Argosy All-Story Weekly, July 1, 1922 — page 48: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

838 - her. Only seventeen years old then, which makes her about twenty-four now, and— say—don’t you suppose that a girl who was a knockout at seventeen is a better eyeful than ever at twenty-four? Ill say so.” Another pause. “My God! To think of how I’ve wasted my years with dirty, ugly squaws—well, I’m going back to her, con- stable, and that’s all there is to it.” Kemp did not say anything for a mo- ment. There was only one thing he could say, and he dreaded to start. But his duty was clear now, and, however much it might hurt him, he must do it. “ Hubbard,” he stated slowly and sol- emnly, “ what would you say if I told you your wife is in northern Alberta at the present moment?” The prisoner started violently. “No!” he exclaimed. ‘“ What doing?” “ Making it easy to return to her.” “My stars!” Hubbard sat staring at Kemp, his mouth open, his lower lip hang- ing. ‘You're sure?” he questioned sus- piciously. “ Quite.” ‘And she’ll take me back?”’ “J imagine that she will if you wish to return and will promise to do the square thing by her in the future.” “Oh, I will—you bet I will! Once a fool, but never again. No, sir! Is she far away? Can I get to her easily?” 6c Yes.”’ “ Does she know I’m locked up here?” ce No.”’ “ Great! I don’t need to tell her, do 1?” “Not if you don’t wish to.” “Jiminy! And Il be out in a few days, won’t I?” “Three days more.” ‘¢ Youll tell me where she is, so I can go straight to her?” “ Better than that—I’ll take you to her.” Hubbard jumped up and clasped Kemp’s hand. “Vowre a brick, constable,” he said. “Yes, sir; -you sure are. I'll remember you—you bet I will. I’ll send you a nice present or something when I get cleared up back there in Nebraska and have a fine car to ride around in and everything. Yes, sir! I'll show you whether I can regember ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. a person that’s done the square thing by me or not.” Kemp thought of the squaw that Hub- bard had lived with down at Hay Creek, and he was not so sure that the man would remember him. Come to think of it, he hoped that Hubbard would not. That would only make it harder for him to for- get Alice—Alice, who was the finest woman that God ever created — Alice, whom he loved better than life itself! The realization of what he had done, and the awful consequence it would entail on himself, struck Kemp suddenly with crush- ing force. He rose and turned away from Hubbard to hide the wave of emotion that swept over him. “See you again,” he muttered brokenly, and quietly made his way from the cell to where he could wrestle alone with his grief. VII. Kemp did not call on Alice that day. He feared that he might not be able to con- trol his emotion in her presence. But the next he had himself sufficiently well in hand to risk it, and, in the cool of the evening, he proceeded to her place. He rebuked himself then for having neg- lected her the day before. Alice was in a more pitiably nervous state than ever. Lines of care were etched deeply into her face now. Her hair was unkempt, her dress was more like that of a janitress than a business woman, her shack was shabbier than he had ever observed it. Only a tem- porary and poorly built shack in the begin- ning, its lack of paint had caused some of the boards to crack and warp, and, with its newness worn off, it looked almost as dilapidated as the worst homesteader’s dwelling he had ever seen. The homestead itself, now that the leaves were beginning to fall from its fringe of trees, appeared more desolate and worthless than before. Any ending to Alice’s period of agoniz~ ing suspense would be better than no end- ‘ing at all, Kemp reasoned, as he climbed up. the rocky path that led from the river to her poor habitation. In one way, it was a mercy that her husband was coming to her on the morrow. It seemed scarcely DOOK C©