Kitty laughed lightly and pulled off his Stetson to rumple his hair. “That’s not very much of a kiss.” She linked her arm in his and drew him inside. “I’ve got dinner waiting. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes.”

  “You ortn’t to’ve bothered, Kitty,” he reproached her, “You’ll be all tired out from workin’—an’ mebby it ain’t good for you.”

  Kitty said, “Nonsense,” and tossed her head. “I’m through being foolish about the baby coming, Sam,” she told him quietly. “I’ve been making myself sick—and it’s not fair to you. Sit down while I put dinner on the table.”

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” Kitty told her husband after they had finished dinner and he had dried the dishes for her. “I’ve been letting myself go to pieces, Sam. I’m going to stop. It’s perfectly normal for a woman to have a baby. I’m young and strong and it’s foolish for me to worry about it.”

  Sam was seated across from her in the small living room loading his short-stemmed pipe. He said mildly, “I ain’t blamed you none, Kitty. It’s a woman’s place to be sick, I reckon, if she wants to.”

  “That’s just it,” Kitty told him fiercely. “I haven’t been sick. Not really. I’ve been getting morbid. Thinking about religion too much and things like that.”

  “That’s awright too. I guess religion ain’t so bad. In fac’, I been figgerin’ on mebby it’d be a good idee to fix it so you could drive into Dutch Springs Saturday afternoons an’ we’d go to church Sunday mornings. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “No,” Kitty said quickly. Then she smiled to take away the sting of her blunt refusal. “I don’t mean it quite that way. But I’ve been talking to Myra Jenkins some lately.”

  “The widder Jenkins?”

  “Yes. She’s stopped by to talk on her way from town a couple of times. I don’t want to get like her, Sam. It frightens me. If that’s what too much church does to people, I don’t want any.”

  Sam chuckled as he lit his pipe. “No chance of you gettin’ like that, I reckon. She allus was sorta queer.”

  “That’s just it, Sam. I didn’t realize until I talked to her that I might be getting the same way. I believe in prayer and I want to keep on reading my Bible, but I don’t think I’ll start going to church. Not if it might make me like Mrs. Jenkins.” Kitty shook her head and shuddered.

  Sam chuckled again. “What kinda idees has she got now?”

  “Some crazy thing about a new religion she’s discovered. It’s sort of spiritualism, I guess. Or reincarnation, or something like that.”

  Seeing Sam’s blank look, Kitty explained.

  “Spiritualism is a belief in the spirits of dead people talking to people on earth. And reincarnation is the belief that dead people come back in other bodies—or in other shapes.”

  “Like hawses or dawgs?” Sam answered interestedly.

  “Yes. Or mockingbirds. She swears, Sam, that her husband has come back in the form of a mockingbird and he sits outside her window at dawn every morning and sings to her and she tries to understand what he’s telling her, and if she can just understand him she’ll be able to know everything.”

  Kitty paused to laugh at the expression on Sam’s face. “I know it sounds silly. But she believes it, Sam. And she’s trying to convert me. She stopped by this morning on her way from church,” Kitty went on rapidly, lacing and unlacing her fingers in her lap, “and she had some man out in the buggy with her, and she came in and told me in private that he understands about this new religion and is going to teach her to understand what her dead husband is trying to say through the mockingbird, and she wanted me to slip away this afternoon and come over to her ranch to take a lesson too.”

  Sam shook his head disbelievingly. “Who’s the feller that’s gonna tell her what the mockin’bird’s sayin’?”

  “I don’t know. Some stranger from Denver. She didn’t tell me his name and I didn’t bother to look at him.”

  “I betcha it’s the schoolma’am’s uncle,” said Sam excitedly. “Yessir. From Denver, huh? They do say he’s mighty chummy with God an’ all the angels.”

  “It’s sacrilege,” Kitty said angrily. “And it made me mad when she thought I’d come and listen to any such thing. Have I been acting so terribly funny?” she wailed. “Do you think I’m going to get like her, Sam?”

  He threw back his head and laughed loudly at the frightened expression on Kitty’s pretty face. “I wouldn’t worry none about it, honey. You jest keep right on bein’ yore own sweet self.”

