Bellefonte, Pa., July 25, 1980,
IF HE SHOULD COME
If Jesus should tramp the streets tonight
Storm-beaten and hungry for bread,
Seeking a room and candle light
And a clean though humble bed,
‘Who would welcome the Workman in,
Though He came with panting breath,
His hands all bruised and His garments
thin
This Workman from Nazareth?
Would rick folk hurry to bind His
bruise
And shelter His stricken form?
Would they take God in with His mud-
dy shoes
Out of the pitiless storm?
Are they not too busy wreathing their
flowers
Or heaping their golden store—
Too busy chasing the bubble hours
For the poor man’s God at the door?
IN THE MEXICAN QUARTERS.
Life in the first place had been
over kind. For life, I think, had led
Billys youth along sheltered ways
and of her bounty given with both
hands. All that, of course, was very
pleasant but it wasn’t particularly
good training for the somber days.
And then life, with a little insistent
simle, began demanding her price
and suddenly Billy found himself
unwilling to pay. So he ran away
from it all and came out here.
That's my belief, at least. No one
will know certainly just what put
Billy out of the race at its very
start. For all this, you must re-
member, had come to pass before
Billy arrived in Verde. Later he
told me a little—but not all. And
since to each ig the inalienable right
o soil and tarnish his own life and
his own dreams, none of us ever
sought out Billy’s reasons. And, of
course, none of us ever judged.
Mike, the forest ranger, first told
me of Billy's coming to Verde. Part
of Mike’s job is to know every-
thing, so it’s only natural he should
have discovered the new arrival.
Mike was mildly curious.
“Why, you must have noticed
him,” he insisted, draping a spurred
boot over the desk. “New England
sticks out all over the kid like
quills on a porcupine.” And as I still
shook my head he added with deep
disgust. “Don’t you ever see any-
thing but steers?”
“Somtimes. But I just got in from
the ranch. Who is he?”
“Nobody knows. He stepped off
the Santa Fe Friday and by Satur-
day night he’d tried to drink up
everything liquid in the Mexican
quarter. Next he commits financial
suicide playing gold pieces on the
double ‘O’ at Mendoza’s. Before
midnight he’s flat as a Basque sheep
herder. Then for some reason he
~aroppea in here while I'm finishing |
the month's report. :
“You're the forest ranger,’ he ac-
¢uses me, kind of unsteady. I ad-
‘mitted it. “Billy’s my name. Billy
Whitney,” and he perched on my
desk, “Tell me. Is this a pretty
good town for a chap to go to the
devil in?” He tried to look reckless
—devil-may-care stuff. :
“So I teld him we couldn’t boast
all the conveniences of Chicago or
Gomorrah, but I thought he was
getting along nicely with what we
had. You know he’s a clean-looking
youngster. Not weak; just—just
beaten. That's it. As if life had
beaten him. So I added a word of
caution. :
“A good many years ago,” I told
him, ‘another Billy came into this
country. He was even younger than
you and he, too, was looking for a
paved and graded road to hell.’
“He found it?”
“‘By the time he was twenty-
one he found it, and they tell me
he didn’t particularly enjoy the trip.’
“‘I know. You're talking of Billy
the Kid.” He looked at me in silence
for a time, then shook his head.
‘No, I'll never be like that Billy.
He thought things were worth fight-
ing for and I'm through with all
that rot. All I want is to be let
alone.’
“Well, you came to the best place
in the world for that, too, son.” X
told him, ‘Here in Verde we spe-
cialize in minding our own business.
‘And while I finished my monthly
fiction for the supervisor he wan-
dered about the -office. Later he
went over with me to the Quick and
Greasy for a cup of coffee. Didn't
like to be alone, I suppose.”
Suddenly Mike pointed a leather
forefinger in my direction. ‘Wasn't
it at "Yale you gol” what you humor-
ously call an education?”
‘Spent four years there,” I evaded.
“So did he. That's about all of his
past life he mentioned.” Mike smil-
ed thoughtfully. “Well, another
misfit has come to Verde. I've
seen ‘em vicious and I've seen ‘em
weak, but this kid doesn’t seem to
be either. Just all fed up with
everything except loafing the rest
of his life away out here on the
rim of the desert.
“Queer little hombre. No starch.
No interest. And just a little fear-
ful. Like a pup in a strange street,
What can you do when a man’s de-
cided no game is worth the candle?
Just let him alone—like he asks.”
