Lonesome Land

M. Bower B.

Description

Pioneering Western writer Bertha Muzzy Bower was herself the wife of a Montana rancher for a time, so she brings a wealth of personal experience and psychological insight to this gripping narrative that follows protagonist Valeria as she enters into marriage and struggles with the often-harsh reality of rural life.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: The Floating Press
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781775453123
• Langue: English

Extrait

LONESOME LAND
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B. M. BOWER
 
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Lonesome Land First published in 1912 ISBN 978-1-775453-12-3 © 2011 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Chapter I - The Arrival of Val Chapter II - Well-Meant Advice Chapter III - A Lady in a Temper Chapter IV - The "Shivaree" Chapter V - Cold Spring Ranch Chapter VI - Manley's Fire Guard Chapter VII - Val's New Duties Chapter VIII - The Prairie Fire Chapter IX - Kent to the Rescue Chapter X - Desolation Chapter XI - Val's Awakening Chapter XII - A Lesson in Forgiveness Chapter XIII - Arline Gives a Dance Chapter XIV - A Wedding Present Chapter XV - A Compact Chapter XVI - Manley's New Tactics Chapter XVII - Val Becomes an Author Chapter XVIII - Val's Discovery Chapter XIX - Kent's Confession Chapter XX - A Blotched Brand Chapter XXI - Val Decides Chapter XXII - A Friend in Need Chapter XXIII - Caught! Chapter XXIV - Retribution
Chapter I - The Arrival of Val
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In northern Montana there lies a great, lonely stretch of prairie land,gashed deep where flows the Missouri. Indeed, there are many such—big,impassive, impressive in their very loneliness, in summer given over tothe winds and the meadow larks and to the shadows fleeing always over thehilltops. Wild range cattle feed there and grow sleek and fat for the fallshipping of beef. At night the coyotes yap quaveringly and prowl abroadafter the long-eared jack rabbits, which bounce away at their hunger-drivenapproach. In winter it is not good to be there; even the beasts shrink thenfrom the bleak, level reaches, and shun the still bleaker heights.
But men will live anywhere if by so doing there is money to be gained, andso a town snuggled up against the northern rim of the bench land, where thebleakness was softened a bit by the sheltering hills, and a willow-fringedcreek with wild rosebushes and chokecherries made a vivid green backgroundfor the meager huddle of little, unpainted buildings.
To the passengers on the through trains which watered at the red tank nearthe creek, the place looked crudely picturesque—interesting, so long asone was not compelled to live there and could retain a perfectly impersonalviewpoint. After five or ten minutes spent hi watching curiously the onelittle street, with the long hitching poles planted firmly and frequentlydown both sides—usually within a very few steps of a saloon door—and thehorses nodding and stamping at the flies, and the loitering figuresthat appeared now and then in desultory fashion, many of them imaginedthat they understood the West and sympathized with it, and appreciated itsbigness and its freedom from conventions.
One slim young woman had just told the thin-faced school teacher on avacation, with whom she had formed one of those evanescent travelingacquaintances, that she already knew the West, from instinct and fromManley's letters. She loved it, she said, because Manley loved it, andbecause it was to be her home, and because it was so big and so free.Out here one could think and grow and really live, she declared, withenthusiasm. Manley had lived here for three years, and his letters, shetold the thin-faced teacher, were an education in themselves.
The teacher had already learned that the slim young woman, with theyellow-brown hair and yellow-brown eyes to match, was going to marryManley—she had forgotten his other name, though the young woman hadmentioned it—and would live on a ranch, a cattle ranch. She smiled withsomewhat wistful sympathy, and hoped the young woman would be happy; andthe young woman waved her hand, with the glove only half pulled on, towardthe shadow-dappled prairie and the willow-fringed creek, and the hillsbeyond.
"Happy!" she echoed joyously. "Could one be anything else, in such acountry? And then—you don't know Manley, you see. It's horribly bad form,and undignified and all that, to prate of one's private affairs, but I justcan't help bubbling over. I'm not looking for heaven, and I expect to haveplenty of bumpy places in the trail—trail is anything that you travelover, out here; Manley has coached me faithfully—but I'm going to behappy. My mind is quite made up. Well, good-by—I'm so glad you happenedto be on this train, and I wish I might meet you again. Isn't it a funnylittle depot? Oh, yes—thank you! I almost forgot that umbrella, and Imight need it. Yes, I'll write to you—I should hate to drop out ofyour mind completely. Address me Mrs. Manley Fleetwood, Hope, Montana.Good-by—I wish—"
