We use Optical Character Recognition (OCR) during our scanning and processing workflow to make the content of each page searchable. You can view the automatically generated text below as well as copy and paste individual pieces of text to quote in your own work.
Text recognition is never 100% accurate. Many parts of the scanned page may not be reflected in the OCR text output, including: images, page layout, certain fonts or handwriting.
THE WESTERNER CARRIES OFF HIS WIFE-TO-BE
"Wife!" she sneered. Heaven, your wife!"
"Here we are, Helen." The wagon creaked to a standstill before the low, wooden building. A dog came bounding to meet them with friendly tailwags. In the doorway a big figure, in rolled-back shirt-sleeves, waved a frying-pan in hilarious welcome. The girl did not stir. The heavy lids, drooped obstinately over her eyes, did not lift. Bart Wendall, looking, drew a slow breath and squared his shoulders. He lifted the slight, motionless figure in his big grasp and set it down on the threshold of the house. Waves of cooking smells came out warmly to meet them. A cat padded sleepily to rub her back against the girl's skirt.
"Here we are," he said again, steadily. "Joe, this is my wife. Helen, this is my friend and righthand man. Now take off your hat and get us some supper, dear."
She faced her husband rebelliously. But there was awe of him in her eyes. Never before had she known one like this. She had called him a fool; but was it not she who was the fool, after all! She looked down at her soft,
Saints in untutored hands, at the coarse frying-pan, into the odorous semi-light of the cabin, and laughed aloud scornfully. Yet she dared not refuse to go. As the slight form disappeared, Bart turned, with a quiet gesture, to his friend.
"Think what you must, Joe, old fellow," he said sadly, "but dont forget she's my wife, and I love her. I hope she will see things differently — some of these days. ' '
But for a long time it seemed that the hope was a hopeless one. Black days, those that followed — stormy scenes, sullen silences, tears, threats and reproaches. The girl was a fury and a spoiled child, in turn. She shed futile drops over her blistered, coarsening hands ; she tongue-lashed her husband with floods of wild invective ; she threatened him, broke the rude crockery, sulked and scowled. A wild tiger harnessed to a plow could be no more incongruous than this ease-loving, soft-lived woman creature, set to woman's work for the first time in her life. Bart Wendall could almost have taken pity on her and loosed her but for the memory — a sore one — of a certain look in her eyes when he had first
35