And of course I did just the op-
posite. I looked him up. Which, as
I think back, is probably what Mike
intended. For one thing, that name
Whitney had roused a memory of
anold New England family, almost
as old as New England's elm.
the sunshine outside Dad's
der, pleasant-faced boy with pink
cheeks and hair that just missed
infinitely old and weary. Eyes that
had lost all interest in the world of
men.
‘Mike tells me youre Yale.”
began by way of greeting.
He smiled
“Twenty-seven was my year.”
I
telling.”
hi
|
For some reasonI felt an obliga-
tion to be friendly. You see, he was
so utterly alone, so uncompromising-
ly eastern, And lacking a better
subject, I talked of the New Haven
that’s gone forever—the New Haven
that I had known.
“Does old Senator Whitney hap-
pen to be a relative of yours?” I
asked him once. “Amazing old ‘fel-
low. He came up each year to
college and lectured us on the im-
portance of being born in the prop-
er family.”
Billy smiled. “He's my father.”
Then he chuckled aloud at my dis-
comfiture. “Didn't he explain, too,
that every time the little old U.S.
A. got herself in a fix some Whit-
ney was always there to save the
day?”
Well, as a matter of fact, his
family had played its part in our
history—in each generation a Whit-
ney had found prominence as soldier,
jurist or statesman. No New Eng-
land museum is quite complete with-
out a bust or two bearing that
name. And I caught myself wonder-
ing why a son of that old time-
honored clan had chosen to hide
himself out on the desert’s edge.
But Billy, I soon saw, didn’t warm
to a discussion of family.
So I myself did most of the talk-
ing, telling him tales of Verde and,
the open range. Later, for a couple
of hours, I left him while I went
over the month's account with Bud,
my foreman from the lower ranch,
Toward the evening's end Billy drift-
ed back. His eyes weren't so clear
and I knew that he had been down
to the Quarter.
“And you've lived in this petrified
water hole nearly twenty years,” he
reflected while I gathered up my
papers. “Strange you keep up
your interest in things.”
“Youll find, if you stay
enough, that life here can be
as full as elsewhere.
is less fettered.”
“Oh, I suppose one 8ah £0 through
the same motions here as else-
where—if one cares to.”
That sort of thing always tires
me. “Why did you come here?” I
asked abruptly.
“Blessed if I know. Back Eastl
was cluttered up with a world of
famous relatives and friends who,
for some reason, conceived I should
make a success of life. I grew
tired of a houseful of gloomy an-
cestors done in oil looking down at
me in eternal disapproval. So I
bought” a couple yards of green
ticket and got off here.”
“You object to the old-fashioned
notion that a man should make
something of his life?”
For a brief moment that cloak of
indifference slipped away.
“I object to being forced into
molds that don't fit.” His voice had
lost its quality of quiet monotone,
“You asked me why I came out
here.
ple who talk of careers and success
and all that. ~ Nobody ever seemed
long
just
Certainly it
to think I might want to lead my)
own life. Or that I had any right
to my own life. Perhaps Ihadn’t.
But I know that little by little they
were making life unendurable. -
“I wanted to throw it all backin
their faces and be my own self, no
matter how little that amounted to.
And by that time I couldnt. I
hadn't realized all this until I was
too far enmeshed. I had been do-
ing the exepcted thing too long.”
“Why didn’t you tell your pre-
cious relatives you intended to lead
your own life?” g
“How could I? I couldn't sudden-
ly say, “This dream about my be-
ing a lawyer and a statesman is all
well enough, but
not to.”
broken my mother’s heart.
me to do things.”
out into the warm night.
he sighed,
& let-up, and before long the
was broken and done.
cut out for a racer.
—I couldn’t go through with it.
I'm not built for
earthly carser I'm going to
around in the sun, like a cat,
waste the days as I choose.”
“How long did you stick it out?’
nings T made small
with Claire.”
“Claire?”
here,
to
' she could
love Ter.
I couldn’t say that, could pili
I? In the first place it would have 'SPilin
2 Ana 2a battle ground of protesting nerves. long cars stopped. And suddenly I
He stood in the doorway looking A 2 oy
I think over all the family plans and left act delighted,” I said and thrust him
“That book of Barnes’ tells of a 'badly—Dad, too. | :
colt that was ridden too hard at that, except for a girl I knew once, | old couple talking with that
the start. Spur and quirt and never , their happiness is the only thing in: back Hast dialect that some of us
colt life Icare for.
