The Project Gutenberg eBook of The man from Oregon This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: The man from Oregon Author: Mary Arbuckle Illustrator: Frank B. Hoffman Neysa McMein Release date: April 10, 2026 [eBook #78410] Language: English Original publication: New York: The McCall Company, 1930 Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78410 Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM OREGON *** [Illustration: “Ploughin’ ain’t nothin’ to her! An I’ve saw her rope and tie a steer quick as any man.”] THE MAN FROM OREGON By Mary Arbuckle Illustrated by Frank Hoffman Far beyond the rim of cities these things happen, for in the midst of loneliness realities often lie just over the edge of dreams. The Brownlie woman and her children were at supper, eating in their usual depressing silence. Kendall left the table and plunged into the sunset glamor of the out-of-doors. The small yard gate, weighted with a wired stone, slammed behind him. He paused and looked out over the canyon, drawing a deep breath at its beauty. “A landscape in a dream,” thought Kendall. But from infinite distance to the dream’s very edge, encroached the dun, incredibly level plains. And that forlorn and hideous little house from which he was fleeing! It squatted there, a toad on the brink of this wonder. He straightened his shoulders, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his new riding breeches and swung off on the road leading out of the horse pasture. A spare, graying man, wearing eyeglasses and an expression of worry. He had the nervous and kindly face of a schoolmaster, which, in fact, he was. He must, he decided, get away from this place for a few days. He had been tempted to clear out entirely, but he had paid a month’s board in advance and couldn’t afford to lose the remaining three weeks. His convalescent, city-worn nerves had craved the open. The remnants of his savings and of his vacation, which illness had not consumed, he had come to spend on this ranch in the Southwest. He had hoped, when planning the trip, that the region possessed at least some tinge of that charm so lavishly depicted in western novels and moving pictures. Of course, he admitted to himself, he had known it wouldn’t _really_ be like that. But to have it turn out so humdrum, so devoid of color ... It was all like a grim, practical joke at his expense; coming to this forlorn place run by a hag of a woman. Kendall came to a pause at the big gate that opened into the pasture and stood with his arms on the top rail. He felt himself prey to piercing melancholy, and started walking quickly back to the house. He would see the woman and arrange to go on the thirty mile drive to Tulia in the morning. He would stay in the town a day or two, get his mail, buy a stock of papers and magazines and, thus fortified, return, and try to live out the rest of his month. With an inward sigh, he relinquished the last vestige of his dream of cowboys, roundups and romance. The ever-changing beauty of the canyon had more than offset coarse food and a hard bed; the pure air admirably fitted the doctor’s prescription; yet it was no antidote to this atmosphere of human hopelessness. He had wished to be among the plains people of romance; and instead he was daily confronted with their tragedy as epitomized in Mrs. Brownlie and her children. Her strident voice assailed him before he had reached the yard: “Here you, Andy! Run out them hogs--they’re rooten’ in the garden! Ain’t I told you to keep watchin’ out?” Andy, the youngest of the three boys, leaped into action: a scrawny, small figure in blue overalls. With the help of two dogs there followed a commotion of shouting, barking and squealing; and the invasion was put to rout. The incident was typical, thought Kendall, of the harassing inefficiency of the place: the fences had been unrepaired for so long that an endless driving out of the hogs had come to be the accepted means of restricting them. The cattle and a cultivated field east of the house, known as “the feed patch” were the dominant points of interest in the lives of these people; and so completely did the care of these drain their strength that they appeared hardly conscious that there could be other demands in life. As Kendall opened the gate, the little girl, Lily, was sitting on the porch steps nibbling half-heartedly at the last bit of her supper--a biscuit soaked in molasses. The brown molasses streaked her small, delicately pretty face, and she brushed back yellow curls with sticky fingers. Lily was the only member of the family on whom the curse of toil had not fallen; her problem was a superfluity of leisure and a dearth of playmates. The mother’s consistent, fierce refusals to allow the child to help about the house, even when she cried to do so, were to Kendall a much-pondered anomaly. It must be that in the shrunken woman--with whom it was difficult to connect even a