  “That’s what made me decide to be different,” Kitty told him honestly. “I’ve been lying around feeling sorry for myself and fretting, and I’m going to stop it. I’ve got the best husband in the world and I’m happy here for the first time in my life and I’m not going to let anything spoil it.”

  Sam tried to say something but he had such a lump in his throat that he couldn’t get any words out. He got up to get a drink of water and wash the lump down, and as he passed the open front door he paused to peer out down the road toward Dutch Springs.

  He stood there for a moment, and then chuckled and said over his shoulder, “There comes the livery rig, all shined up an’ clean. Betcha that’s the banker feller out sparkin’ the new schoolteacher.

  “By golly,” he added quickly, “they’re a-turning in here, Kitty. Yessir. It’s shore enuff Rudd Fleming all dressed up fit to kill. An’ Miss Dawson looks right sweet an’ purty too.” He stepped out of the doorway to greet the visitors as the livery buggy pulled up in front of the Express station.

  13

  Rudd Fleming was dressed in a suit of black broadcloth which had become too small for him during the four years it had lain in his trunk. The coat constricted his shoulders and the trousers were tight about his hips and thighs. The stiff collar, top, was irksome to his neck, accustomed to the freedom of open-throated flannel shirts, and he felt uncomfortably dressed up even though he had decided against a derby in favor of the white Stetson which he habitually wore.

  But when he stopped for Connie at Mrs. Leroy’s just after Sunday dinner, he was glad that he had dressed carefully. For she looked as though she had just stepped out of a New York or Paris dress shop in a close-fitting woolen suit of dark green with an absurd little hat worn on the back of her head and black lace stockings with high-heeled shoes.

  He had forgotten that a woman could look like that, and his heart pounded like a college boy’s as he leaped down to help her into the buggy. He laughingly apologized for the incongruity of his western hat, but Connie told him she liked it and thought it was quite proper for a buggy ride in Powder Valley.

  They started out that way, with laughter and mutual understanding between them; and they laughed more and came to understand each other better while the livery team trotted briskly through the cool autumnal sunlight and they talked of many things.

  Connie told him a little about herself, mixing a little truth with a lot of falsehood, hinting at a background of wealthy parents and eastern finishing schools, mentioning a financial debacle that had to do with mining properties, and recent orphanhood that had forced her to accept this teaching position. She gave Rudd Fleming an impression of bravery and self-reliance by touching lightly upon these falsehoods, and by the time they had driven to the Pony Express way-station he knew he was falling in love with her, and the realization pleased him tremendously.

  Connie had mentioned her thirst about a mile back, and when they reached the station, Rudd turned in, telling her, “There’s a funny old codger lives here. He’ll give us a drink and you can meet his wife. She’s from Denver also and she seems very happy to be settled in this lonely place married to an Express rider.”

  Sam Sloan stepped out of the doorway to welcome them as Rudd Fleming pulled up the team. He said, “Howdy, Mr. Fleming. Has the bank took a mortgage on this here station of mine?”

  The young banker laughed and stepped down to the ground. “This is purely a pleasure ride, Sam. Miss Constance would like a drink of water. This is Sam Sloan—Miss Dawson.”

  Sam went to the buggy to hold out a brown hand and shake Connie’s heartily. “Mighty glad tuh make yore acquaintance, Miss Dawson. I’ve heard talk about the new schoolma’am but nobody tol’ me you was so danged purty.”

  Connie laughed and held onto his hand to step down from the buggy. “You’d better be careful,” she warned him. “I think your wife is right behind you listening.”

  Sam turned and saw Kitty standing in the doorway. Rudd Fleming was going toward her, but Kitty’s eyes were fixed on Connie Dawson’s face. They widened, and her features took on a queer look of bewilderment and of half recognition.

  Sam said, “Well, I’ll be doggoned! Looks like these two gals mebby awready know each other, Mr. Fleming. Them both bein’ from Denver an’ all.”

  Rudd stopped near Kitty and took off his hat. He said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Sloan,” and then turned to tell Sam with a smile, “I hardly think Mrs. Sloan and Miss Dawson were acquainted in Denver. You see, well—” He flushed and reached up with his forefinger to loosen the collar that had suddenly started to choke him. “What I mean, Sam is—well—Miss Dawson is a schoolteacher, you know.”

