Читать книгу The Sheriff of Badger: A Tale of the Southwest Borderland - George Pattullo - Страница 7

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Many authorities assert that a man's looks count for nothing in the pursuit of women and the game of love. And they seem to have the rights of the matter. Citations can be had in plenty. Take the case of the Lazy L boss. Floyd was not unlike an amiable gorilla. Well over the two-score mark in years, he rambled somewhat in his shape. In the first place, his shoulders were too broad for his height, and his jaw and mouth were entirely too wide. Moreover, his legs had the liveliest scorn one for the other. The boss always compelled interest and respect, it is true; but so does a bulldog. Yet he owned the Lazy L and all its herds; he had the prettiest wife in the country, and there were those who said she adored him; and he had a son and heir, two years old. All of which set Lafe to marveling over the inscrutable contrivings of Providence.

It was seven miles from the shipping pens to the ranch, another seven to the Tracey home. Consequently the widow stayed to supper, though it meant enduring Floyd's cold scrutiny for an hour of chat. The boss was civil to her in a heavy, formal way, bestowing sidelong looks when he was persuaded she could not see him. However, there was a full moon and it would fall to Johnson to take her home. She was a persevering woman.

Floyd presented himself to his wife on the second day and said, in his usual blunt style: "Sally, better be decent to that fellow Johnson. Will you?"

"Why, sure, Tom. What's got into your head now?"

"Some of this last bunch of cattle are awful poor stuff. Where the tarnation Reb picked up these brindles and swaybacks and old, hipped long-horns beats me. Lafe will cut 'em all back. He'll just go through that herd like a prairie fire. So keep him in a good humor, Sally, will you? Is it a go?"

"Tom, you're dreadful. Do you think I'll help you cheat Mr. Horne by flirting with Lafe? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Tom Floyd."

"Who asked you to flirt? I've seen you mighty handy with them eyes of yours on other fellows, without being asked," he said good-humoredly.

"Oh, what a lie, Tom! I won't. Remember, I won't."

But, being a good wife, she did.

Autumn was rattling the dry bones of summer, and she and Johnson rode together every day. A keen southwest wind swirled the dead grass and leaves about their horses' feet. He would listen to her chatter by the hour, watching the pink grow in her cheeks. Lafe was very good-humored, indeed. With the improvement in his circumstances had come a marked improvement in appearance. He had imported what is known as a "hand-me-down" suit at the cost of a week's pay, and he took a pardonable pride in it, for the reason that the tailors expressly stated in their advertising that they catered only to gentlemen of refined tastes. Also, he had done some trafficking with Buffalo Jim, thereby obtaining a pair of whole boots.