tradition of beauty--some memory, some realization had kept alive and created this complex which made her exclude Lily from even the lightest of manual work. “No, you cain’t peel them potatoes,” the mother would say; “it’ll spoil your hands.” And: “Don’t let me ketch you weedin’ in that garden again--you’re tanned enough a’ready!” But Lily was not tanned. The few freckles across her snub nose only served to accentuate the transparency of her delicate little face. She was kept perpetually “dressed up.” Kendall noted the daintiness of her blue linen frock, white socks and kid slippers; incongruous in this environment. She responded dimly to the friendly smile he gave her. He walked to the back of the house and stood in the doorway of the hot kitchen which was filled with the hum of swarming flies and the clatter of dish washing. “I’d like to go to Tulia tomorrow, Mrs. Brownlie. Could you let me have the team?” She looked up from her dishpan vaguely. “I reckon.” Her voice was flat and lifeless. “Could you spare it for two days?” “I reckon so,” she said as before, going on with her work. She hung the dishpan on a nail behind the stove and dragged from the closet a barrel churn. The thing was heavy, unwieldy; and Kendall stepped forward to take it. “Wouldn’t you like it outside where it’s cooler?” he asked. “Well, yes,” she said indifferently. He set it on the ground and placed a chair for her. When she had poured in the cream and was swinging the churn by its handle, Kendall seated himself on the doorstep and watched her. His mind reviewed the half-heeded gossip he had heard from the man who had brought him out from town: “Worthless cuss, Emmet Brownlie was,” Hastings had said. “’Bout as good dead as livin’, I reckon. Helluva time the woman’s had a-raisin’ them four younguns an’ runnin’ the ranch. She done nigh all the work about the place till the boys got old enough to he’p her. Ploughin’ ain’t nothin’ to her! Why, I’ve saw her rope an’ tie a steer quick as any man--an’ her not bigger’n a minute neither. She cain’t quite make it when it comes to bulldoggin’ ’em, though.” Small wonder such feats had left her body warped and spent of resiliency! Yet it was not the woman’s physical aspect alone that made her charmless; she was soddenly unresponsive, with a queer blank look, as of something dead, in her eyes. She directed the activities of her sons with a passionless harshness; even her scolding was mechanical. Only in her adamantine determination that Lily should not work, did she show feeling; a fierceness entirely disproportionate to the decision she clung to. Yet Kendall had never seen her caress the child or even glance at her tenderly. Emmet came toward them from the sheds carrying the full milk pails. He was sixteen, with a loose-hung body and dull, accepting eyes. “Takes after his father,” Hastings had told Kendall. The boy went into the kitchen and when he came out, his mother spoke without glancing at him: “Keep up the roans tonight. Mr. Kendall’s goin’ to Tulia to-morrer.” “All right,” said Emmet, and slouched back to the barn. The butter had “come”; and the woman ladled it out and put it away with despatch. Then, emerging from the kitchen, she made for the wire fence with her loping stride, and began to take down the wash she had that morning strung there to dry. The coarser garments, overalls, shirts and aprons, bordered two sides of the yard, while Lily’s dainty little dresses had a space to themselves near the front gate. As the woman’s bent figure moved along the fence in the fading light, stacking the garments in her arms, she looked like a gnome fantastically overshadowed by a huge burden. Kendall rose and, to escape the sight of her, walked to the windmill. The stars had come out in a deepening sky. He could see the dark figures of the boys moving about the sheds; they were throwing bundles of hay over the fence to the horses in a lot. One of them was whistling--Oscar, of course. The small figure of Andy, the eight-year-old, approached Kendall on his way to the house. “Hello, there,” called Kendall, with forced cheeriness. The child turned his head slightly, made an indistinguishable murmur, and padded by in the dusk. It was uncanny for even children to be so queer and unapproachable. They never played like real children; perhaps they didn’t know how. They were all too busy to play, except Lily. Poor Lily! Her lonely, time-swamped childhood was as tragic as the overwork of her growing brothers. And the mother’s attitude toward her lent that mother a tinge of mystery. * * * * * “Naw,” drawled “Old Man” Givens, Proprietor of the Tulia House; “ain’t nothin’ in this here dry farmin’--Maw an’ me has tried it out. Looks like the woman’s bound to get a raw deal in this country any way you fix it. There’s that Miz Brownlie where you’re stoppin’. I reckon she’s had it worse’n any. What with Emmet always ailin’ an’ the work of two men, besides raisin’ them