  “Of course,” said Kitty clearly. “And I was just a dance-hall entertainer until you married me, Sam.” She held her head high and her narrowed eyes were fixed on Connie’s face.

  Sam Sloan went toward his wife. He told her stoutly, “Dancehall entertainin’ ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of. If Mr. Fleming has got a idee you ain’t good enuff.”

  “No, no,” said Rudd Fleming quickly and unhappily. “I didn’t mean anything like that, Sam. I’ve always been one of your wife’s admirers. I merely meant that it wasn’t likely that she and Miss Dawson had met in Denver. That is—” He was stumbling over his words, as crimson and self-conscious as a schoolboy.

  Connie came forward, smiling and self-possessed. She said, “I’m sure your wife was a wonderful entertainer, Mr. Sloan, and if I had gotten out much in Denver I might have met her.” Her eyes met Kitty’s and implored her not to say anything. She said, “I’m Constance Dawson, Mrs. Sloan, I hope you won’t hold it against me because I’m just a schoolteacher.”

  Kitty said, “How do you do—Miss Dawson. Did I hear Mr. Fleming says something about wanting a drink?”

  “Please.” Connie laughed and linked her arm in Kitty’s. “And I wish you’d show me your house. I think it’s wonderful the way women make homes out here in the wilderness.” The two women went in the front door together.

  Rudd Fleming got out a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his face though the afternoon was quite cool. He said to Sam, “See here. I hope you don’t think—that is—I don’t want you or your wife to feel—”

  Sam laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Neither Kitty nor me is thin-skinned about what she did for a livin’ before me an’ her got married. Right now she’s Mrs. Sam Sloan an’ nothin’ else matters. Come on in an’ we’ll get that drink.”

  Inside the lean-to kitchen, Connie closed the door tightly and put her back against it. She said, “Well, Kitty?” and her voice and face were hard.

  Kitty turned slowly. Her voice was troubled. “It is you, isn’t it, Connie?”

  “Yes. Thanks for not giving me away out there—in front of Rudd.”

  Kitty stood back against the sink. Her eyes were dilated. “What are you doing in Dutch Springs pretending to be a schoolteacher?”

  “I’m trying to be decent. It’s my chance to get away from singing in saloons the rest of my life. You ought to know, Kitty. You did the same thing.”

  Kitty shook her head. “I didn’t fool Sam. He knew all about me when he married me.”

  “But I can’t tell Rudd the truth. You know I can’t, Kitty. He’s different.”

  “Different from Sam? Maybe. But he’s no better. Sam Sloan is the finest man in Powder Valley, Connie Dawson.

  “I heard about Judge Prink being here,” Kitty went on slowly. “I thought I ought to tell people the truth about him, but I didn’t. When he settled down in Dutch Springs and got appointed district judge I thought maybe he’d changed. I thought I’d wait and see. Why did he bring you here, Connie?”

  “Because Powder Valley needed a schoolteacher. I did it for sort of a lark. I thought it’d be fun to pretend to be a schoolteacher. And then I met Rudd Fleming.” Connie’s voice softened. “Don’t blame me too much, Kitty. You know the way I lived in Denver. You can’t blame me for trying to get away from that.”

  “Who’s the man that came with you pretending to be your uncle?”

  Connie hesitated. “It’s Dan Deever, Kitty.”

  “That old hypocrite?” Kitty’s nostrils flared. “What are he and the judge cooking up together?”

  “Nothing,” Connie told her weakly. “Daniel wanted to get away from Denver too. He’s changed since you knew him, Kitty. He’s really gotten religion instead of just pretending like he used to. He thought he might come here and make a new start—where people didn’t know him.”

  Kitty shook her head. “I don’t believe it,” she said simply. “Not Dan Deever. He and the judge must be up to some crooked game. And I won’t stand for it, Connie. I won’t let them get away with anything here in Powder Valley. I’ll tell everybody the truth about them.”

  “And ruin things for me?” Connie cried despairingly.

  “I can’t help that.” Kitty thinned her lips against her teeth. “You don’t know me any more, Connie. I live in Powder Valley. These people are my friends. They trust me, even though they know the kind of life I lived before I came here. Do you think I’d let them down?”

