Sundown Slim Part 43

And the two men felt that that which was not forgotten was at least forgiven--would never again be mentioned.

"And me kitchen," said Sundown, leading the way, "is Neeter's. She runs it. There's more good eats comes out of it than they is fancy crockery in it, which just suits me. And out here"--and the party progressed to the back yard--"is me new corral and stable and chicken-coop. I made all them improvements meself, durin' the winter.

Reckon you saw the gasoline-engine what does the pumpin' for the tanks.

I wanted to have a windmill, but the engine works faster. It's kind of hot, ma'am, and if you'll come in and set down I reckon me wife's got her hair--"

"Wah! Wah! Wah!" came in a crescendo from the bedroom.

Sundown straightened his shoulders. "Gee Gosh, he's gone and give it away, already!"

Corliss and his wife glanced at their host inquisitively.

"Me latest improvement," said Sundown, bowing, as Anita, a plump brown baby on her arm, opened the bedroom door and stood bashfully looking at the strangers.

"And me wife," he added.

Corliss bowed, but Margery rushed to Anita and held out her arms. "Oh, let me take him!" she cried. "What big brown eyes! Let me hold him!

I'll be awfully careful! Isn't he sweet!"

They moved to the living-room where Anita and Margery sat side by side on the couch with the baby absorbing all their attention.

Sundown stalked about the room, his hands in his pockets, vainly endeavoring to appear very mannish and unconcerned, but his eye roved unceasingly to the baby. He was the longest and most upstanding six-feet-four of proud father that Margery or her husband had ever had the pleasure of meeting.

"He's got Neeter's eyes--and--and her--complexion, but he's sure got me style. He measures up two-feet-six by the yardstick what we got with buyin' a case of bakin'-soda, and he ain't a yearlin' yet. I don't just recollec' the day but I reckon Neeter knows."

"He's great!" exclaimed Corliss. "Isn't he, Margery?"

"He's just the cutest little brown baby!" said Margery, hugging the plump little body.

"He--he ain't so _turruble_ brown," a.s.serted Sundown. "'Course, he's tanned up some, seein' we keep him outside lots. I'm kind o' tanned up meself, and I reckon he takes after me."

"He has a head shaped just like yours," said Margery, anxious to please the proud father.

"Then," said Sundown solemnly, "he's goin' to be a pole."

Anita, proud of her offspring, her husband, her neat and clean home, laughed softly, and held out her arms for the baby. With a kick and a struggle the young Sundown wriggled to her arms and snuggled against her, gravely inspecting the pink roses on his mother's white dress.

They were new to him. He was more used to blue gingham. The roses were interesting.

"Yes, Billy's me latest improvement," said Sundown, anxious to a.s.sert himself in view of the presence of so much femininity and a correspondingly seeming lack of vital interest in anything save the baby.

"Billy!" said Corliss, turning from where he had stood gazing out of the window.

"Uhuh! We named him Billy after you."

Corliss turned again to the window.

Sundown stepped to him, misinterpreting his silence. He put his hand on Corliss's shoulder. "You ain't mad 'cause we called him that, be you?"

"Mad! Say, Sun,"--and Corliss laughed, choked, and brushed his eyes.

"Sun, I don't deserve it."

"Well, seein' what I been through since I was his size, I reckon I don't either. But he's here, and you're here and your wife--and things is fine! The sun is s.h.i.+nin' and the jiggers out on the mesa is chirkin' and to-morrow's goin' to be a fine day. There's nothin' like bankin' on to-morrow, 'specially if you are doin' the best you kin today." And with this bit of philosophy, Sundown, motioning to Corliss, excused himself and his companion as they strode to the doorway and out to the open. There they talked about many things having to do with themselves and others until Margery, hailing them from the door, told them that dinner was waiting.