children--looks like it would a killed her.” “It has,” said Kendall. “How’s that?” Mr. Givens cupped his hand behind his ear. “How long has Mrs. Brownlie’s husband been dead?” asked Kendall, in a louder tone. “Goin’ on three months now,” the old man answered, with the calm satisfaction he always displayed when dispensing news. “Lung trouble he had. Was in pore health for years. Used to work for the Bar V’s till they fired him. But she stuck by him. They got that place they’re at now by her managin’. Mebbe you wouldn’t believe it, but Miz Brownlie used to be a good-lookin’ woman. Yessir, about the purtiest in these parts. They don’t stay that way long out here. It’s a hard old country--‘hard on women an’ horses’, as the sayin’ goes.” Mr. Givens let his chair tilt back; his feet on the railing, spare old body humped into a bow, he gazed from under beetling brows. The nondescript small-town street, which held his keen gaze, became, at a point not far away, a gleaming prairie road. He was reviewing, Kendall fancied, the perfidies of this land which lured men into settling on its plains, only to make sport of them. Suddenly he realized that it rested him, body and soul--the sun-soaked monotony of this baffling treeless earth; the desultory noises of the tiny town; the bare directness of this high land, that lifted itself strangely in pictures against this sky. Too bad nothing ever happened here! Givens had told him that nothing ever happened, except the vicissitudes of those who wrestled with nature. Color in the lives of its people was what it lacked: They had no enthusiasm, no imagination-- Then Kendall realized he was judging them all by that one pathetic creature--the Brownlie woman. No, not pathetic; pathos was usually associated with passionate suffering, and she was devoid of feeling. The slamming of the screen door startled him. Looking up, he caught the round-eyed gaze of Miss Irene, one of the few steady boarders at the Tulia house. She sauntered by him and sank heavily into a rocker at the other end of the porch. To the masculine population of Tulia, she was an arresting figure. The thin purple sweater which she wore was cut low and showed a thick, white neck. Her short, white skirt revealed thick, silk-stockinged legs as she rocked slowly. A be-spurred young man with pulled-down hat brim and an air of moroseness appeared, almost instantly, from around the corner of the house, and sat near her on the porch. “Old Man” Givens rose and gave Kendall an elaborate wink. “Most train time,” he said, stretching himself stiffly. “Better be gettin’ the old bus out, I reckon.” He went down the steps and across the street to the combination garage and livery stable. Presently, from a rattling flivver, he waved his hand to Kendall. And the long whistle of the Santa Fe East-bound stirred the town from its afternoon slumbers. * * * * * When Mr. Givens returned and stopped his car before his hostelry, he lifted out several heavy “grips,” but no passenger followed. “Feller ’lowed he’d walk,” he announced to Kendall and Miss Irene. “Lookin’ ’round at things int’rested like. He’s come a fur piece--tag on this here grip says South Fork, Oregon. Name’s Andrew Rogers ... Here he comes now.” A tall man wearing a long, and tenderly cared for, moustache, crossed the dusty glare of the street. He looked a ranchman, with his big felt hat and the negligent hang of his best clothes; but his cheeks had a mountain-air clearness instead of the brickish tan of the men of that calling. He was, too, without their dry gauntness, and his walk was quicker than that of the plainsman. Taking off his hat he mopped a damp brow and gave a general, stiff bow to the group on the porch. “Come right in,” said Mr. Givens. Through the door, Kendall saw him remove his coat before hunching his tall figure to the laborious business of registering. Half an hour later he saw him again as he descended the stairs, bathed and shining, wearing a fresh, soft-collared shirt. His eyes were very blue and keen, for all their ingenuousness. The guests of the Tulia House conformed, for the most part, to the etiquette of the plains, which rules that a serious businesslike eating should be accomplished with little conversation. The stranger disposed of his supper at the general table in a state of bland abstraction. Miss Irene’s overtures, such as, “You’re from Oregon, ain’t you, Mr. Rogers?” Or--“Did you come through Kansas City?”