Ralph Compton Death Along the Cimarron by RALPH COMPTON Page B

noticed that his side of the bed hadn’t been slept in. She arose and lit the lamp beside the bed and carried it with her through the predawn gloom. Padding barefoot out onto the front porch, wearing only her loose-fitting cotton gown, she saw Dave Waddell sitting slumped in a wooden porch rocker. She also saw the almost-empty whiskey bottle between his legs, the cork lying discarded at his feet. He stared blankly off toward Haley Springs.
    Ellen shook her head and walked closer. “Dear?” she said gently, stepping up behind her husband and laying a hand on his shoulder.
    Waddell stiffened, making a slight gasp of surprise. Then he turned in the rocker and looked up at her through hollow, red-rimmed eyes. “For God sakes, don’t sneak up on me like that! You give a man heart failure!”
    â€œI’m not sneaking up,” said Ellen. “I was concerned about you. You didn’t come to bed.”
    â€œI have other things on my mind,” he snapped at her. “There are other things besides going to bed, you know. Some of us have to figure out what to do next in the world!”
    â€œWell, pardon me,” Ellen said, seeing his dark mood and not wanting to aggravate matters further. She backed up a step.
    But Dave Waddell half rose from the rocker, the whiskey bottle falling to the porch and rolling back and forth. He snatched the bottle up before the last drops could spill from it. He threw back the last drink and let out a whiskey hiss, holding onto the empty bottle as he looked Ellen up and down. In her revealing cotton gown, Dave saw dearly the outline of her breasts. He gave her a look of disgust. “Don’t run around here naked like some harlot!” He shot a frantic glance at the trail, as if someone might be watching.
    â€œA harlot, did you call me?” Ellen’s voice struggled to keep her anger in check.
    â€œI’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” said Dave, relenting, but only for a second. “But have you no shame? What if somebody happened along here and saw you this way?”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous, David.” She managed to swallow her anger and keep her voice settled. “Has anybody ever come along at this time of morning? We live far from town, far from any other ranch.”
    Dave Waddell slung the wooden rocker aside drunkenly and raged at her. “Don’t you dare make light of what I say, woman! I’m the man of this house, and when I tell you something, I don’t expect it to be turned into some lighthearted joke!”
    Ellen Waddell turned rigid; her words turned cold. “Oh, don’t you worry, man of the house, there won’t be anything lighthearted going on in this household for a long time to come.” She turned in a huff and disappeared inside the house, slamming the front door behind her.
    It was an hour later when Dave Waddell walked inside and looked around. The coffeepot sat cold atop the stove, which was itself cold and unfired. The table sat empty. The door to the bedroom was closed. Dave rapped on the door gently, still feeling the effects of swigging whiskey all night. “I’m—I’m sorry, Ellen,” he offered. “I reckon I just lost control of myself. Will you forgive me?”
    His words were met by a chilled silence. He turned and left the house and spent the next two hours in the corral beside the barn, attending horses and preparing two of them for the trail. When he returned to the house, the kitchen looked the same. The bedroom door remained closed. “Honey, I’ve been thinking,” said Waddell, rapping again gently. “Things have been getting the best of me lately around here.” He paused, then added, “Remember how you said you’d like to go up to Denver? How you said you’d like to stay a few days in one of them fine hotels, where you pull a sash and get food brought up to you?”
    After a slight pause, Dave heard the latch