Man in the Saddle. Ernest Haycox

remember I came up these stairs at the last minute and tried to get it straight."

      "Owen," she said, "your voice is so hard. You've condemned me already."

      He shook his head. He let the silence ride a moment, staring at her. "No," he answered at last. "No, I'm just keeping back a lot of things that I can't say—or won't. I won't beg, Sally. You're the one that made the choice, not me. All I want to know is if you're sure."

      "Yes," she said. "I'm sure." Then she finished it out with a phrase that was quick and vehement and odd. "I've got to be sure, haven't I?"

      She wore a russet gown that showed her arms and shoulders. She was, he decided, almost as tall as Isham, and that thought gave him an odd feeling, as though it were improper. She had a firm chin and a straight, swinging body and he remembered that her smile always changed the color of her eyes, placing a frank, invitational smoothness on her lips—for him. She wasn't smiling now. She touched him with her hand, and drew back with a startled swiftness; and immediately the memory of a good many things lay between them, hot and disturbing and compelling. She murmured, "Do you really understand, Owen?"

      "I wish you luck," he said. "And so-long."

      "Wait. You're coming to the wedding?"

      "Why? I'd be the ghost at the banquet."

      "It isn't like you to run away. From anything. From anything on earth."

      "No," he said, flat and final. "I won't be there."

      She said, "Then I want you to do one thing for me. When I leave the hotel to ride home I want you to be there. Wish me luck. Please. So that everybody sees you do it."

      "To make the record complete," he said, dryness rustling his talk.

      "Don't try to hurt me any more, Owen. It isn't that at all. I don't want anybody on the Piute to think you ran away from this. Not you."

      "Thanks," he said. "Thanks for the interest."

      She came a little nearer him, her lips remaining even and composed while she watched his face. When she spoke again her words were not as unerringly direct, not as certain. "Is it—is it so hard to believe—that I take an interest in you? That I'd still fight for you? Oh, Owen, you don't understand it yet."

      "I guess we've talked that all out. Which was one of our troubles. We always talked too much. And did too little. You're an ambitious girl, Sally. You set your mind on certain things long ago. I couldn't break up that."

      She said in almost a whisper, "Is that all? Do you really think that's all?"

      "I lay no blame on you. None. You reasoned it out—the bargain and what it called for. You're getting something from Isham and from Skull. But you're an honest girl, Sally, and you'll give him more than he'll give you. And you'll stick with it, even if it gets bad."

      She said, in a lower and lower tone, "Why should it ever be bad. Owen?"

      "There's one thing you never found out. You're a stubborn girl and you always figured you could make your mind pull your heart along. Well, your heart ain't in this. You figure you can make it go with him. But you won't. You never will. That's why it will get bad."

      She was somber and strained and still, listening to the run of his voice, listening to its repressed feelings and to all those others he could not quite keep back. She said at last, quick and broken, "Owen, why—"

      He cut in with a voice on the ragged edge of anger. "We always talked too much. Nothing's any good but this." He looked at her, dismal hunger shining out of his blue eyes, the rashness of his temper having its way at last; and he seized the points of her bare shoulders and drew her against him. Her breath rushed out from the strength of his arms and a faint cry escaped her lips, and was shut off when he kissed her. She didn't breathe and she made no more protest. Helen Tague's voice came from the hall. "Sally—you've got to hurry."

      Sally Bidwell drew away, with an emotion in her worse than sadness. It was like despair; it pulled her lips together until they were no longer pretty and it took the pride out of her slim, self-confident body. It was a reflex of all that which made her push at him, and sway back; afterward it was her own desire that sent her forward again. She dropped her head against his chest, struggling against a quiet, terrible crying.

      Owen Merritt stood still, holding her loosely with his arms and stirred by the fragrance rising from her copper hair; and his mind did cruel things to him then, reminding him of the sweetness and laughter and womanly softness she had once held for him. These were things gone by. He had suddenly a sense of loss that pumped him empty.

      Helen Tague said again, "Sally."

      Sally drew back. Her chin lifted, and he had this last look into her eyes, this one unguarded moment before she remembered where her loyalties lay. She said, brokenly, "Why—why didn't you—" and, leaving it unfinished, ran back to her room. Someone came up the stairs from the lobby at a heavy tread, and Helen Tague closed the door on the outer stairway, leaving Owen Merritt in the solid black.

      He went down the stairs and let himself into the alley. He paused here, his breath springing from the bottom of his chest. So standing in the gloom, he heard a man stumbling around from the hotel's back side. This man went by him at a distance of two yards, walking fast, and reached the street. A light from Shannon's store touched the area, and by its glow Owen Merritt identified Hugh Clagg.

      He waited until Clagg had turned the corner of Shannon's before following. People were still coming into The Wells and the faint breeze had turned colder and in the sky all the stars of the universe made a cloudy glitter, deepening the thorough blackness lying over this world. Troubled as he was, Owen Merritt paused by Shannon's to have his look at that sky. High-built and rangy, he tipped up his head and thus stood—absorbed in the sight and smell and sound of the night.

      This was the way Nan Melotte saw him. Coming out of Shannon's, she passed within a yard of him, and threw him a quick, lively glance of curiosity. He wasn't, she saw, aware of her, or of anyone on the street; and after she had gotten by him, she turned to watch him, and remained that way until he moved on, toward the Palace.

      People were moving toward the hotel for the wedding. Love Bidwell came by Owen Merritt, nursing a long cheroot between his lips. He slanted a quick glance toward Merritt, and his hand rose and touched his goatee, as though to hide the forming expression on his cheeks. Sally Bidwell's brother, Starr, followed indolently behind, taciturnly amused by all this and yet watching the town with the close and wary manner of one on risky ground. His eyes lifted on Owen Merritt and were at once reserved.

      Owen Merritt strolled into the Palace, finding Bourke and Juke Slover established over a bottle of pale Kentucky moonshine at the bar. Bourke nodded to Owen. Liquor had stirred him up; he showed the room a small, rash grin: "Help yourself to a smile."

      "Sure," murmured Owen. "Well, it's a historic occasion, Bourke. May you live to tell it to your grandsons."

      Bourke said, idly, "Seems too long."

      The four cavalrymen from Camp McDermitt stood along the far wall, their uniforms making a splash of color in the scene. But they were lonely in the crowd, for this was cattle land which had no particular liking for the military. All the poker tables were in full blast; the faro rig was surrounded. Owen Merritt hung over the glass of moonshine, both his elbows on the bar. He was turned away from the room and seemed to see nothing; yet the whole room was pictured before him in the long, back bar mirror, and certain things began to break through the heavy indifference of his mind. Hugh Clagg stood alone in a corner, which was a signal to catch Owen Merritt's rising attention. Clagg had his slender frame to the wall. His long arms hung motionless, and the smoke of a brown-paper cigarette made a vague shadow in front of his narrow-shaped face. He was a roan-headed man, deliberately withdrawn from others. Quickness was written into him, still- placed as he was, and the world he saw was a world colored and changed by the smiling malice of his eyes. He had a wide, resolute mouth. A scar gouged a white dimple out of the left cheek, and his fists were very broad and very heavy for one so otherwise lean-shaped. At this moment he seemed to be thoroughly idle and thoroughly off guard.

      This