--were finally discouraged by his polite but absent and repeated: “Yes ma’m.” Kendall saw that with the mysterious clairvoyance of her kind, Miss Irene had picked the newcomer as worth while. After the meal the two men went out on the porch and sat near each other. “By the way, who is she, anyway?” Rogers asked with the casual free-masonry of one plainsman to another, jerking his thumb toward the door. Kendall laughed, feeling himself an old and well-informed inhabitant. “Why, she’s a manicurist. Didn’t you know Tulia House had one?” “A manicurist? Well, I swear! What does she _do_ here? Ain’t no one in Tulia has their nails filed, is there?” “No,” laughed Kendall. “Mr. Givens tells me it was the joke of the town two months ago. She said a cattleman she had met in Kansas City told her there was a fine opening here for a first-class manicurist; cowboys being very particular about their nails.” “And she believed him?” chuckled the man from Oregon. “Shame!” “I guess she didn’t exactly,” said Kendall. “She gets on pretty well, a fellow named Hastings told me.” “Oh! So she’s _that_ kind, is she? I never like to judge a lady by appearances.” A phonograph in the parlor began screaming and gritting a last season’s fox trot. Kendall’s companion settled into pleased relaxation. “I sure do love music,” he said. After the fox trot, a tinny soprano frankly proclaimed: “Darling, I am growing o-old, Silver threads among the gold Shine upon my brow toda-ay, Life is fading fast away.... And received from a muffled bass the ever-touching reassurance: “Yet, my darling, you will be-ee Always young and fair to me....” The eyes of the man from Oregon, gazing into Tulia’s gathering dusk, became glassy and rapt. “That’s sure a good song,” he muttered at its close. Then he surprised Kendall by rising abruptly. “Reckon I’ll go for a little walk.” And he bolted down the steps. Kendall smiled as he watched his big figure merge into the evening shadows. He interested him strangely. His freshness and vigor set him apart from these slow, tired people. He was simpler than they were; and in his eyes was a spark of something they had lost, or never had--a child’s belief in romance. That was it: To him all sorts of impossible things existed--the extravagant constancy set forth in that song, for example. Kendall felt refreshed in his presence and waited with a kind of excitement for him to appear out of the quiet night. He waited an hour. Mr. Givens was the only other occupant of the porch. Rogers came and sat between the two men, but his manner was without repose. “Do you reckon,” he said, “I can get a car early tomorrow to go out in the country a piece?” “Well, about a car now, I don’t know,” said the landlord. “You see the fair’s on at Amariller, an’ most of the automobiles is taken. But I could let you have a buggy an’ team. Where was you aimin’ to go?” “About thirty mile west--Brownlie’s, I believe the name is.” “Oh, the Widder Brownlie’s! Well, in that case, this feller here, Mr. Kendall’s, got the Widder’s team in town now.” “He has!” Rogers seemed startled. “Why, yes,” said Kendall, “I’m going back tomorrow. I can take you out if you’d like.” “He boards out thar,” explained Givens as Rogers did not answer. “Oh, I see.” Rogers spoke abruptly. “Yeah, sure I’d like to go with you.” “Glad of that!” Kendall’s voice was boyishly eager. “Reckon it’s cattle you’re interested in out there,” said Mr. Givens. “Yes,” the man answered absently. “Well, you don’t want to overlook the Hastings steers while you’re out that way. The Widder Brownlie’s is a runty lot, I hear.” “Yeah, yeah, sure!” Rogers grew silent; a motionless, dark bulk, staring into the spangled night. Givens yawned and went off to bed. Kendall, about to go too, heard the man beside him softly humming a tune--it was “Silver Threads among the Gold.” * * * * * “And so this feller aims to come back to the Panhandle some day to get his girl.” Rogers, driving, clucked to the horses. “It’s quite a while back since that chap lived in these parts.” Ten miles of the journey were accomplished. The two men were alone in a sun-swamped world. A light wind flapped the curtains of Mrs. Brownlie’s rattling hack. “It must be an interesting story,” said Kendall. “The little you’ve told me shows that romance once lived might go on living--even here.” “Yeah,” said Rogers, a bit hazily. “Them was great days.” He lapsed into a silent reverie; then, suddenly, went on: “Sort of a decent fellow he is, a neighbor of mine now, in Oregon. Nothing out of the ordinary, you understand, though he was good at his job in the old days when we both lived out here. We done broncho breaking mostly. Was with the Bar V’s. Reckon you’ve heard of the Bar V’s. The fellow worked for that outfit ten years; from the time he was seventeen and ran away from home in South Texas when his Maw died. He might be workin’ for them yet if all this I’m tellin’ you hadn’t happened. You see, he fell in love with a woman out here--a married woman; and she made him go clear away when she found out how things was. It seems she cared for him. “She and her man had come up from Wichita. None of the boys ever could figure out how the Bar V’s come to hire this husband of hers for the job at Turkey Creek--he was no cowman. Reckon he claimed to be, though. Well, he wasn’t much good on the job from the start; and didn’t take long to lie down on it flat and say he had to have another man to