Clipped Wings

: The Fighting Edge

The Cinderella of Piceance Creek was scrupulously clean even though

ragged and unkempt. Every Saturday night she shooed Pete Tolliver out of

the house and took a bath in the tub which usually hung suspended from a

wooden peg driven into the outer wall of the log cabin. Regularly as

Monday came wash day.

On a windy autumn day, with the golden flames of fall burning the foliage

of the hill woods, June built
a fire of cottonwood branches near the

brook and plunged with fierce energy into the week's washing. She was a

strong, lithe young thing and worked rapidly. Her methods might not be

the latest or the best, but they won results. Before the sun had climbed

halfway to its zenith she had the clothes on the line.

Since she had good soapy suds and plenty of hot water left in the iron

kettle, June decided to scrub the bed covers. Twenty minutes later,

barefooted and barelegged, her skirts tucked up above the knees, the

young washwoman was trampling blankets in the tub. She had no reason to

suppose that anybody was within a mile of her. Wherefore, since the world

was beautiful and mere life a joy, she improvised a child's song of


It was a foolish little thing without rhyme or reason. It began nowhere

and finished at the same place. But it lifted straight from the heart and

perhaps it traveled as far heavenward as most prayers. She danced among

the suds as she sang it, brown arms, bare to the elbows, stretched to the

sunlit hills.


I can fly, 'way 'way 'way off,

Over the creek, over the pinons.

Goodness, yes! Like a meadow-lark.

Over the hills, clear to Denver,

Where the trains are.

And it's lovely--lovely--lovely.

It was an unschooled, impulsive cry of the heart to the great soul of

life and beauty that lies back of nature. No human eyes or ears were

meant to see or hear the outburst. A shy girl's first day-dreams of her

lover ought no more to be dragged out to the public gaze than this.

Through the quaking asps by the creek narrowed eyes gloated. Out of the

thicket Jake Houck strode with a ribald laugh.

"Right pretty, my dear, but don't you spread them wings an' leave yore

man alone."

The dancing spirit fled her flying feet. She was no longer a daughter of

the skies, attuned to sunshine and laughter and the golden harmony of the

hills. Joy and life were stricken out of her.

He had heard. He had seen. A poignant shame enveloped and scorched the

girl's body. She was a wild thing who lived within herself. It was easy

to put her in the wrong. She felt the mortification of one who has been

caught in some indecent exhibition.

The humiliation was at first for the song and dance. Not till another

moment did she think of the bare legs rising out of the soapsuds. His

smouldering gaze brought them to mind.

Instantly she leaped from the tub, shook down the skirts, snatched up

shoes and stockings, and fled barefooted to the house. A brogan dropped a

few steps from the start. She stopped, as though to pick it up. But Houck

was following. The girl turned and ran like a deer.

Houck retrieved the brogan and followed slowly. He smiled. His close-set

eyes were gleaming. This was an adventure just to his taste.

The door of the cabin was bolted. He knocked.

"Here's yore shoe, sweetheart," he called.

No answer came. He tried the back door. It, too, had the bolt driven


"All right. If it ain't yore shoe I'll take it along with me. So long."

He walked away and waited in the bushes. His expectation was that this

might draw her from cover. It did not.

Half an hour later Tolliver rode across the mesa. He found Houck waiting

for him at the entrance to the corral. Pete nodded a rather surly

greeting. He could not afford to quarrel with the man, but he was one of

the last persons in the world he wanted to see.

"'Lo, Jake," he said. "Back again, eh?"

"Yep. Finished my business. I got to have a talk with you, Pete."

Tolliver slid a troubled gaze at him. What did Jake want? Was it

money--hush money? The trapper did not have fifty dollars to his name,

nor for that matter twenty.

"'S all right, Jake. If there's anything I can do for you--why, all you

got to do's to let me know," he said uneasily.

Houck laughed, derisively. "Sure. I know how fond you are of me, Pete.

You're plumb glad to see me again, ain't you? Jes' a-honin' to talk over

old times, I'll bet."

"I'd as lief forget them days, Jake," Tolliver confessed. "I done turned

over another chapter, as you might say. No need rakin' them up, looks


The big man's grin mocked him. "Tha's up to you, Pete. Me, I aim to be

reasonable. I ain't throwin' off on my friends. All I want's to make sure

they are my friends. Pete, I've took a fancy to yore June. I reckon

I'll fix it up an' marry her."

His cold eyes bored into Tolliver. They held the man's startled, wavering

gaze fixed.

"Why, Jake, you're old enough to be her father," he presently faltered.

"Maybe I am. But if there's a better man anywheres about I'd like to meet

up with him an' have him show me. I ain't but forty-two, Pete, an' I can

whip my weight in wild cats."

