He had picked up the book which Lawlor had just laid
down.
“Oh, I read a bit now and then,” said
the cowpuncher easily, “but I ain’t much
on booklearnin’.”
Bard was turning the pages slowly. The title,
whose meaning dawned slowly on his astonished mind
as a sunset comes in winter over a grey landscape,
was The Critique of Pure Reason. He turned the
book over and over in his hands. It was well
thumbed.
He asked, controlling his voice: “Are you
fond of Kant?”
“Eh?” queried the other.
“Fond of this book?”
“Yep, that’s one of my favourites.
But I ain’t much on any books.”
“However,” said Bard, “the story
of this is interesting.”
“It is. There’s some great stuff
in it,” mumbled Lawlor, trying to squint at
the title, which he had quite overlooked during the
daze in which he first picked it up.
Bard laid the book aside and out of sight.
“And I like the characters, don’t you?
Some very close work done with them.”
“Yep, there’s a lot of narrow escapes.”
“Exactly. I’m glad that we agree
about books.”
“So’m I. Feller can kill a lot of time
chinning about books.”
“Yes, I suppose a good many people have killed
time over this book.”
And as he smiled genially upon the cowpuncher, Bard
felt a great relief sweep over him, a mighty gladness
that this was not Drew—that this looselipped
gabbler was not the man who had written the epitaph
over the tomb of Joan Piotto. He lied about the
book; he had lied about it all. And knowing that
this was not Drew, he felt suddenly as if someone were
watching him from behind, someone large and grey and
stern of eye, like the giant who had spoken to him
so long before in the arena at Madison Square Garden.
A game was being played with him, and behind that
game must be Drew himself; all Bard could do was to
wait for developments.
The familiar, booming voice of Shorty Kilrain echoed
through the house:
“Supper!”
And the loud clangour of a bell supported the invitation.
“Chow-time,” breathed Lawlor heavily,
like one relieved at the end of a hard shift of work.
“I figure you ain’t sorry, son?”
“No,” answered Bard, “but it’s
too bad to break off this talk. I’ve learned
a lot.”
THE STAGE
“You first,” said Lawlor at the door.
“I’ve been taught to let an older man
go first,” said Bard, smiling pleasantly.
“After you, sir.”
“Any way you want it, Bard,” answered
Lawlor, but as he led the way down the hall he was
saying to himself, through his stiffly mumbling lips:
“He knows! Calamity was right; there’s
going to be hell poppin’ before long.”
He lengthened his stride going down the long hall
to the dining-room, and entering, he found the cowpunchers
about to take their places around the big table.
Straight toward the head to the big chair he stalked,
and paused an instant beside little Duffy. Their
interchange of whispers was like a muffled rapid-fire,
for they had to finish before young Bard, now just
entering the room, could reach them and take his designated
chair at the right of Lawlor.