help him at the camp. Not but two pastures to ride, mind you! “Them Bar V’s was a white bunch--never fired him till they had to and that was five year later--and they sent this friend of mine to Turkey Creek that summer. That’s when he first saw her. “He’d heard she was a looker--not a man in the outfit but would a rode ten miles any day for a sight of her--but he hadn’t no idy she was like she was--sorter delicate and different. Big gray eyes with long, black lashes, and shy. Not a woman for this country. “And looks wasn’t all with her, like they are with a heap that’s uncommon pretty--she had sense and a kind heart. Was always mighty nice to the boys when they come round, cookin’ ’em fancy dishes an’ mendin’ up their clothes. She liked this country fine, bein’ new to it. Turkey Creek’s in the canyon, you know, where there’s right pretty scenery about--she always made a heap of that. Used to say she wisht she lived on the caprock where she could see it all spread out. But she wasn’t the sort to moon ’round when there was work to do--had hustle enough for him and her both. “This fellow--the one I’m tellin’ you about--soon got on to the fact that her husband was a lunger. He never seemed to care for nothin’ but smokin’ an’ readin’ paper-backs. Didn’t have no git-up--could a got well if he had. She used to try everything, even to he’pin’ this friend of mine with the broncs; and oncet scared him most to death ridin’ a bad smoke-horse. Husband didn’t give a darn what she done--never took no proper care of her. “Well, the fellow knowed how he felt about her from the first day he seen her, but wouldn’t a let on if he’d died for it--aimed to hang around and sorter make things easy for her. Then one day after he’d been there two months, he got throwed by Lightnin’ Bolt.... When he come to, his head was in her lap an’ she was cryin’ like her heart would break. They was off from the house a ways--she’d gone along on her little Indian pony to herd his bronc from the wire. He begged her to leave her husband, but she wouldn’t do it--she’d been brought up old-fashioned and strict. Said as long as he wasn’t mean to her, and bein’ he was sort of sick she’d have to stan’ by him. She promised him if ever she was free she’d marry him. So that’s why he aims to come back here for her. “You’d ought to see his place in Oregon, a neat little ranch at the foot of a mountain. They’d laugh at you if you called it a ranch down here, but up there a fellow doesn’t need all outdoors to make a livin’ on. Up there it’s nothin’ like these parched plains that never will be plumb saddle-broke for civilization. Mountains and trees--plenty of green. Everything grows--crops and flowers--you ought to see the flowers!” “A charming story,” Kendall exclaimed. “Unswerving devotion to one woman!” * * * * * Rogers was as sentimental over it, Kendall saw, as he had been over that song last night; as sentimental as if it were his own story. His voice had been husky as he ended the story. His face was turned away and Kendall suspected that his eyes were moist. “He’s been hearing from her all these years, I suppose,” said Kendall. His companion started. “Not a line. That was how she wanted it--she was a married woman. But he’s took the county paper an’ kep’ up some that way. He seen when they left Turkey Creek, and when--when her other children come.” “Was it really tuberculosis her husband had? How does he know she’ll ever be free?” “Yeah, it was t.b. all right. And he _knows_, don’t you forget it; he knows!” Kendall could have sworn there was exultation in the tone. Strange for Rogers to feel his friend’s story so intensely--it must be his own story, of course! The disguise was extremely thin. Just such a man as Rogers would be capable of holding to his dream like that. Here was real drama. Kendall felt thrilled at his discovery. He wanted to make sure this idyll of the plains was really his. “This friend of yours, didn’t he get homesick? Of course he liked it out there where everything was so much better, but didn’t the very fact of its being so different from the plains make him blue at first?” “It sure did!” He must, Kendall mused, have read in that county paper of the death of the woman’s husband. He had said: “He _knows_, don’t you forget it--he knows.” Mrs. Brownlie’s husband had died of tuberculosis, “lung trouble,” Old man Givens had called it. And he, too, had worked for the Bar V’s, “till they fired him.” What a coincidence! “Mebby you wouldn’t believe it.” Givens had said, “but Miz Brownlie used to be a good-lookin’ woman....” Kendall’s heart stood still with this shock. Everything in the story fitted hideously. “His name’s _Andrew_ Rogers--” Kendall suddenly remembered, and almost cried it aloud. Mrs. Brownlie’s youngest boy was Andy.... “Does your friend realize that by the time he comes back to get his sweetheart, she may have changed, so that he’ll hardly recognize her?” “Sure! He knows she’ll