He wasn’t Kill my mother to know what T've | But the little old lady had eyes for
Well, that’s become. So for them I've invented
why at twenty-four I am out here ‘another life out here.
I!'I have written telling them how
didn’t want to be successful or mas- busy Tam and how well I'm doing.”
terful or a pewer in the cornmunity.
it. I'm one of
life's deuce spots and satisfied to
have it so, and for the rest of my
lie ;
and
“Long as I could. T graduated in
law—musty, inhuman stuff. Then for
a year I dutifully thumbed those
deadly law books. And in the eve-
‘talk, usually
“The girl I was to marry. But
| Claire didn’t just want a mere man
She wanted a man
respect and look up to. |
At last I said, “Perhaps you were
right in chucking it all ‘back there.
Many of us have done that. But I
can’t see that it’s any good reason
for wanting to rot on your feet.
This country isn’t half finished, you
know. Lots of work to be done.
Why not try a month riding the
e with my boys at the ranch?”
e smiled a little tired smile and
shook his head. “Thanks just as
much. I'm not in need of either
work or money. All I want is to
be let alone.”
And Verde granted that request.
They let him alone.
As the days passed Billy slumped
in every way. Deliberately he was
wasting himself and the youth that
was in him. He became slovenly in
his dress. He was going down the
ladder.
Still later he moved to a small
hotel kept by a half-breed. It was
nearer the Mexican quarter and
easier for him to avoid us all
Now the Quarter, you know, is
just south of Verde on the Mexican
side of the line. The sky's the lim-
it over there, especially at Men-
doza’s, where I had gone one night
in search of a vagrant Mexican herd-
er: A marimba band was pounding
out Spanish music, and the bar was
jammed, but my herder was not
there.
Turning to go, I caught sight of
Billy at a secluded table dealing
himself a hand of Canfield. One of
the girls of the place stood watch-
ing him, and as I spoke she laid
her hand on his shoulder. Billy
looked up at her, then deliberately
set down the cards and rose.
“Not going, are you, handsome?”
The girl smiled confidently into his
face.
Billy never answered, but taking
,my arm for greater steadiness led
me toward the bar and with a hand
, that shook a little raised a glass of
whithy: ,
terness too old for Billy's years
had crept into his voice, “life must
have given any woman a tough deal
when it's worth her while to smile
at me. You know, in the days when
I was playing the part of poor little
rich boy, I thought I had found a
girl who didn’t care for what I had
or what Iwas to be.” And then his
laugh jarred above the other voices,
“I thought she cared all for little
me. Until I learned at some ex-
pense that she cared more for the
world’s judgment.” And again that
discordant laughter jangled in my
ears—laughter that was half a sob.’
All that was back in February.
It was not until April that I drove
again into Verde. Meantime spring
had come and all the desert had
blossomed and every clump of mes-
' quite harbored a song bird. |
i Filled with the benediction of that
spring morning, I stopped the car
before Verde's post office, and looked
Billy’s face. A kind of terror was
' stamped there.
“I've got to talk to you,” he be-'
gan, = x SHO
' “You don’t happen to be drunk,
Billy? For I'm just about busy
' enough.”
He shook his head.
‘today, I swear—nor yesterday.
| But Ive got to talk and you've got
to listen.”
i So he climbed in and I drove
back out to where the road meets
{the mesa.
v
“How’s this?”
He pulled a letter from his pock-
let. “Pm in the devil of a fix|”
His trembling fingers tore clumsily
at the envelope,
i “You calm down,”
i
1 growled.
I have decided “Calm down and smoke first.”
In silence he rolled a cigaret,
half the bag. The boy was
then,’ he added slowly as if some But at last he did pull himself to-
far-away regret had awakened, ether and began to talk in his ex-
“there was another who expected ; Pressionless voice.
“This letter is from my mother.
Inever told you that when Ikicked
i for the West, it brokeher up pretty
And it happens
It would just about
Each week
Drearily he gazed out across the
spring-clad ‘world. ‘I’ve lied delib-
erately and. persistently. I've told
then I was prospering. Everything
they've wanted me to be, I've been
for them in those letters. And not
for a minute do I regret it. It’s
the last decent thing I could do for
the love of those two old people
back East,”
What a harmless, Tikable boy he
might have been, IT caught myself
thinking if only the world had let
‘him alone, to fill seme inconspicuous
niche in life. Instead it had driven
him, goaded him, and finally brok-
en him. .
