to man, it looked dark indeed for him. These parties toldhim that the possession of three children by a lawful widow was notregarded as criminal by our best courts. It wasn't even consideredshameful. And it was further pointed out by many of the same comfortersthat the children would really be a help to the lady in her suit,cinching the sympathy of a jury.

  Also, they didn't neglect to tell him that probably half the jury wouldbe women--wives and mothers. And what chance would he have with womenwhen they was told how he regarded children? He spent a good half of thetime I paid him for in listening to these friendly words. They give Homeran entirely new slant on our boasted civilization and lowered it a wholelot in his esteem.

  About the only person in the whole valley that wasn't laughing at him andgiving him false sympathy with a sting in its tail was Minna Humphrey.Homer told her all about the foul conspiracy against his fortune, and howhis life would be blasted by marrying into a family with three outcastslike he'd been told these was. And what was our courts coming to if theirrecords could be stained by blackmailers.

  And Minna give him the honest sympathy of a woman who had taught schooltwelve years, loathed the sight of any human under twenty, and evenconsidered that the institution of marriage had been greatly overpraised.Certainly she felt it was not for her; and she could understand Homer'swanting to escape. She and him would set out and discuss his chances longafter he had ought to of been in bed if he was going to earn his pay.

  Minna admitted that things looked dark for him on account of the insaneprejudice that would be against him for his views on children. She saidhe couldn't expect anything like a fair trial where these was known evenwith a jury of his peers; and it was quite true that probably only fiveor six of the jury would be his peers, the rest being women.

  Homer told me about these talks--out of working hours, you can bet! HowMinna was the only person round that would stand by anyone in trouble;how she loathed kids, and even loathed the thought of human marriage.

  "Minna is a nice girl," I told him; "but I should think you'd learn notto pay attention to a woman that talks about children that way. Rememberthis other lady talked the same way about 'em before the scandal comeout."

  But he was indignant that any one could suspect Minna's child hatingwasn't honest.

  "That little girl is pure as a prism!" he says. "When she says she hates'em, she hates 'em. The other depraved creature was only working on mybetter nature."

  "Well," I says, "the case does look black; but mebbe you could settle fora mere five thousand dollars."

  "It wouldn't be a mere five thousand dollars," says Homer; "it would bethe savings of a lifetime of honest toil and watching the pennies. That'sall I got."

  "Serves you right, then," I says, "for not having got married years agoand having little ones of your own about your knee!"

  Homer shuddered painfully when I said this. He started to answersomething back, but just choked up and couldn't.

  The adventuress had, of course, sent letters and messages to Homer. Theearly ones had been pleading, but the last one wasn't. It was more in thenature of a base threat if closely analyzed. Then she finished up hersewing at the Mortimers' and departed for Red Gap, leaving a finalannouncement to anybody it concerned that she would now find out if therewas any law in the land to protect a defenseless woman in her sacredright to motherhood.

  Homer shivered when he heard it and begun to think of making anotherget-away, like he had done from Idaho. He thought more about it whensomeone come back from town and said she was really consulting alawyer.

  He'd of gone, I guess, if Minna hadn't kept cheering him up with sympathyand hating children with him. Homer was one desperate man, but still hecouldn't tear himself away from Minna.

  Then one morning he gets a letter from the Red Gap lawyer. It says hisclient, Mrs. Judson Tolliver, has directed him to bring suit againstHomer for five thousand dollars; and would Homer mebbe like to save theadditional cost--which would be heavy, of course--by settling the matterout of court and avoiding pain for all?

  Homer was in a state where he almost fell for this offer. It was that orfacing a jury that would have it in for him, anyway, or disappearing likehe had done in Idaho; only this lady was highly determined, and reportshad already come to him that he would be watched and nailed if he triedto leave. It would mean being hounded from pillar to post, even if he didget away. He went down and put it up to Minna, as I heard later.

  "I'm a desperate man," he says, "being hounded by this here catamount;and mebbe it's best to give in."

  "It's outra
geous!" says Minna. "Of course you don't care about the money;but it's the principle of the thing."

  "Well, yes and no," says Homer. "You might say I care some about themoney. That's plain nature, and I never denied I was human."

  So they went on to discuss it back and forth warmly, when amisunderstanding arose that I was very careful to get the rightsof a couple of weeks later.

  Minna went over the old ground that Homer could never get a fair trial;then she brightened up all at once and says:

  "Don't you pay it. Don't you do it; because you won't have to if you dowhat I say."

  Homer gets excited and says:

  "Yes, yes; go on!"

  And Minna goes on.

  "When people can't get fair trials in a place," she says, "they alwaystake change of venues."

  "Change of venues?" says Homer, kind of uneasy, it seemed.

  "Certainly," says Minna: "they take change of venues. I've worked inJudge Ballard's office long enough to know that much. Why didn't I thinkof it before? It's your one chance to escape this creature's snare."

  "Change of venues?" says Homer again, kind of aghast.

  "It's your only way out," says Minna; "and I'll do everything I can--"

  "You will?" says Homer.

  "Why, of course!" says Minna. "Any thing--"

  "All right, then," says Homer. "You get your things on, and I'll saddleyour horse and bring him round."

  "What for?" demands Minna.

  "I'm a desperate man!" says Homer. "You say it's the only way out, andyou know the law; so come along to Kulanche with me." And he beat if offto the barn.

  Well, Minna had said she'd do anything she could, thinking she'dwrite herself to Judge Ballard and find out all the details; but ifHomer wanted her to go to Kulanche with him and try to start the thingthere--why, all right. She was ready when Homer come with her horse andoff they rode on the twelve-mile trip.