She trailed off down the aisle with eyes shining, in the wake of thegrinning porter. She hurried down the steps, glanced hastily along theplatform, up at the car window where the faded little school teacher wassmiling wearily down at her, waved her hand, threw a dainty little kiss,nodded a gay farewell, smiled vaguely at the conductor, who had beenrespectfully pleasant to her—and then she was looking at the rear platformof the receding train mechanically, not yet quite realizing why it was thather heart went heavy so suddenly. She turned then and looked about her ina surprised, inquiring fashion. Manley, it would seem, was not at hand towelcome her. She had expected his face to be the first she looked upon inthat town, but she tried not to be greatly perturbed at his absence; somany things may detain one.
At that moment a young fellow, whose clothes emphatically proclaimed him acowboy, came diffidently up to her, tilted his hat backward an inch or so,and left it that way, thereby unconsciously giving himself an air of candorwhich should have been reassuring.
"Fleetwood was detained. You were expecting to—you're the lady he wasexpecting, aren't you?"
She had been looking questioningly at her violin box and two trunksstanding on their ends farther down the platform, and she smiled vaguelywithout glancing at him.
"Yes. I hope he isn't sick, or—"
"I'll take you over to the hotel, and go tell him you're here," hevolunteered, somewhat curtly, and picked up her bag.
"Oh, thank you." This time her eyes grazed his face inattentively. Shefollowed him down the rough steps of planking and up an extremely dustyroad—one could scarcely call it a street—to an uninviting building withcrooked windows and a high, false front of unpainted boards.
The young fellow opened a sagging door, let her pass into a narrow hallway,and from there into a stuffy, hopelessly conventional fifth-rate parlor,handed her the bag, and departed with another tilt of the hat which placedit at a different angle. The sentence meant for farewell she did not catch,for she was staring at a wooden-faced portrait upon an easel, the portraitof a man with a drooping mustache, and porky cheeks, and dead-looking eyes.
"And I expected bearskin rugs, and antlers on the walls, and bigfireplaces!" she remarked aloud, and sighed. Then she turned and pulledaside a coarse curtain of dusty, machine-made lace, and looked after herguide. He was just disappearing into a saloon across the street, and shedropped the curtain precipitately, as if she were ashamed of spying. "Oh,well—I've heard all cowboys are more or less intemperate," she excused,again aloud.
She sat down upon an atrocious red plush chair, and wrinkled hernose spitefully at the porky-cheeked portrait. "I suppose you're theproprietor," she accused, "or else the proprietor's son. I wish youwouldn't squint like that. If I have to stop here longer than ten minutes,I shall certainly turn you face to the wall." Whereupon, with anothergrimace, she turned her back upon it and looked out of the window. Then shestood up impatiently, looked at her watch, and sat down again upon the redplush chair.
"He didn't tell me whether Manley is sick," she said suddenly, with someresentment. "He was awfully abrupt in his manner. Oh, you—" She rose,picked up an old newspaper from the marble-topped table with uncertainlegs, and spread it ungently over the portrait upon the easel. Then shewent to the window and looked out again. "I feel perfectly sure that cowboywent and got drunk immediately," she complained, drumming pettishly uponthe glass. "And I don't suppose he told Manley at all."
The cowboy was innocent of the charge, however, and he was doing hisenergetic best to tell Manley. He had gone straight through the saloon andinto the small room behind, where a man lay sprawled upon a bed in onecorner. He was asleep, and his clothes were wrinkled as if he had lainthere long. His head rested upon his folded arms, and he was snoringloudly. The young fellow went up and took him roughly by the shoulder.
"Here! I thought I told you to straighten up," he cried disgustedly. "Comealive! The train's come and gone, and your girl's waiting for you over tothe hotel. D' you hear?"
"Uh-huh!" The man opened one eye, grunted, and closed it again.
The other yanked him half off the bed, and swore. This brought both eyesopen, glassy with whisky and sleep. He sat wobbling upon the edge of thebed, staring stupidly.
"Can't you get anything through you?" his tormentor exclaimed. "You wantyour girl to find out you're drunk? You got the license in your pocket.You're supposed to get spliced this evening—and look at you!" He turnedand went out to the bartender.
"Why didn't you pour that coffee into him, like I told you?" he demanded."We've got to get him steady on his pins somehow! "
The bartender was sprawled half over the bar, apathetically reading thesporting news of a torn Sunday edition of an Eastern