“A month ago,” Billy was say-
ing, “Dad wrote me that they were
i Power in the community, That sort | coming West and would stop off at
| of thing. Well, Lord knows I tried,” | Verde.
I wired I was leaving for
{ Suddenly he checked himself. “I'm | Colorado to buy cattle. Today I
an awful
'But you knew Father, you said.”
ass telling you all this.
get this letter from mother telling
[ me theywill be in Verde next week.
His tired voice trailed into noth- If I'm still away, they'll run out to
-ingness and for a long time we sat my ranch and wait.” Hopelessly
iin silence. Difficult, of course,
{ know just how much of this talk
Billy and how much Mexican ‘hey ask for my ranch. The ranch
rum. Yet it was all plain enough. | of Billy, the loafer. There will be
re- | a howl of laughter that will ring in
| was
Back East they had tried to
model a pleasant, normal
an incipient Gladstone.
So he ran away.
{| But the memory of that girl, I
any rate, I found Billy sitting in remember thinking, wasn’t so easily
reading 10st.
one of Barnes’ range stories. A slen- | Well, he wasn’t the first who had
come out to the desert bruised and
| beaten.
being curly. But the ‘eyes were so |
You know there's something in-
finitely comforting about the desert.
It’s big and quiet and ageless and
it seems to tell you that here at
‘least is rest from the grinding gears
of the world and freedom from the
slowly up at me |tyranny of those garish idols the
! world ‘worships.
“Mine is so far back I'm not even
That, I suppose, is
why ‘many of life's misfits come out
to | the hoy
boy into
A -girl he
loved had wanted—what? Something
ost | Billy hadn't.
looked up at me. You
| know what Verde will say when
! mother’s ears as long as she lives.
In heaven’s name, what am I going
to do?”
I drummed for a while on the
wheel. “You've sewed yourself up
in a sweet bundle of lies and now
you're looking for the easy way out.
I'm afraid there is no easy way,
Billy.”
“I'm not looking for easy ways—
the easy way would be to shoot
myself.”
“Yes, that would be helpful.
would ‘solve ‘so much.”
Tightly his white thin hands
clutched my arm, Don't let me
down, old man. You'll find a way,
won't you?”
“If TI do, it will be for those two
trusting people back Fast. Not—"
That
he muitered, and a bit-'
|
Well, partly to escape peo-!down with an unpleasant start into go
i
i
“Not a drop
“Not for me. Of course not.”
Poor chap. He had ceased even
to expect anything might be done
for him.
Then for long minutes we sat in
brooding silence. I was forming a
crazy notion that seemed destined
‘to failure. And yet—
“So you're a partner in a ranch
here.” I turned toward him. “Well,
it looks as if I'll have to be the
partner.”
Even then he didn’t understand.
“It’s clear enough, isn't it? We
can’t let your parents spend ten
minutes in Verde, or you're lost.
It’s a bare piece of deceit, but if
I'm going to help you, we might as
well do the thing right. We're
partners in the ranch and as soon
as your parents arrive, We whisk
out to my hacienda. There we can
keep them from learning the truth.
It'll have to be close herding. And
when they're ready to go, we'll put
them on the train.
“The scheme may blow up— it
may succeed. It’s a rotten lie either
way, but it seems your only chance.”
I saw a spark of hope in his eyes.
“What can I do to help?”
Plenty. Just now you look more
like a broken-down faro dealer than
a ranch owner. For the next week
you've got to ride hard. Get some
, tan on your face and learn one end
of a horse from the other.” I threw
in the clutch, and as we rolled down
the big hill from the mesa I added,
of you.”
“I don’t want to sail under false
colors,” he replied slowly. “Especial- |
ly with you, for I owe you a big
debt of gratitude. But I haven't the .
least desire to buck up and be
somebody. Please don’t make that
a condition.”
“I won't,
folks
As
depart you
soon as
can go to the
devil as quickly and completely as
you see fit.”
And in a thoroughly bad humor 1
dashed through Verde to the noisy.
delight of every mongrel
town. :
At the ranch that night I called
the boys out to the bunk house and
told them of my conspiracy. Some
of them grinned;
swore, but all promised to see me
through.
“And,” Bud added, “if I have to
perjure my immortal soul too heavi-
ly, I'll show the kid that life can
be interesting for five minutes at
least. That is, when his parents
pull out.”