  I gather that not much was said on the way by Homer who only mutteredlike a fever patient from time to time, with Minna saying once in a whilehow glad she was she had thought up this one sure way out of his trouble.

  At Kulanche they rode up in front of Old Man Geiger's office, who isjustice of the peace.

  "Wait here a minute," says Homer, and went inside. Pretty soon he comeout and got her. "Come on, now," he says, "I got it all fixed."

  And Minna goes in, thinking mebbe she's got to swear to an affidavit orsomething that Homer couldn't get a fair trial among people knowing heregarded little ones as so many cockroaches or something to step on.

  She got some shock when Homer took her inside and held her tight by thewrist while Old Man Geiger married 'em. That's about the way it was. Shesays she was so weak she could hardly stand up, and she hadn't hardly anyvoice at all left. But she kept on saying "Why, Homer!" and "Oh, Homer!"and "No, no, Homer!" as soon as she discovered that she had been draggedoff to a fate she had always regarded as worse than death; but a lot ofgood it done her to say them things in a voice not much better than awhisper.

  And the dreadful thing was over before she could get strength to sayanything more powerful. There she was, married to a man she thoughthighly of, it's true, and had a great sympathy for in the foul wrong oneof her sex had tried to slip over on him; but a man she had never thoughtof marrying. I'm telling you what she told me. And after sentence hadbeen pronounced she kept on saying "Why, Homer!" and "Oh, Homer!" and"No, no, Homer!" till there was nothing to do but get some clothes out ofher trunk that she'd left down there in time to take the narrow gauge fortheir wedding tour to Spokane.

  The news spread over the valley next day like a brush fire in August. Itwas startling! Like the newspapers say of a suicide, "No cause could beassigned for the rash act." They was away ten days and come back to findthe whole country was again giving Homer the laugh because Mrs. Tolliverhad up and married a prosperous widower from over in Surprise Valley, andhad never brought any suit against him. It was said that even the lateMrs. Tolliver was laughing heartily at him.

  Homer didn't seem to care, and Minna certainly didn't. She was theold-fashioned kind of wife, a kind you don't hear much of nowadays; thekind that regards her husband as perfect, and looks up to him. She toldme about the tumultuous wedding. Neither of 'em had had time for any talktill they got on the train. Then it come out. She says why ever did Homerdo such a monstrous thing? And Homer says:

  "Well, you told me a change of Venus was the only way out for me--"

  "I said a change of venue," says Minna.

  "It sounded like change of Venus," says Homer, "and I knew Venus was thegod of love. And you said you was willing and I knew we was congenial,and I was a desperate man; and so here we are!"

  So she cried on his shoulder for twenty miles while he ate a box of figs.

  Homer is now a solid citizen, with his money put into a place down at thelower end of the valley, instead of lying in the bank at the mercy ofsome unscrupulous woman with little ones. And here this summer, with hisown work light, he's been helping me out as riding boss; or, at least Ibeen lavishing money on him for that.

  A fine, dependable hand, too! Here was this bunch of stock to be got infrom Madeline--them Bolshevik ain't gathered more'n two thirds of 'em;and there's more to come in from over Horse Fly Mountain way, and stillanother bunch from out of the Sheep Creek country--the busiest month in abad year, when I needed every man, woman, and child to be had, and herecomes Homer, the mush-head, taking two days off!

  "Yes'm, Mis' Pettengill; I just got to take time off to go down to RedGap. It's a matter of life and death. Yes'm; it is. No'm; I wouldn't dastsend any one, and Minna agrees I'm the only one to go--" Shucks!

  The lady built a cigarette and, after lighting it, turned back to scanthe mesa we had descended. The cattle now crowded down the narrow wayinto the valley, their dust mounting in a high, slow cloud.

  "Call yourself a cowman, do you?" she demanded of the absent Homer."Huh!" Then we rode on.

  "What was the matter of life and death?" I asked.

  Ma Pettengill expelled cigarette smoke venomously from inflated nostrilslike a tired dragon.

  "The matter of life and death was that he had to get two teething ringsfor the twins."

  "Twins!"

  "Oh, the valley got it's final laugh at Homer! Twins, sure! Most of uslaughed heartily, though there was mothers that said it was God'sjudgment on the couple. Of course Homer and Minna ain't took it that way.They took it more like they had been selected out of the whole world as acouple worthy to have a blessed miracle happen to 'em. There might ofbeen single babies born now and then to common folks, but never a caseof twins--and twins like these! Marvels of strength and beauty, having tobe guarded day and night against colic and kidnappers.

  "They had 'em down to the post office at Kulanche the other day showing'em off, each one in a red shawl; and sneering at people with only one.And this imbecile Homer says to me:

  "'Of course it can't be hoped,' he says, 'that this great world war willlast that long; but if it could last till these boys was in shape tofight I bet it wouldn't last much after that. Yes, sir; little Rooseveltand Pershing would soon put an end to that scrap!'

  "And now they're teething and got to have rubber rings. And no, hecouldn't send any one down for 'em; and he couldn't order 'em by maileither, because they got to be just the right kind.

  "'Poor little Pershing is right feverish with his gums,' says Homer, 'butlittle Roosevelt has got a front one through already. He bit my thumbyesterday with it--darned near to the bone. He did so!'

  "Calls himself a cowman, does he? He might of been--once. Now he ain't nomore than a woman's home companion!"