  “But you’re going to let me down.”

  “You’re in it with Judge Prink and Dan Deever.”

  “In what? I swear it isn’t what you think, Kitty. They’ve both changed. They’re not up to anything.”

  Kitty shook her head. “A skunk can’t change his smell.”

  “That’s being terribly unfair.” Connie was shaking now, and her voice was desperate. “You don’t know anything about it.”

  “I know both of them.”

  “Give me my chance,” Connie implored. “You’ve got everything. Why should you begrudge me my chance? You’re married and safe. You’re happy. You’re—going to have a baby, aren’t you?”

  Kitty said, “Yes,” proudly. She hesitated. “Do you think you’re going to marry Rudd Fleming?”

  “I will if he asks me.”

  “Don’t do it,” Kitty counseled her. “Don’t trick him, Connie. You’ll never forgive yourself if you do that. Tell him the truth.”

  “Then he won’t ask me to marry him,” Connie cried.

  “He will if he loves you. And that’s the only way marriage is any good. If he doesn’t love you enough to marry you knowing the truth, then you won’t be happy anyway.”

  “Give me a little time,” Connie begged. “If he had time to learn to love me first then maybe it wouldn’t matter.”

  Kitty shook her head. “It’s the wrong thing to do, Connie.”

  “How do you know what’s right and what’s wrong for me? Who are you to pass judgment? You’re safe and happy.”

  Kitty said, “You’ll hate yourself if he marries you first and then finds out afterward.” Her face softened and she went toward the other girl, holding out her hand. “Rudd Fleming is a fine man. Trust him to do what’s right. Tell him the truth, Connie, before it’s too late.”

  “Will you let me decide when’s the right time to tell him?”

  Kitty hesitated. She warned Connie evenly, “Not if I find out Judge Prink and Dan Deever are up to something. But I won’t say anything right away.” She turned and got some glasses down from a shelf. “We’d better take them a drink.”

  “You women have been a mighty long time gettin’ that water,” Sam told them when they came in from the kitchen with brimming glasses.

  “We’ve been telling each other secrets,” Connie said brightly. “That is, Mrs. Sloan has.”

  Sam stood in the doorway with his arm about Kitty’s waist while they watched the livery buggy drive away. “Looks like Rudd Fleming has got it bad,” he chuckled. “D’yuh see how he looked at Miss Dawson? An’ the way he he’ped her up into the buggy—like she was made outta glass an’ might break if he weren’t careful?”

  Kitty nodded. She didn’t echo his laughter. She seemed queerly withdrawn and her face had a pinched look. She said, “He’s nice, isn’t he?”

  “Fleming?” Sam looked at her in surprise. “You betcha. Fer an Easterner he’s plumb awright. Time he was gettin’ hitched, though, an’ they make a mighty nice-lookin’ couple.”

  Kitty was quiet and moody after their visitors left, and Sam noticed the change in her and was worried.

  He asked gruffly, “Did seein’ her make you start thinkin’ about Denver an’ all? Did it sorta make you wish you had purty clothes like that to wear?”

  “No,” Kitty told him fiercely. “I wouldn’t change places with her for anything in the world.”

  “I jest wondered,” Sam said humbly. “I wouldn’t blame you none for gettin’ to feel that way—stuck out here like we are. We don’ have to live out here like this,” he went on swiftly. “We could move to town if you’d like it. Or all the way into Denver even, mebby. I ain’t broke, you know. I still got that there money—”

  “No, Sam.” Kitty got up and went to him swiftly, leaning down to press her soft cheek against his leathery forehead. “I love it like this,” she assured him. “Living here alone—with you. I don’t need people. I don’t need anything. Just this.”

  Sam said awkwardly, “Yo’re plumb wonderful, Kitty. I reckon there never was a man as lucky as me.”

  She patted his cheek and went back to her rocking chair. “It seems to me this is all there’s ever been in life,” she mused. “Just loving you and living here. Oh Sam! I feel so sorry for all the women in the world who haven’t got husbands like you.”

  Sam stuffed tobacco in his pipe and looked embarrassed. “I reckon there ain’t many women would want me. None ever did till you came along.”