Lightnin Part 8

"Oh, mother!" Millie, deeply concerned, came from behind the desk and went up to the older woman, questioning, "You don't suppose his pension has come?"

"I think it's gone!" Mrs. Jones bowed emphatically in a rising voice and hurried to the desk on the Nevada side, where she took a cursory but none the less exhaustive look at the mail indexes. "I found him hanging around this desk this morning, and when I come in he beat it, sayin', before I could stop him, that he was goin' after the mail. I wonder--"

She stopped and gave a deep groan of acquiescence. "Huh! Huh!" She had opened up the top of the desk to find a half-filled flask. "There!" she exclaimed, holding it to the light. "He was waiting for a chance to get this when I shooed him away!"

Millie put her arm around her and drew her into the middle of the room, trying to soothe her. "Anyway, don't let's blame him for anything until we're sure. He may come home perfectly all right. You know he loves the woods and the lake and the autumn coloring which is so wonderful now. He always lingers like this. Please go up-stairs and have a good rest."

Millie tried to lead her mother toward the stairs, but Mrs. Jones gently shook the girl's arm from about her waist and went toward the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Millie asked, standing still, a puzzled frown giving place to an understanding laugh as Mrs. Jones hesitated and looked at the floor, answering in a manner half ashamed: "Why--well--I thought--" she stammered, "he might come home soon, an' he's used to findin' somethin' good kept warm--though he don't deserve it!"

She hesitated, her kindly, better nature s.h.i.+ning in her eyes, battling for expression. "Yes--please set a place for him, Millie!" And Mrs.

Jones hastily disappeared into the kitchen to avoid the girl's rippling laugh of gentle amus.e.m.e.nt. Smiling to herself, Millie crossed the lobby and went into the dining-room.

The moment she had left the lobby the street door of the hotel was pushed open cautiously and an inquiring head thrust itself in. The head was that of Bill Jones. Evidently satisfied that the coast was clear, Bill came slowly into the lobby. Looking warily up at the stairs on either side, and toward the dining-room and kitchen doors, he eased himself softly over to the Nevada desk, raised the top and fumbled expectantly inside.

CHAPTER VI

As Bill reached the desk and lifted the top, another gray-haired old man, possibly the same age as Lightnin', though larger and huskier in build, stole in through the street door and stood there doubtfully, puffing a cigar. He looked about fearfully, evidently ready to decamp at an instant's notice; but his glance, traveling back to the figure at the desk, bespoke a childlike trustfulness in Bill Jones. This gentleman's clothes were as disreputable as might be, as was his battered slouch-hat. His face was very red and very unshaven, and his expression was a comical mixture of uncertainty as to his welcome on the premises and maudlin kindliness toward the world at large. He rejoiced in the name of "Zeb," and was a down-and-out prospector, a relic of the past.

His only reason for existence these days seemed to be that he was a crony and devout satellite of Bill's--to the great aggravation of Mrs.

Jones. There was a legend in the district that Zeb and Bill had spent many years together in the old days, up and down the trails. There seemed to be considerable truth in the story. Anyway, no efforts of Mrs.

Jones's or of anybody else's could make Bill forget his pal. Zeb was always sure of a meal, or a drink and a cigar, provided Lightnin' could find a way of producing those necessities of a broken-down prospector's life.

Bill felt around in the desk for a minute, while Zeb watched, fearfully, hopefully; then Lightnin' turned around, disappointment in his face. But before he could break the sad news regarding the strange disappearance of a half-filled flask, Zeb held up a warning finger and began to back through the door. His ear, ever keen for the swish of Mrs. Jones's skirts, reported danger.

"What's the matter, Zeb?" Bill asked. "Aw, come back. What ye 'fraid of?" With a disgusted motion he beckoned Zeb into the room again.

But Zeb, answering the warning that had never failed him, stayed close to the door, whispering back to Bill, "Where's your old woman?"

"That's all right. Come on in. She ain't here now." Bill, determined in his search, lifted the lid a second time and began to take out the contents of the drawer.

Zeb, taking heart, tiptoed up to him and, looking over his shoulder, murmured, contemptuously, "I don't believe you've got a drop."

"I'll show ye!" Looking intently under the lid, Bill's voice was half smothered. It stopped short when the kitchen door flew open and Mrs.

Jones burst with emphatic and quick tread into the room.

She did not pay heed to Bill at once. Zeb received the full force of her mood. "Clear out now!" she called, in no gentle tone, as she swept up to him--an unnecessary action, as Zeb, catching one glance of the irate woman, made double-quick time in getting out of the door and down the steps of the veranda.

Zeb disposed of, Mrs. Jones turned her attention to her errant husband.

Both arms akimbo, she stood still in the middle of the floor and concentrated her glare upon him.

"Bill Jones," she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, "where have you been?"