After dinner the men foregathered in the shade of an acacia and smoked, saying little, but each thinking of the future. Sundown in his peculiarly optimistic and half-melancholy way, and Corliss with mingled feelings of hope and regret. He had endeavored to live down his past away from home. He had succeeded in a measure: had sought and found work, had become acquainted with his employer's daughter, told her frankly of his previous manner of life, and found, not a little to his astonishment, that she had faith in him. Then he wrote to his brother, asking to come back. John Corliss was more than glad to realize that Will had straightened up. If the younger man was willing to reclaim himself among folk who knew him at his worst, there must be something to him. So Corliss had asked his brother to give him his employer's address; had written to the employer, explaining certain facts regarding Will's share in the Concho, and also asking that he urge Will to come home. Just here Miss Margery had something to say, the ultimate result of which was a more definite understanding all around.

If Will was going back to Arizona, Margery was also going. And as Margery was a young woman quietly determined to have her way when she knew that it was right to do so, they were married the day before Will Corliss was to leave for Arizona. This was to be their honeymoon.

All of which was in Will Corliss's mind as he lay smoking and gazing at the cloudless sky. It may be added to his credit that he had not returned because of the money that was his when he chose to claim it.

Rather, he had realized--and Margery had a great deal to do with his newer outlook--that so long as he stayed away from home he was confessing to cowardice. Incidentally Margery, being utterly feminine, wanted to see Arizona and the free life of the range, of which Corliss had told her. As for Nell Loring . . . Corliss sighed.

"It sure is hot," muttered Sundown. "'Course, you'll stay over and light out in the mornin' cool. You and me can sleep in the front room.

'T ain't the fust time we rustled for a roost. And the wimmen-folks can bunk in the bedroom. Billy he's right comf'table in his big clothes-basket. He's a sure good sleeper, if I do say it."

"We could have gone on through," said Corliss, smiling. "Of course we'd have been late, but Margery likes driving."

"Well, if you had 'a' gone through--and I'd 'a' _ketched_ you at it--I--I--I'd 'a' changed Billy's name to--to somethin' else." And Sundown frowned ferociously.

Corliss laughed. "But we didn't. We're here--and it's mighty good to breathe Arizona air again. You never really begin to love Arizona till you've been somewhere else for a while."

"And bein' married helps some, too," suggested Sundown.

"Yes, a whole lot. Margery's enthusiasm makes me see beautiful things that I'd pa.s.sed a hundred times before I knew her."

"That's correc'," concurred Sundown. "Now, take Gentle Annie, for instance--"

"You mean Mrs.--er--Sundown?"

"Nope! Me tame cow. 'Annie' is American for 'Anita,' so I called her that. Now, that there Gentle Annie's just a regular cow. She ain't purty--but she sure gives plenty milk. Neeter got me to seein' that Gentle Annie's eyes was purty and mournful-like and that she was a right handsome cow. If your wife's pettin' and feedin' somethin', and callin' it them there smooth Spanish names, a fella's wise to do the same. It helps things along."

"Little Billy, for instance," suggested Corliss.

"Leetle Billy is right! But he couldn't help bein' good-lookin', I guess. He's different. Fust thing your wife said wuz he took after his pa."

"You haven't changed much," said Corliss, smiling.

"Me? Mebby not--outside; but say, inside things is different. I got feelin's now what I never knowed I had before. Why, sometimes, when Neeter is rockin' leetle Bill, and singing and me settin' in the door, towards evenin', and everything fed up and happy, why, do you know, I feel jest like cryin'. Plumb foolish, ain't it?"

"I don't know about that, Sun."

"Well, you will some day," a.s.serted Sundown, taking him literally. "'T ain't gettin' married what makes a man, but it's a dum' poor one what don't make the best of things if he is. .h.i.tched up to a good girl. Only one thing--it sure don't give a fella time to write much po'try."

Corliss did not smile. "You're living the poetry," he said with simple sincerity.

"Which is correc', Billy. And speakin' of po'try, I reckon I got to go feed them pigs. They's gruntin' somethin' scand'lous for havin'

comp'ny to our house--and anyhow, they's like to wake up leetle Bill."

And Sundown departed to feed his pigs.