Essential Western Novels - Volume 5. Edgar Rice Burroughs
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waited for his return. Charterhouse turned square with the beckoning ranch lights and galloped into the yard, finding Fitz already arrived. He got stiffly down and started for the porch.
"Fitz—will you throw my gear over my own horse?"
"Traveling's done forthe night," grunted the puncher. "Not for me, Fitz. Not tonight, or any other night, I reckon. Bring the black around. I'm going into the house, just for a minute."
He knocked at the door and heard Sherry's voice. Passing through, he saw her rising from a chair, some strange, bright glow of beauty spreading over those fine features. And the picture, the last he knew he should ever see, gripped him in the throat and tied his tongue. She was speaking swiftly, yet half of the words he never heard.
"—never again, Clint."
"No," he repeated, "never again, I reckon. Sherry, I have finished my chore. There is nothing more to do."
"I think," she said gravely, "there will always be something for you to do, Clint. And never anybody else quite able to do it but you."
The sound of her voice made pure melody. He gripped his hat between his big hands, pressing on. "You asked me to do what had to be done."
"You have, Clint."
"So," he muttered. "More. I must tell you—Buck Manners is dead at Fort Carson."
"Clint—"
"We matched guns, and he lost."
"But, Clint, he wasn't—"
"I had to come. No help for it, no choice. And after such a thing, there can't be any place on Box M for me. I am riding out, Sherry."
She was quite still, resting her body against the fireplace mantel, never letting her eyes turn from him, whitecheeked and again with that look of tragedy on her face. It shook him, it made the room impossible to be in.
"Think of me as charitably as you can. And good-bye."
He hurried through the door. Fitz was just bringing up his horse. Clint sprang to the saddle. "So long, Fitz. Turn down my plate at the table. Tell the boys I admire 'em like brothers."
And he was away, never hearing Fitzgibbon's muttered curiosity. The black surged fresh beneath him and he drove south at a headlong gait, not knowing why the haste was necessary nor understanding when he would stop. The prairie took him, the air turned crisper and the remote stars gleamed down. He forgot the passage of time, he was hardly conscious of his destination until trees were about him and then he discovered a meadow with a cabin in it. Bowing' place. He pulled himself out of the abyss of his thoughts to find himself mortally tired. He slid down, unsaddled and picketed the horse; going into the cabin, he stumbled to the bed and drew his saddle blanket over him. In that first moment of relaxation, he stared at the ceiling and summed up in slow, bitter words all that Casabella had done for him.
"I have had my fling. Now I can go back to work—and say good-bye to fine dreams." Then he was asleep.
When Clint woke, the fresh fine sun was pouring into Bowlus' window. He turned on the bunk and lifted himself suddenly. The door was open, as he had left it the night before. Sherry Nickum sat quietly on the steps, watching him with a small, wistful smile.
"I have been waiting for you to sleep it out," said she. "Now that you're up, I think I can find some coffee and bacon on the shelf. We will eat—for I haven't had time for breakfast either—and then we will ride home in the sun. You gave me no time to say anything last night. So I had one of the boys follow and find where you went. And here I am. Clint, there is a long time ahead of us for explaining and so we will do none of it now. But you can't run away from me. There isn't any border far enough removed I won't follow you across. You see, I happen to know how you feel and I have known it for some time. As for me, you have your answer, or I wouldn't be here."
A slow smile came over his face. "Last night, Sherry, I thought I was an old man waiting to die."
"I think I can change that, Clint. You have always been saddled with responsibilities. So I am saddling you with more. Come run Box M—and me."
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