Bill had put down the lid at the first hint of her entrance. While she was addressing Zeb he had quietly slipped behind the desk and busied himself with the mail which he had drawn from the back pocket of his trousers. Whistling softly to himself, he sorted the letters, placing them in their proper pigeonholes.

He did not answer Mrs. Jones at once, but went on whistling. After a second in which he decided that a soft answer might draw the sting from her wrath, he stood still and, without looking around, said, gently, "h.e.l.lo, mother." Without waiting for a reply, he went on sorting the mail.

The fire in Mrs. Jones's eye flamed brighter. Nothing exasperated her as did Bill's refusal to take her tempers seriously. It was not easy to do all of the fighting--one reason why Bill usually succeeded in carrying his idleness with a high hand. But this time she was not going to be ignored. The conference with Hammond and Thomas, the knowledge that he had been looking for his flask--that he was looking for it more for Zeb's sake than his own, this time, made no difference--as well as complaints by the guests because of Bill's tardiness with the mail, had exhausted her patience and whetted her into bringing Bill to quick order.

"Do you know what time it is?" She took a step closer to Bill, her voice retaining its hard ring.

Bill paid no attention to the question, but went on whistling and sorting the mail.

"It's after two o'clock!" She stamped her foot and glared at him.

Her glare fell on unseeing eyes, her tones on unheeding ears, for the uneven tenor of Bill's whistle kept up and the spasmodic sorting of the mail went on.

"Let's see," he said, softly, to himself, "Mrs. Taft's letter--she's in Number Four, ain't she?" he addressed his wife. Receiving no answer himself this time, he kept on with his soliloquy, changing the letter to its proper place. "There! that's right. This one," he said, holding the envelop to the light and studying it, "is for Mr. Thomas." He hesitated and looked at it more closely. Placing the other letters on the desk, he came from behind it and went toward Mrs. Jones.

Noting that Mrs. Jones was interested in the letter and that she had made a quick move toward him, he changed his mind and sauntered to the other side of the room, still scrutinizing the letter in his hand. As he paused, he placed the envelop close to his eyes and read, "Raymond Thomas Es-_Q._"

Mrs. Jones, her arms folded across her adamant breast, narrowed her eyes into a quizzical stare. Satisfied that her estimate of Bill's condition was correct, she hastened to verify it. Going close to him, she demanded, "Bill, have you been drinkin'?"

For once in his life Bill could prove his innocence. He was quick to avail himself of the opportunity, and, much to her surprise, he turned and blew his blameless breath at her.

Mrs. Jones relaxed, exclaiming, in tones of relief, "Thank the Lord!"

"What's He got to do with it?" Bill asked, quickly.

Mrs. Jones smiled. For the time being her manner was mollified. She followed him to the desk behind which he had returned to the mail-rack.

"You know," she explained, "it's 'way past dinner-time, and if you won't work, the least you can do is to be on time for your meals."

"I been workin'," Bill chirped, as he placed the last letter in its box and went toward the dining-room door.

Mrs. Jones placed herself in the middle of the room and in such a way that Bill could not reach his goal without pa.s.sing her. "What work have you been doin'?" The sarcasm in the glance which pierced Bill's s.h.i.+fting gaze did not pierce his good humor. He continued to chirp. "I got the mail."

"The mail?" There was contempt in his wife's question and in the answer she gave to it. "The mail came at ten o'clock."

"I got it, didn't I?" Bill registered another cheerful quip.

Suddenly Mrs. Jones's mind recurred to the day of the month. Her contempt gave place to anxiety and she stepped close to her husband and looked into his face again. "Bill, was there a letter for you?" she asked.

Bill did not answer her with words. Instead he looked away from her and shook his head slowly.

"Bill Jones," his wife persisted, her tones reverting to their former clear coldness, "didn't your pension come to-day?"

"To-day?" Bill smiled a self-congratulatory smile for the word which gave him the loophole of escape. Had his wife omitted that one word he would have, for his honor's sake, been forced to admit that he had it.

For it was a part of his peculiar code that under no circ.u.mstances was "mother" ever to be lied to. Prevarications, yes, but downright, indisputable lies, no. And that with vigorous emphasis. But now she had mentioned the day. The pension had not come to-day. It had reposed in his pocket since yesterday, where, true to his promise to John Marvin, it should remain until he had made up his mind to hand it over to his family. So he felt the coins in his pocket and looked up at her with a half-guilty grin, drawing out his words one by one, in halting tones.

"Not--to--day."

"Well, when it does come," she said, pleasantly, "Millie's going to go to Truckee with you and buy you some clothes. You gotta have some new ones for when we goes to the city."

It was on the tip of Bill's tongue to reaffirm, as he had countless times, that he was never going to the city as long as he lived; but he had begun to realize in the last few days that tact must enter into his negotiations with his dissatisfied spouse. So he responded, mildly, "I got clothes enough."

Mrs. Jones made an impatient gesture and tossed her head in dismay. "I don't know what's got into you, Bill Jones. When you came courtin' me you had good clothes."