I nodded. “It’s the parents we've
got to think of. They're old, you
see. All their hopes are bound up
in this worthless pup. Well, we
can’t take that away,”
So again they all swore violently,
dog in
wihch is the cowboy’s way of tell- |
ing you that th
ey're with you tooth
and nail, : '
And now every day before the old
lks’ coming Billy rode with us,
He sat a horse in that queer, stiff
eastern fashion and tried to per-
suade my sorrel mare to trot in the
approved English style until she got
sick of itand bucked him off. After
that Billy took my advice and rode
saddle. On those rides he learned
‘a little about the cattle game and
not once did he ask for a drink.
| Which may or may not have been
a good sign.
, Now it's unimportant whether
i Billy or I happened to be the more
nervous that morning as we drove
to the Santa Fe station before train
time. Twice we walked the length
| of the long platform, swapping plati-
tudes about the spring weather to
‘show how unconcerned we were. At
the blast of the whistle, Billy jump-
ed a foot. Then with a grinding of
brakes and the hiss of steam, the
‘felt my arm clutched as in a vise.
“We're lost” Billy whispered;
| they’ve brought Claire.”
i At the moment I didn’t realize
who Claire was. “Keep steady and
| forward. ;
| I remember a lovable and gentle
same
once knew and have since forgotten.
no ene but Billy,
He had lifted her in his arms and:
carried her to the car. I was pre-
sented. ‘“Biliy’s partner.”
Yes, they had heard of me. To
the old senator I recalled the days
when he spoke at college banquets
back East. That pleased him.
Claire I couldn’t quite make out. By
that time I had remembered she
was the girl Billy almost married—
the girl who had insisted on Billy's
being somebody. Well, she seemed
a very competent little somebody
herself.
Billy’s father shared the front
seat with me and tried not to seem
too proud of Billy as I showed him
our ranch property and some of our
live stock.
“Blood, sir, blood in both cattle
and man,” he said once. “The
thing’s an axiom. Good blood and
you can’t go wrong.” :
I agreed heartily. I would have
agreed to anything.
Luncheon went by safely and
Billy took his father on a tour of
the buildings, Throughout that sun-
lit afternoon his mother sat in the
patio. And there she told me a
little tale of her hopes and dreams
for this boy of hers. A tale of
simple high-hearted devotion and of
loyalty and belief even when he
funked the eastern career.
“Some said then he would just
become an ordianry cowboy’—she
looked at me with those kindly eyes
~—“but I knew he couldn’t help go-
‘ing upward.”
And now her hopes were being
justified. He was making a place
for himself out here—helping to
build up the country. Always the
Whitneys had been nation builders.
Was I wrong, I wonder. in resolv-
ing to preserve to her that dream
‘of a man who never lived? For in
the next two hours I painted a pic-
ture of a vigorous, masterful man
whose coming to Verde had put pew
heart in us.
I told her how, this Blliy of hers
had introduced new methods into
“And let's hope this makes a man
the old,
most of them
with longer stirrups and a western !
my ranch and by unending labor
and sheer personality was turning
a losing venture into a glorious
success. I told her of the devotion
of the men and their trust in him.
And more than once I saw tears of
happiness—even at a price.
And through it all Claire, silent
and imperturable, stood behind the
old lady’s chair watching me with
wide contemplative eyes. And when
at last the mother had gone, Claire
sauntered over and stood before
me.
“Do you know whatI think?” she
asked abruptly. “I think you are
probably the most imaginative liar
in all New Mexico.” She left me
to digest that,
And not until after dark could I
get Billy alone to tell him of Claire's
words. We were sitting on the cor-
ral fence talking. Billy nodded
gloomily.
“Neither you nor I can take her
in. But I think she'll help us.
Wait.”
He left me and not many minutes
later returned with Claire. To
Billy's look of entreaty, I shook my
head.
“It’s your story,” I reminded him
—*you tell it.”
Billy didn’t tell it well. But he
did manage to make a clean breast
of it in his fashion and I think her
, contempt for Billy grew in the
telling. At the end she blazed up
at him.
“You're a loathsome beast, Billy,”
she said among other things, and
the pitiless disdain in her voice made
him flinch. “What a rotten job
you've made of living—and I sus-
pect you'll make a rotten job of
dying.” For a minute her lips
quivered. “And if it weren't that
I loved those old people in there
too much—" Then abruptly, “After
all, you're not worth getting steam-
ed up over, are you, Billy? Of course
I'll lie like the rest of you if the
need comes.”
