Fifty Contemporary One-Act Plays Part 178

[_Padie shakes her head, runs up, and slams her door._]

HANK [_to Lon in friendly fas.h.i.+on_]. Women folks is cur'us, cur'us.

LON [_surlily_]. Take my advice and keep free from 'em.

HANK. It was a woman did fer my brother.

LON [_with increased interest_]. Oh, you've got a brother, eh?

HANK [_simply_]. Had.

LON. Where is he?

HANK. Down at Laguna Madre, Arizony.

LON [_leaning forward and gripping the edge of the table_]. Ranchin'?

HANK. Buried.

LON [_haltingly_]. How--what were you saying--about a woman?

HANK. A woman done fer him. That's what they said, I don't know. I didn't git there fer a long time. There was a mix-up.

LON. Well, well. That's strange.

HANK [_eagerly_]. I s'pose you heard of it? It was in all the papers. It even got as fer as Denver.

LON. No, I don't remember. But I've read of similar cases.

HANK. You've been to Arizony, I s'pose.

LON. No, not quite. I've been all around them parts, but never Arizony.

HANK. 'Tain't what you'd call a perty country, but it's mighty satisfyin'. Too blame cold up here.

LON. Why don't you move?

HANK. I'm agoin' to, but you see my brother had half interest in this here tavern and there was some litigation about it. Case's just finished. I been here three years, ever since he went. But I'm pullin'

my stakes, you bet. I wouldn't be _buried_ here! Would you?

LON [_dryly_]. I'd rather not.

HANK. So she took me fer a friend that'd croaked, eh? That's cur'us.

LON. Eh? What's that? Who?

HANK. Your wife.

LON. Oh, yes. Well, he was a good ten years older. And dark-complected.

HANK. Thought you said he was light.

LON. Mebbe I did. Well, he mought have been a trifle lighten'n you, but then, size him up by the average, he was dark. Let's fergit him. Bring us a bottle of your best--and see that the gla.s.s is clean.

HANK. To be sure. [_Goes out._]

[_Lon sits with his head between his hands, brooding. The voice of Hank rises from the Bar, rendering the second verse of the Tennessee "warble."_]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a girl can go all round about And hear the small birds sing.

And many a girl that stays at home alone, And rocks the cradle and spins.

[_As the song ends, the door at the rear opens soundlessly, revealing the vast expanse of moonlit plains and desolate b.u.t.tes.

Lon s.h.i.+vers and turns up his coat collar, finally facing about to discover the cause of the chill. Observing the open door, he goes to it, closes and locks it, the click of the key being distinctly audible. He then returns and sits as before, and again the song comes._]

HANK [_in the Bar_].

There's many a star shall jangle in the west; There's many a leaf below.

There's many a d.a.m.n that will light upon the man For treating a poor girl so.

[_Now both of the double doors swing open, without sound. Lon s.h.i.+vers, then, looking over his shoulder, suddenly gets up, glares about him and makes hastily for the door to the Bar, where he almost collides with Hank entering with bottle and gla.s.s._]

HANK. Here, mister, I was just comin'.

LON. What the devil's the matter with your doors?

HANK. Them? Oh, the lock's no good. When the wind's southwest they fly right open. Got to be wedged with a s.h.i.+ngle.

[_He goes over to the doors, slams them shut, picks up a s.h.i.+ngle from the floor and inserts firmly between them._]

LON [_relieved_]. H'm. Well, that's all right.

HANK. Now it's blame cur'us the way old places gits. You'll hear these floor boards creak at times like as if som'un was sneakin' over 'em b'ar-foot. Feller told me onct it was made by contrapshun and temper'ture. Mebbe so, but I reckon [_knowingly_] there's more goes on around than we give credit fer.

[_Hank dusts off the table and puts bottle and gla.s.s down. Lon seizes them eagerly and begins drinking._]

LON [_after a couple of gla.s.ses_]. You mean--spirits?

HANK. Well, I dunno as you'd call 'em that. But it's a fact, there's more liquor goes over the Bar than gits paid for. 'Tain't _stole_ either. It just _goes_.... As old Pete Gunderson used to say, "I'm a h.e.l.l of a th'usty p'uson, and when I croak I'll be a h.e.l.l of a th'usty spirit." I sometimes wonder--

[_Padie appears above, in a loose dressing sack, her hair hanging in a great wavy ma.s.s, and holding a pitcher._]

PADIE. Lon, please fetch some water.

LON [_not moving_]. I don't dast go out in the night. I've caught a kind of chill from to-day's drive.

HANK [_going up the stairs_]. I'll fetch it you, m'am.