# The Trail Rider/Chapter 26

"AND you're a goin' to wear your shoes," said Uncle Boley.
"Yes, sir, I'll save my boots till I get back in the saddle again. I'd only wear 'em out trampin' along over the road in 'em, sir—they're too good for that."
"If I had my way, Texas, you never would leave this country on foot. You'd go on a train or a horse, if I had my say. Oh, well, if I had my downright way, you wouldn't leave at all."
"You've been too kind to me already, Uncle Boley, and I haven't done anything in return but show you what a fool feller I am for mussin' and muddlin' things up. I'm through here; if I was to stay on any longer I'd get my foot into it again, somehow, and I'll just bet you a purty I would."
They were in Uncle Boley's shop, and it was late afternoon of the day following Fannie Goodnight's death. They had seen her lowered into her bed in the bare, melancholy cemetery, and Texas was now making ready for the road. The work that time had been saving for him in Cottonwood, ​as he often thought, was finished. His listening and straining, hopes and heart-burnings were at an end in that place. As he came to Cottonwood, like a bird blown far from its native haunts by the storm, so he would leave.
He had gathered nothing but sorrow there, and cares which left their mark in new lines in his solemn, homely face. Perhaps, in the great prearrangement, there had been something else set down to his labors beyond that unfriendly land. A man must go on until he found his place.
His boots were rolled in his blanket, together with his brave black coat. This roll he must carry on his back, for he hadn't money enough left out of the expense of Fannie's burial to buy one leg of a horse.
Hartwell's last word had thrown Uncle Boley into a silent and speculative spell. He sat on his work-bench out of old habit, although dressed in his alpaca coat and derby hat, looking out of his dusty window with fixed stare.
"Yes, that might be so, might be so," he sighed. "Change and doin's seems to be the lot of some folks, peace and easy goin' of others. I've been makin' boots for fifty years and more, and I've made many a pair that men's tromped off in to git rich, or git shot, but I've just kep' right on makin' boots. It wasn't laid out for me to do anything ​else, I reckon; I couldn't 'a' changed it if I'd 'a' tried."
"Maybe not, sir."
"I was aimin' and hopin' to see you settled down here, Texas. There must be something laid out for you besides roamin' and lookin' and never findin'. I wish I could tell you what it is."
"I wish I could tell myself, Uncle Boley, sir."
"I'm put out, and I'm put out worse than I ever was over anything in my life, over the way Sallie's acted up. It ain't like her—she must know them cow-men cleared you, and she ought to be big enough to come in here like a man and tell you she's glad."
"Maybe she isn't a bit glad, sir," said Texas, sadly.
"Yes, she is, dang her little melts! She's holdin' Fannie ag'in you, that's what's eatin' her. Well, if she knew—"
"She mustn't know, sir," Texas interposed, hastily. "Anyhow, not till I'm gone and out of the way."
"I ain't decided she deserves to know at all, Texas. If a woman ain't got faith enough in a man—"
"You can't blame her, sir, at all. It looked bad—even you thought I wasn't straight for a little while."
​"But I guess it might be good for her to tell her, when you're gone, and let her grieve. Snap judgment ain't fair to a man, and it's harder on a woman, every time. I took it on you that day, but I wasn't so bull-headed I couldn't be reasoned out of it, was I, Texas?"
"You've al-ways been mighty liberal with me, Uncle Boley, even when things looked bad."
"Yes, and I wanted you to like Sallie, tooth and toe-nail, dang the luck! But I'm done with women, I'm through. I ain't a goin' to marry no more; I'm a goin' to take my pen in hand to-night and write to that girl up in Topeky and tell her she don't need to bother about comin' down to look at m' teeth, I'll tell her I lost the last one of 'em I could chaw on this afternoon."
Texas said nothing, although he applauded Uncle Boley's resolution in his heart. For he knew that if Gertie Moorehead ever came to Cottonwood she would marry the old man for his pension. There was the look of a home-hunter in her starved eyes, as hungry as a lost hound's.
"I guess Sallie and her mother woti't be needin' me no more, either, since they've got money agin," Uncle Boley said, very sadly.
"Surely, sir, that never can make any difference between them and you. Gratitude for what you've been to them will hold them your friends."
​"You can't tell, Texas. Money makes a big difference in people sometimes. Well, sir, there's a good many people here thinks they ought to turn that money over to the bank directors till they can straighten things up. You know, Stott never mentioned that forged note, and nobody else but me and you and Johnnie Mackey knows. Maybe Sallie she'll be fool enough to give it up."
"She mustn't be allowed to, sir, you must tell the people of this town about the forgery, and tell Miss Sallie about it as soon as I'm gone, I expect. Give poor little Fannie the credit for it all, Uncle Boley, and keep my name out of it as much as you can. I was only the instrument, she was the force back of it."
"I'll think it over, Texas, and I'll figger out what to tell her, somehow. I guess your first stop'll be at Colby's ranch?"
