The Brave Cowboy Read Online Free PDF

face. “Hi,” he said.
    Jerry went toward him smiling, her arms open. “Welcome, Jack; it’s good to see you.” And she reached upand embraced his lean neck and left little smudges of wet dough on the back of his shirt. ‘I was expecting you,” she said; “I had an intuition.” She pulled his head down a little, stood up on her toes and kissed him square on the mouth. Then she drew back to look at him. He grinned at her, saying nothing. She said: “You look the same, about. You look pretty good. Maybe a little skinnier but tough as a wild billygoat.”
    “You got flour on your nose,” he said.
    “Thank you,” she said. “You need a shave. Last time we saw you—was that a year ago?—you needed a shave then too. Why do you always look like you need a shave?”
    “I shave pretty seldom.” He touched his chin, grinning at her. “Never really learned how to shave right.”
    She continued to smile helplessly at him, entranced by the thawing and illumination of his leathery face, the little creases of pleasure around his mouth and eyes. “Well I’m sure glad you came,” she said, after a short pause; “God only knows I’m glad to see you.” She remembered Paul, her husband, and her smile began to fade with the thought. “Well—sit down. I’ll fix you something to eat. You look like you haven’t eaten for a few weeks. How about some ham and eggs?”
    “That sounds mighty good, Jerry.”
    “Okay. Now you sit down.” She indicated a spindle-legged chair in a corner of the kitchen. “Just let me put up this bread and then I’ll fix you something.” She turned back to the bread dough rolled in a field of white flour on the tabletop.
    He stepped beside her, towering above her head, and placed his hands on hers and held them still. “Let me finish it,” he said, smiling down at her.
    “It’s almost finished. My hands are already messed up.”
    “Let me do it,” he said again. “Tin expert at this.”
    “Well, all right,” she said, and went to the sink and washed her hands clean of the dough. He stood beside her, waiting to wash his own hands. “I gotta newhorse,” he said. “A little mare, part Appaloosa and part plain old range stock. She’s a real pretty little critter—you oughta go out and take a look at her.”
    “Wonderful,” she said. “I’ll do that.” She started to dry her hands while he refilled the basin with cold water from the bucket and rolled up his sleeves. “Jack…” she said.
    “Yeah?” He wet his hands and began soaping them.
    “Why are you here?”
    Very slowly he rubbed the cake of soap over his palms and the back of his hands. He stared out the window above the sink. Finally he said: “I read about Paul in the papers. I saw his picture and I read under it and it said he was gettin two years in prison for refusin to register for the draft. Is that right?”
    “Yes, that’s right.” She stood beside him at the sink and stared at her hands. “Two years,” she said.
    “Well, that’s too long.” He rinsed the soapsuds from his hands and looked around for a towel. “Too damn long,” he said; gently he removed the damp towel from Jerry’s unperceptive fingers. “I came to town to see if I could do anything.”
    She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes widening. “He’s already in jail,” she said; “there’s nothing you can do. There’s nothing anyone can do.” She stared at him with a dim and irrational hope in her mind, her eyes. “What could you do?” she said.
    “I don’t know. I ain’t thought of anything yet.” He finished drying his hands and went to the roll of dough and put his clean fingers on it. “I’ll think of something,” he said. “Step outside and take a look at Whisky. The prettiest and toughest and orneriest little filly you ever did see.” He began to roll and fold the moist dough with expert familiarity; he glanced at Jerry. “Go on,” he said; “you want to hurt her feelings?”
    Jerry had been staring