be changed--some. He expects that.” Kendall thought of the phonograph wailing--“Darling, I am growing o-old”; and it was all he could do to restrain a mirthless, hysterical laugh. Of course it would be by some such esthetic alteration that Rogers would picture her as changing in the years since he had left. Never would it occur to him, the romantic, that the cruel life of the country that was “hard on women and horses” could destroy her utterly; and leave in her place that melancholy travesty of womanhood. He passed his hand across his eyes as he tried to brush away a vision of this man when he should come face to face with reality. And the woman! He understood her now; understood her mania for shielding Lily. The child was a symbol to her mother of her own lost beauty. No merciful stolidity had protected the woman; she had been aware of what was happening to her. With what unspeakable bitterness she must have watched that gradual, terrible change in her beauty! They could see the house, still a good two miles away, and a narrow strip of the Paloduro. Rogers asked with elaborate casualness, “Isn’t that the Brownlie place?” Then began to whistle a swinging, cowboy lay about being “home, home, home on the plains, where the deer and the buffalo roam.” “This old plains air sure feels good to me,” he said, turning to Kendall with warm eyes. “I feel like gettin’ out an’ runnin’ a spell ’stead of settin’ in this buggy. Wisht I was a-horseback!” Kendall knew he would be galloping if he were, galloping and waving his hat and shouting. Something like a physical nausea gripped Kendall. There was nothing he could do for this man. It would be the sheerest impertinence to tell him that he had pierced the flimsy screen of his story, and then to warn him of its climax. * * * * * He thought hopefully that the woman might not recognize Rogers; he was probably clean-shaven when he left. There would be that possible chance for him to keep his identity secret if he wanted to. And, naturally he would want to when he saw her. He could go back then to Tulia, where Miss Irene thrived placidly. Yes, certainly Miss Irene! Kendall felt a weary cynicism. Her kind were the age-old solace for lost illusions; the sordid priestesses of Reality. And life always stood ready to punish those who set up other gods than Reality. It was about to punish Rogers mercilessly for his faithfulness to an ideal. Even more mercilessly had it punished Mrs. Brownlie for her sacrifice to duty; for not seizing and holding love while she had it. For love faded with the color and contours of human flesh--so little spiritual and enduring was this best thing that man had. Lily, in a little pink sunbonnet, was clinging to the gate at the horse pasture when they drove up. Her face was a rose-shaded flower. She turned away shyly from Rogers’ devouring stare. “Hello, sister,” he said, his lips twitching in a smile; “want to open the gate for us?” The child climbed down and swung it open--the big chain rattling as she let it drop. “Now you get in and ride to the house with us.” She came to the side of the buggy and Kendall lifted her to his lap. He tried not to see how the reins shook in Rogers’ hands. “So your name’s Lily, is it?” Again that transparent effort at casualness. “Named after your maw, hey?” “Yes, how’d you know?” “Oh, just guessed. Who’s that man down there in the field?” Rogers bent his head, trying to see the child’s face beneath her sunbonnet. She gave the smallest laugh. “That ain’t a man--it’s my brother. His name’s Emmet.” “Emmet!” Kendall saw the first shock in Rogers’ face. He felt a quick impatience with this man who seemed oblivious to what twelve years could do to the child, Emmet, he had known. He must, he felt, nurse this impatience; it was all that stood between him and some outbreak before the unbearable poignancy of what he knew was to follow. “Where’s your other brothers?” “They’s gone for the cows.” They drew up at the hitching post by the front gate and Kendall got down from the buggy. “Is your mother in the house, Lily?” he asked, knowing that Rogers could not voice the question. “Yes. She’s a-ironin’.” “Well, you tell her I’ve come back. I’m going for a little walk.” He opened the gate without looking at Rogers. His only thought was to get away while this horrible thing was happening. He walked rapidly toward the windmill. He wanted water; his mouth was very dry. He saw the woman coming toward him, carrying a bucket. She wore a blue-checked apron over her brown denim dress. She was bent with the weight of her burden, and as she came nearer she raised her arm in that familiar gesture of brushing the straying hair from her face. “So you’re back,” she said colorlessly. “Yes,” said Kendall, “and--” Within four feet of the back steps she stood, still as a stone, staring past him. He turned and saw Rogers coming around the corner of the house. He came slowly, uncertainly, looking fixedly