“You're a good fi
boy began,
She raised hér hand. “Don’t praise
me, please—somehow praise from
you makes me feel unclean.”
And Billy slunk away like a dog.
For a time the girl and I sat
smoking on the corral fence while a
tiny moon rose in the eastern sky.
Somehow outon the dessert frailties
seem unimportant. And perhaps a
little of the brooding peace of it all
ellow, Claire,” the
touched the girl, for presently she
‘asked a little defiantly, ‘You're
{ thinking I've been hard?”
“I shook my head. “I didn’t hap-
pen to be thinking of that at all
‘No, but it’s interesting to speculate
,on what kind of man he might
‘have become if everybody hadn't
' conspired to stampede him.”
“Stampede ?"
“With the necessity of being some-
body. Driving him, as he once told
me, like a colt #puired and quirted
jat every step. So he fled away,
(broken. And new he's geed for
; nothing. Yes, Parlaps I do think
| you've all been a little hard.”
| “Do you blame me-—even if your
i theory is true?”
“It isn’t a theory and I'm not
! blaming anyone. But I do believe
[you had more to do with it than
|
i the others. You see, I happened to
know that Billy loved you, and
i feeling that you, too, were among
the success worshipers, he played up
to you. Played the big c¢9mpetent
man of the world. And the role was
too much for him.
“You've got to remember tiiat for
every Abe Lincoln there are a few
millions who are just plain nice
boys. Out here we think more of
living and less of getting some-
where. Still, that’s all aside from
Billy's ship wrecked love.”
She seemed to consider that for a
time. ‘The world has wasted a deal
of emotion over the thing you call
‘shipwrecked love’ hasn't it? That
sort of thing is not love, just at-
traction—a mating kind of thing.”
“And that isn’t love?”
“It is? It’s not what I want to
believe. I want to believe there's
something finer to it all than that.
Some quality of the intelligence at
least. = My generation’s not willing
to accept your ready-made definitions
if it can find something cleaner and
better.”
I groaned. “In another minute
you're going to tell me you belong
to the generation that wants to think
things out for itself. You know,
back in the past geologic ages even
my own benighted contemporaries
taught us was that love isn’t the
describe but a dear,
thing that suffers and helps and
content to love. Love doesn’t ask
if you're a judge or a horse thief.”
“Was it milk-and-water to give
Billy back his ring when he decided
to be a rich man’s son rather than
a man in his own right? You say
he played up to me—but all I ever
wanted was that he stand on his
own two feet. Is it milk-and-water
to ask a little self-respect in the
man you love?”
“Perhaps. At any rate, when love
seeks you out you won't split any
hairs or go through any laboratory
tests. You'll go to your man, In
the years I've lived out here, Ihave
seen a good many hard lives, some
rough people, and a few quick un-
tidy deaths. But through it all I've
seen this force of love making up
‘for a whole flock of misery. Yes,
and bringing the damned - out of
hell. This congealed partnership of
yours—well, I'm prophesying that
when love reaches out and touches
you, you'll ask no questions.”
In answer she smiled that rare
smile of hers. “What a sentimental
fire-eater you are! You know I wish
I could believe that—almost.”
Altohugh we spoke a different
language, I could find it in me to
admire her fearless sincerity.
Two weeks passed. Billy's parents
were basking happily in the boy's
reflected glory. And through it all
Billy played his part and was per-
haps ‘the ‘most miserable man in
New Mexico. “It wasn’t ‘easy, of
course, and the bitter part of life's
little jest was that Billy had to
1
miik-and-water kind of emotion you
unreasoning
is
——
play his unenviable role before the
level gaze of this girl he couldn't
quite forget tolove. For Billy wasn’t
deceiving any of us in that, ail
least—a smile from her would have
brought paradise down. But para.
dise remained far away.
And it was little compensation tc
know that by very necessity some:
thing of a man’s assertion hac
come to him during those days he
rode the range. For one thing, Buc
strained his knee and Billy hac
been doing his best to fill the breach
Then on the corral fence one eve-
ning he told me his parents had de-
cided to leave.
“Life is funny in a cruel kind of
way,” he added. “I've never seen
them look so happy. You know un-
til the day they die, theyll be proud
of a man who lives only in their
imaginations. Claire said that. She
said, too, that you ranked a big
gold medal for being the most bare-
faced liar in the Southwest,”
“Thanks.”