"Yes, sir, I'll go there and tell Fannie's relations. Maybe they'll need a hand this fall, and I can work there long enough to buy me a horse. If I can, I'll ride back here and see you before I light out for home—for Taixas—down on the Nueces, sir, where I used to be at."
"I'd give—if I was young and could go with you, Texas—I'd give all the world owes me, or ever owed me. I'd give it all!"
It was almost sundown when Uncle Boley and ​Texas paused for their parting on the southern edge of Cottonwood. Uncle Boley had insisted on going with him that far, clinging pathetically to his slipping hold on this friend of his age.
"It'll be dark before you've went very fur, Texas," he said, putting off the last word in the useless way that one will do when parting is inevitable, and the bitterness of tears is rising to the tongue.
"It won't matter, Uncle Boley; I can foller my way."
Texas stood looking off into the south, his head held high, his blanket in a military roll over his shoulder.
"There's not much down there for me but recollections now, but a man loves the place that's been kind to him, and his feet ache to start back to it when his troubles come too fast."
"Maybe you won't like it when you git back there, Texas?" Uncle Boley spoke hopefully, looking up at his young friend's yearning face.
"No man can tell, sir."
"If you don't, you can come back; you can always come back, Texas."
"Sir, thank you kindly. And I'll be rackin' on."
Texas unbuckled the revolver that Uncle Boley had given him and handed it back to the old man.
​"What're you aimin' to do, Texas?" Uncle Boley inquired in surprise.
"I've worn it, sir, to the last minute, hatin' to give it up, but this is our partin'-line, Uncle Boley, and I'm puttin' it back in your hands. You gave it to me, and I'm restorin' it through you to Miss Sallie. Give it to her, sir, and tell her the man that wore it last went away with a doubt in his heart of his worthiness. She never come to say a word!"
Uncle Boley took the pistol without protest, for there was not the strength of protest in his crushed old heart. He could see Texas in wavering outline through his tears, and Texas was still looking away into the south like one watching the receding shores of country and home.
"I'm going away from you-all, Uncle Boley, sir," he said, "but I'm leavin' my heart staked out here behind me. It'll pull back on me like a rock."
He turned to the old man in a moment, his face illumined by his transforming smile.
"Good-by, Uncle Boley, and good luck to you, sir, wherever you may be."
Uncle Boley's farewell choked in his throat. He clung to Hartwell's hand and went trailing beside him, toddling like a child, heartbroken to see him go. Texas patted his hand as if giving him assurance and benediction, gently broke his clasp, and hurried down the slope.
​The old man stood looking after him until he mounted the knoll beyond, and passed over the top out of sight. Then he returned to the spot where he had dropped the revolver, and sat down, his forehead bowed upon his knees, and wept.
There came the sound of a horse slowly ridden through the grass, its quickening pace, its sudden stopping close behind his back. Uncle Boley resented this trespass upon his grief, for he was far from any traversed road, out on the unfenced, unmown prairie lands. He did not lift his head.
Somebody came running to his side; he could hear the short breath of excitement.
"Why, Uncle Boley! What's the matter—are you hurt?"
"Yes, Sallie, I'm hurt; I'm hurt bad!"
She was on her knees beside him, stroking his hand, looking into his face with fright in her sorrowful brown eyes, anxiety in her sympathetic voice.
"Who did it?" she whispered, the sight of the revolver, which she knew too well, bringing a rush of horrible, strangling suspicion.
"You done it!" said Uncle Boley, bitterly. He disengaged her hand, pushed her away, got to his feet.
"I did it? Why, Uncle Boley, I wouldn't—"
"I was a friend to you, and I stood by you—here, ​take this gun and go on home, before I say something to you that don't become me!"
Sallie stood looking at him, her face bloodless, making no effort to take the proffered weapon.
"The man that wore it last left it here a little while ago and walked away over that hill, and left my old age as barren as the top of a rock. I've lived nearly eighty year, and I've got to meet the man that's equal to him in honor and kindness of heart—but he's gone. He said for me to hand this gun back to you. Here—take it, and go on home!"
She reached out for it, but her eyes were not with her hand. She was looking away into the south, with something of the same yearning in her face as the old man had seen in Hartwell's but a little while before.
"Isn't he coming back any more, Uncle Boley?" she asked, her voice very small, a tremor in it, no pride in her quick young heart.
"What's he got to come back for? His work's done."
She dropped the heavy pistol and belt at her feet, and a little flush of color came into her face.
"I suppose his world is empty now," she said.
"Well, yours ain't," said Uncle Boley, rather sharply. "You've got your sixty thousand dollars, but you wouldn't 'a' had sixty cents if it hadn't been for that poor girl we put away under the sod to-day. ​Yes, you can look up, and jump, and turn white. You ain't worthy to drop a clod as big as the end of your finger on her coffin, Miss Sallie McCoy!"
"Oh, Uncle Boley, what do you mean?" she appealed.