at the woman. In her masklike face, only the eyes were alive; alive with recognition and despair. The creaking of the windmill sounded to Kendall like cracked, sardonic laughter. The man, too, was standing motionless. “I’ve brought this gentleman, he wants to see you about your cattle.” A detached part of Kendall’s mind marvelled at his own glibness. Then all of him was suspended in amazement at Mrs. Brownlie. “Howdy,” she said, nodding casually to the stranger as she turned toward the kitchen door. “Reckon we can talk business after supper. Make yourself at home. Mr. Kendall’ll show you where to wash up.” She stumbled a little as she climbed the steps to the porch, and some of the water from the bucket slopped her skirt. “Lily!” cried a hoarse voice; and she set down the bucket and turned. Her hand fumbled with the screen door; her knees trembled. * * * * * Kendall felt her action at that moment to have been the noblest he had ever seen. She had given the man his chance to get away. And he was coming toward her falteringly, one hand holding his hat, the other shading his eyes from the sun which shone straight in his face. “It’s you, Lily! Don’t you know me, Lily?--It’s Andrew.” “Yes, I know you--I knowed you right away.” The words were emotionless. “I’ve come back.” He was quite near her, his eyes level with her own as she stood on the steps. “I’ve come for you, Lily--don’t you remember?” The man’s eyes lifted to hers. But she answered him with the same passionless harshness with which she addressed her sons: “Yes, I remember all right, but that don’t go now. You couldn’t want me--like I am.” At that moment the little girl came slowly toward them. She pushed back her sunbonnet and stood regarding the motionless group with a child’s intent absorption. The mother looked at her. “Go put on a clean dress,” she said with the old guarding fierceness, “and brush your hair.” As the child turned to obey, a terrifying change came over the woman’s face. She threw her apron over her head and sank on the steps, torn with sobbing. Rogers was beside her, his arms around her small, bowed figure, his lips pressed to that straggling knot of hair. “Don’t, Lily, don’t! Your hard times is over. I’m goin’ to take you and little Lily and the boys--I’ve made a home for you. Don’t cry, Lily, don’t!” Out on the edge of the canyon where he had fled from the two who were as unconscious of his going as they had been of his presence, Kendall stood wiping his eyes and swallowing at the lump in his throat. The evening haze was on the Paloduro: The vast, cedar-scragged expanse of red cliffs and hills lay remote, alluring. But from infinite distance, to the dream’s very edge, encroached the dun, level plains--as vast, as strong and beautiful in their simplicity as the measureless strength and beauty of the human heart. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 1930 issue of McCall’s Magazine.] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAN FROM OREGON *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. START: FULL LICENSE THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license. Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works 1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. 1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. 1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others. 1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States. 1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: 1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. 1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. 1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg. 1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License. 1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. 1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. 1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that: • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works. • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work. • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works. 1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. 1.F. 1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. 1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE. 1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem. 1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. 1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. 1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause. Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life. Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org. Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS. The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate. While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate. International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate. Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org. This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.