The father's heart sank. He knew Houck. The man would get by hook or

crook what he wanted. He could even foretell what his next move would


"She's only a kid, Jake, not thinkin' none about gettin' married. In a

year or two, maybe--"

"I'm talkin' about now, Pete--this week."

Tolliver wriggled, like a trout on the hook. "What does she say? You

spoke of it to her?"

"Sure. She'll like it fine when she gets her mind used to it. I know how

to handle women, Pete. I'm mentionin' this to you because I want you to

use yore influence. See?"

Pete saw, too well. He moistened his lips with the tip of the tongue.

"Why, I don't reckon I could very well do that. A girl's got to make up

her own mind. She's too young to be figurin' on marryin'. Better give her


"No." Houck flung the word out like an oath. "Now. Right away."

The trapper's voice took on a plaintive note, almost a whine. "You was

sayin' yoreself, Jake, that she'd have to get used to it. Looks like it

wouldn't be good to rush--"

"She can get used to it after we're married."

"O' course I want to do what's right by my li'l' June. You do too for

that matter. We wouldn't either one of us do her a meanness."

"I'm going to marry her," Houck insisted harshly.

"When a girl loses her mother she's sure lost her best friend. It's up to

her paw to see she gets a square deal." There was a quaver of emotion in

Tolliver's voice. "I don't reckon he can make up to her--"

A sound came from Houck's throat like a snarl. "Are you tryin' to tell me

that Pete Tolliver's girl is too good for me? Is that where you're


"Now don't you get mad, Jake," the older man pleaded. "These here are

different times. I don't want my June mixed up with--with them Brown's

Park days an' all."

"Meanin' me?"

"You're twistin' my words, Jake," the father went on, an anxious desire

to propitiate frowning out of the wrinkled face. "I ain't sayin' a word

against you. I'm explainin' howcome I to feel like I do. Since I--bumped

into that accident in the Park--"

Houck's ill-natured laugh cut the sentence. It was a jangled dissonance

without mirth. "What accident?" he jeered.

"Why--when I got into the trouble--"

"You mean when Jas Stuart caught you rustlin' an' you murdered him an'

went to the pen. That what you mean?" he demanded loudly.

Tolliver caught his sleeve. "S-sh! She don't know a thing about it. You

recollect I told you that."

The other nodded, hard eyes gloating over the rancher's distress. "An' o'

course she don't know you broke jail at Canyon City an' are liable to be

dragged back if any one should happen to whisper to the sheriff."

"Not a thing about all that. I wouldn't holler it out thataway if I was

you, Jake," Tolliver suggested, glancing nervously toward the house.

"Maybe I ought to 'a' told her, but I never did. Her maw died of it, an'

I jes' couldn't make out to tell June. You see yoreself how it would be,

Pete. Her a li'l' trick with nobody but me. I ain't no great shakes, but

at that I'm all she's got. I figured that 'way off here, under another

name, they prob'ly never would find me."

"Pretty good guess, Pete Purdy."

"Don' call me that," begged Tolliver.

Houck showed his teeth in an evil grin. "I forgot. What I was sayin' was

that nobody knows you're here but me. Most folks have forgot all about

you. You can fix things so 's to be safe enough."

"You wouldn't give me away, Jake. You was in on the rustlin' too. We was

pals. It was jes' my bad luck I met up with Jas that day. I didn't begin

the shooting. You know that."

"I ain't likely to give away my own father-in-law, am I?"

Again the close-set, hard eyes clamped fast to the wavering ones of the

tortured outlaw. In them Tolliver read an ultimatum. Notice was being

served on him that there was only one way to seal Houck's lips.

That way he did not want to follow. Pete was a weak father, an

ineffective one, wholly unable to give expression to the feeling that at

times welled up in him. But June was all his life now held. He suffered

because of the loneliness their circumstances forced upon her. The best

was what he craved for her.

And Jake Houck was a long way from the best. He had followed rough and

evil trails all his life. As a boy, in his cowpuncher days, he had been

hard and callous. Time had not improved him.

June came to the door of the cabin and called.

"What is it, honey?" Tolliver asked.

"He's got my shoe. I want it."

Pete looked at the brogan sticking out of Jake's pocket. The big fellow

forestalled a question.

"I'll take it to her," he said.

Houck strode to the house.

"So it's yore shoe after all," he grinned.

"Give it here," June demanded.

"Say pretty please."

She flashed to anger. "You're the meanest man I ever did meet."

"An' you're the prettiest barelegged dancer on the Creek," he countered.

June stamped the one shoe she was wearing. "Are you going to give me that

brogan or not?"

"If you'll let me put it on for you."

Furious, she flung round and went back into the house.

He laughed delightedly, then tossed the heavy shoe into the room after

her. "Here's yore shoe, girl. I was only foolin'," he explained.

June snatched up the brogan, stooped, and fastened it.