Billy kicked his heels on the cor-
ral bars. “Once I told you that as
soon as they left I wanted to sink
back into the old life and be a
bum again. But somehow the way
you've trusted me, the way the
boys have treated me—I'm trying
to say that I want to begin again.
I want to make another start, a
real start this time” He smiled
across at me almost happily.
“Wouldn't you be surprised if I
have in me the makings of a he-
man?” Slowly the smile fadeed,
“Only it will come too late with
Claire.”
I had nothing to contribute to
that.
Then after a time, “I don’t sup-
pose you know much about love.”
As a matter of fact I don't.
Hereford steers are my only weak-
ness. But I asked, “Are you tak-
ing this roundabout way of telling
me that you've been bamboozling
yourself for a long time, Billy,
about the wuselessness of life in
general? What you're really suffer-
ing from is a bad case of dislocated
hopes because a little girl once
said you hadn't the right stuff in
you. It's just possible that if you
went to her with this new plan of
yours, she’d listen.”
And Billy climbed down off the
corral. “You give so much advice,
some of it ought to be sound.”
I sat and smoked and watched the
desert. Perhaps I had finished two
cigarets when Billy came out of the
house. Without a word or a look
he passed me and disappeared in the
stables. A moment later he was lost
in a cloud of dust on the high lope
to Verde. The sound of galloping-
hoof-beats must have reached Claire,
for she came down the path to
where I sat.
“Billy's gone?”
tremulous,
T pointed toward Verde.
iF &
Her voice was
; Sih HB
ad “Gone as
f Gli his devils were after him.”
“They were.” She looked up at
me with white lips. “I semt him
away. I tried to be kind, but he
wouldn't let me. He asked me to
be his wife. He needed me, he said,
to help him hold on. I tried to tell
him that he had to stand on his own
two feet. I can’t marry him just
to bolster up his faint courage, can
I? If Billy had come through just
one test with flying colors, if he—"
“What did he say?” I interrupted.
“He just stood there in the door-
way looking at me; then he pulled
on his hat and said, ‘I ‘guess after
all you are a success-worshiper,
arent you, Claire? From now onI'll
take my own road.” A tear gleam-
ed in her lashes. “But he was wrong,
wrong. I'm not a success-worshiper.
I just wanted him to be a man—
to face life like a man, to work
out his own destiny.”
“You know what you've done,
don’t you?” I asked grimly. “You've
sent him back to that death in life
—back to that cursed existence he
led before you came.”
“I sent him? How have I sent
him? Can’t you realize how terribly
easy it would have been for me to
surrender to that unreasoning love
you talk of? And yet love alone
won’t help him. He's got to help
himself, He’s got to find manhood for
himself, just for the sake of manhood
—or fail. And now he’s lost it all. And
now he’s lost it all. And I—I'm
making a fool of myself, crying
about milk that was spilt years
ago.” Tearfully, resentfully she add-
ed, ‘Much you know about love.”
It seemed unanimous around there
were saying that. But life found |that my ignorance of love was pro-
us out. And some of us found life | found. So I went in and read about
out, And one of the things life | Hereford breeding for pron. ny
And once during that interminable
evening the thought came to me
that neither Claire nor I Was whol-
ly right or wrong. For this thing
we call love may assume as many
aspects as beauty, And not all love
perhaps is a redeeming force. A
mother’s love had led this boy to
play an unenviable role in the eyes
of the girl. And love for that girl
had driven him back again to the
futilities of the Mexican quarter.
Yrs, it may be that only to the
strong does love inevitably come as
a glory and a fulfillment. As tq
Claire—well, I believed life had one
or two lessons in store for Qer.
Somehow the evening passed.
At five next morning the tele-=
phone roused me. It was Bud at
the lower ranch.
“Those greasers have rustled fifty
cows and they're driving them ta=
ward the border.” Then he eékploded
the bomb. “Billy’s ritii§ after
them--told me to phone you, then
get out the boys.”
“Billy went alone?”
“All alone. This cursed leg kept
me out. He pulled out soon as he
heard.”
“Phone Sam at Number Four to
saddle all the horses he’s got. I'll
drive over in fifteen minutes,”
As I hung up Claire stood in the
doorway. “What about Billy? she
asked.
So I told her while I gathered up
an armload of miscellaneous artil-
lery. I saw her face go white, then
I called three of the boys and ran
for the car. Claire jumped into the
front seat.
“You're not going,” I announced.
(Continued on page 3, Col. 3.)