"This has been a day of partin' and goin's away," said Uncle Boley heavily. "I'll set down, Sallie, and I'll tell you something you've got to know for the good of your soul."
She dropped to the grass beside him, afraid of his portentous manner, shocked by the seeming brutality of his words. Uncle Boley sat a little while looking in the direction that Hartwell had gone, and by and by he took off his hat and laid it on the grass at his side.
"Well, he's gone now; I'll not be breakin' my word to him if I tell you, Sallie. I guess it's only right for you to know, no matter if it does take the hide off somewhere."
So Uncle Boley told her the story of Fannie Goodnight, and how she came into Texas Hartwell's life, and what she had been to him. And when he came to that part of it Sallie covered her face with her hands and burst out crying, sobbing and moaning as if the grave had opened at her feet and swallowed the best that the world contained for her.
"I knew he didn't care for her—I knew he was ​honest—and I was ashamed to go back and tell him!"
"Just a fool fit of jealousy, and look what you done."
"He's gone away thinkin' I'm ungrateful, and a mean, proud, foolish thing!"
"Maybe not. He was too good and square to think hard of other folks, especially when he—where've you been trapesin' around to, Sallie?"
"I went down to Duncan's night before last, Uncle Boley. I'm going home."
"Oh, you did? Had to go down and let 'em know you're rich agin, did you?"
"I went to take him the word that Stott sent us before he ran away with the bank's money, Uncle Boley."
"Did that dish-faced Dutch houn' send word to you that Texas wasn't to blame for them fever cattle, Sallie?"
"Yes, Uncle Boley," she replied softly, her face turned away still, the flush deeper over her cheeks and neck.
"And you took your horse in the night and went tearin' off to Duncan's alone to tell him?"
"It wasn't anything to what she—the other one—did for him," she said, her words almost a whisper, her eyes cast down.
"No," Uncle Boley admitted, with ungenerous ​readiness, it seemed, "it wasn't. But every little helps, Sallie; every little helps. It shows your heart wasn't half as foolish as your tongue."
She put her arm around the old man's neck and suddenly hid her face on his shoulder, crying again as if there was nothing left between the seas to console her.
"I loved him so, Uncle Boley! Oh, I loved him so!"
Uncle Boley stroked her hair, the light back in his kind blue eyes. He felt her body shake with the grief that hurt her soul.
"Well, I don't know what we can do about it now, Sallie," he said. But a smile moved his beard as he looked southward and saw a figure rise a little hill, and stand a moment as if already the backward strain of his heart was making his road harder than he could bear.
A little while; Sallie sat up again. She laid her hand tenderly on the stock of the pistol that Texas had left behind.
"I wish he had his gun, Uncle Boley."
"I reckon he does too, Sallie. But he felt he didn't have no right to it without a word from you."
"Did he—did he—buy a new one, Uncle Boley?"
"No, he never, Sallie. Just took it off down here and handed it to me and went on his way without no more gun on him than a rabbit."
​"I wish he had it," said she, looking anxiously over the prairie.
She stood on her knees, looking still; but Texas had passed over the knoll and out of sight. Uncle Boley smiled. There was another knoll beyond, and another, and onward to the horizon, like the swells of a peaceful sea.
"I wish he had it," she said again, slowly, her voice very sad and low, as if she whispered her wish after him to find him on his lonely way.
"Well, if I was as young as I was sixty years ago I'd hop a horse and take it to him. But I ain't; I ain't been on a horse no tellin' when."
Sallie was standing, looking away into the hazy south, straining forward a little, her lips open, her breath coming fast.
"How long has he been gone, Uncle Boley?"
"Oh, fifteen or twenty minutes."
"He can't be very far away yet."
"No, I don't reckon he's so fur a horse couldn't ketch him."
"Why, I believe—I do—I do see him!"
"Sure enough!" said Uncle Boley, feigning great surprise. "Well, darn that feller's slow shanks! he ain't went more'n a mile."
"Do you suppose he'd think—if I went, do you suppose—"
"No tellin'," Uncle Boley replied gravely, his ​blue eyes growing brighter, his old beard twitching as if a wind moved in it about his lips.
Sallie was straining as if she projected her soul into the south after the lone traveler who stood dark-lined against the sky. She held her hands out as if she called him; the cool wind of sunset was in her light-moving hair.
"Would you come back, Texas, if I'd go to you and tell you I'm sorry and unworthy, but lonesome—oh, so lonesome! Would you come back—home?"
She seemed unconscious of Uncle Boley's presence, calling her appeal after that dark figure no bigger in the distance than a finger held against the sky. The old man took the revolver from the ground, threw the belt over the pommel of her saddle, and came leading the horse forward. Uncle Boley made a gesture with his hand as if sweeping her away. She leaped into the saddle and galloped swiftly to her heart's desire.
The old man stood looking after her as the south drew her on, smaller with the rising of each successive swell.
"Her heart's a flyin' to him like a dove," he said. "Well, do you reckon he'll come back?"