CHAPTER VII
KISSES--A MAN REFUSES THEM
There was a kerosene lamp in Sanderson's room, and when, after an hourof gloomy silence in the dark, he got up and lit the lamp, he feltdecidedly better. He was undressing, preparing to get into bed, whenhe was assailed with a thought that brought the perspiration out on himagain.
This time it was a cold sweat, and it came with the realization thatdiscovery was again imminent, for if, as Mary had said, she had keptSanderson's letter to her father, there were in existence twoletters--his own and Will Bransford's--inevitably in differenthandwriting, both of which he had claimed to have written.
Sanderson groaned. The more he lied the deeper he became entangled.He pulled on his trousers, and stood shoeless, gazing desperatelyaround the room.
He simply must destroy that letter, or Mary, comparing it with theletter her brother had written would discover the deception.
It was the first time in Sanderson's life that had ever attempted todeceive anybody, and he was in the grip of a cringing dread.
For the first time since he occupied the room he inspected it, notingits furnishings. His heart thumped wildly with hope while he looked.
It was a woman's room--Mary's, of course. For there were decorationshere and there--a delicate piece of crochet work on a dresser; a sewingbasket on a stand; a pincushion, a pair of shears; some gailyornamented pictures on the walls, and--peering behind the dresser--hesaw a pair of lady's riding-boots.
He strode to a closet door and threw it open, revealing, hanginginnocently on their hooks, a miscellaneous array of skirts, blouses,and dresses.
Mary had surrendered her room to him. Feeling guilty again, and ratherconscience-stricken, as though he were committing some sacrilegiousaction, he went to the dresser and began to search among the effects inthe drawers.
They were filled with articles of wearing apparel, delicately fringedthings that delight the feminine heart, and keepsakes of alldescriptions. Sanderson handled them carefully, but his search was notthe less thorough on that account.
And at last, in one of the upper drawers of the dresser, he came upon apacket of letters.
Again his conscience pricked him, but the stern urge of necessity drovehim on until he discovered an envelope addressed to the elderBransford, in his own handwriting, and close to it a letter from WillBransford to Mary Bransford.
Sanderson looked long at the Bransford letter, considering thesituation. He was tempted to destroy that, too, but he reflected,permitting a sentimental thought to deter him.
For Mary undoubtedly treasured that letter, and when the day came thathe should tell her the truth, the letter would be the only link thatwould connect her with the memory of her brother.
Sanderson could not destroy it. He had already offended Mary Bransfordmore than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother's letter wouldbe positively heinous.
Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with WillBransford's signature on them, and it might be well to preserve thisparticular letter in case he should be called upon to forge WillBransford's signature.
So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to itsplace, retaining his own letter to Bransford. Smiling grimly now, heagain sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blazeto the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of itbut a crinkly ash. Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed,feeling more secure.
Determined not to submit to any more of Mary's caresses, and feelinginfinitely small and mean over the realization that he had alreadypermitted her to carry her affection too far, he frowned at her when hewent into the kitchen after washing the next morning, gruffly replyingwhen she wished him a cheery, "Good morning," and grasping her armswhen she attempted to kiss him.
He blushed, though, when her eyes reproached him.
"I ain't used to bein' mushed over," he told her. "We'll get along aheap better if you cut out the kissin'."
"Why, Will!" she said, her lips trembling.
She set them though, instantly, and went about her duties, leavingSanderson to stand in the center of the room feeling like a brute.
They breakfasted in silence--almost. Sanderson saw her watchinghim--covert glances that held not a little wonder and disappointment.And then, when the meal was nearly finished, she looked at him with ataunting half-smile.
"Didn't you sleep good, Will?"
Sanderson looked fairly at her. That "Will" was already an irritationto him, for it continually reminded him of the despicable part he wasplaying. He knew what he was going to say would hurt her, but he wasdetermined to erect between them a barrier that would prevent arepetition of any demonstrations of affection of the brother and sistervariety.
He didn't want to let her continue to show affection for him when heknew that, if she knew who he really was, she would feel more tikemurdering him.
"Look here, Mary," he said, coldly, "I've never cared a heap for thename Bransford. That's why I changed my name to Sanderson. I neverliked to be called 'Will.' Hereafter I want you to call meSanderson--Deal Sanderson. Then mebbe I'll feel more like myself."
She did not answer, but her lips straightened and she sat very rigid.It was plain to him that she was very much disappointed in him, andthat in her mind was the contrast between her brother of today and herbrother of yesterday.
She got up after a time, holding her head high, and left the room,saying as she went out:
"Very well; your wishes shall be respected. But it seems to me thatthe name Bransford is one be proud of!"
Sanderson grinned into his plate. He felt more decent now than he hadfelt since arriving at the Double A. If he could continue to preventher from showing any affection for him--visible, at least--he wouldfeel that the deception he was practising was less criminal. And whenhe went away, after settling the differences between Mary Bransford andDale, he would have less to reproach himself with.
He did not see Mary again that morning. Leaving the dining-room, hewent outside, finding Barney Owen in the bunkhouse in the company ofseveral other Double A men.
Owen introduced him to the other men--who had ridden in to theranchhouse the previous night, and were getting ready to follow theoutfit wagon down the river into the basin to where the Double A herdwas grazing.
Sanderson watched the men ride away, then he turned to Owen.
"I'm ridin' to Las Vegas, to get a look at the will, an' see what therecords have got to say about the title to the Double A. Want to go?"
"Sure," the little man grinned.