CHAPTER III

Bud Childers sat before the open fire in his log shack on Big Laurel Cove. He sat alone. It is not good for a man to be alone unless he is either poet or philosopher. Bud was neither. And yet, on the board table which, with a few rough chairs, was the only article in the way of furniture the room contained, stood a bottle and in the bottle a withered branch from a laurel bush, plucked just beyond the ford where he had first seen Roxie Kester. It would have been foolhardy of any one to accuse Bud of expressing here a poetic idea. The chances are that he would have accepted this as a challenge. He knew nothing about poets or poetry or poetic ideas, he was not that kind. Maybe a squirrel brought in the branch, and if any one cared to dispute that statement Bud was ready.

But no one did dispute it. He was alone. Being alone will play strange tricks with a man--with any man. It will bring to light, like digging in the ground, many curious things, both good and bad.

Two weeks had passed since Bud first met Roxie--a disappointing two weeks. Four times within that period he had waylaid her on the road before the Howe house and walked by her side as far as her home. He had spoken her fair and spoken her foul--losing his temper once and making a threat. Maddened by her stubbornness he had rested a heavy hand upon her arm.

“Y’are comin’,” he had said. “Y’are comin’ if I hev to carry yuh.”

And she, pulling herself free, had clenched her two little fists.

“If we had us men-folks home, you’d be slow sayin’ that, Bud Childers.”

Which was not altogether true. Men-folk or no men-folk, he meant to have her. He meant to have her because he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything in his life. There was something peculiar about this. He had desired things before, but never like this. If what he wished came easily, he took it; if not, he forgot. As long as he had a roof over his head, a plot of land of his own, enough to eat, and a little money, he could always worry along. Mostly he lived each day as it came, content enough in his mountain kingdom. Even when he first began to feel the loneliness of the nights and to look about for a wife, it was with indifferent interest in the woman herself. His interest in Roxie was, perhaps, even at the start, quicker than that he had ever felt for others of her sex, but he had not anticipated any such desire as that which had now taken possession of him.

He had wanted her first because she was a woman and he a man. Then he had wanted her because she was good to look upon; dainty and clean-limbed and shy as a fawn. Finally he wanted her because she was Roxie Kester; because she was herself. Just what this meant he did not know, except that now, to-day, he felt she was the one woman who could ever break his loneliness; this new loneliness which she herself had created.

It is one thing to be lonely; another to be alone. Without her, he was alone. This did not mean merely that he was by himself. That is a negative condition. It meant an acute consciousness of the absence of another. That is positive. It left him not content to wait, and impelled him to action.

Bud was like a child in his impatience over delay. Patience is not an inborn virtue; it is the product of high development. It involves self-control which is the ultimate goal of civilization. Like a child, too, Bud felt a desire to be equivalent to a proprietary right. Wanting Roxie, he was entitled to her.

And so, sitting alone before his fire rolling and smoking innumerable cigarettes, Bud planned how he might get her. To him it seemed only a matter of gaining possession. The future would look after the rest. He was sure of himself there. She was stubborn and as full of fight as a mountain wildcat, but she would tame. He even smiled a little in anticipation of that struggle. She would tame. He had broken horses and he had broken men. His thin lips hardened. He could also break a woman.

Break her, yes, but after that, he could break any one else who tried to harm her. Once she was his own, then valley folk or mountain folk had better have a care how they trespassed. He would relish the opportunity to prove himself. He would relish it at this moment. God, if only he could get out and shoot for her! If only it were as simple as that!

But it was not some one else he must fight now; it was the girl herself. She had heard stories about him. That was the trouble. Well, some of them were true enough, but they had nothing to do with the present. What was past was past. He had done nothing but defend his rights. Once she was his, he would defend her rights too.

The thing to do first was to get her. There was just one way to accomplish this if she wouldn’t come; that was to bring her. He could not carry her before a minister against her will, but he could fetch her up here. He could keep her here one night and then--she would go to the minister quickly enough after that.

Bud’s breath came faster as he planned. His face hardened around the mouth, but it grew mellow about the eyes. To have her here--to have her here! It was something to grow breathless about just to picture her--say in that chair over yonder. She might tear at him with her little fingers; she might cry, but even so she would be here. She would be part of this room; part of his life. He would no longer be alone.

Then, lifting his hectic eyes, Bud caught sight of the sprig of laurel in the bottle on the table. It was like a bit of her--like her in a tender mood, a pleading mood. He rose and paced the room, his gaunt shadow following him silently. He didn’t want to hurt her. He didn’t mean for to hurt her. He was going to marry her all right and proper, and she’d be glad as soon as she got used to him. He’d give her everything she wanted; plenty of new dresses and money and candy. He’d go down to the village with her and let her buy all the new furniture she wanted. He’d let her keep the house clean and he would wipe the mud off’n his feet when he came in. He’d aim to please her every way she wanted. In a little while she’d get used to him.

So Bud planned, and the sooner his plans were carried out the better. There wasn’t any sense in keeping her riled up or in keeping himself riled up. To-morrow night was as good as any. No sense in keeping riled up.