CHAPTER VIIIThrough the Deep Wood
Gloss, standing in the kitchen doorway, gazed outward across the bronze-tipped trees to the drab-colored sky resting above Rond Eau.
There was a smile on her lips and her eyes were alive with the light of genuine girlish happiness. She did not know why she should be so glad; but to-day she felt like singing; like racing out into the hardwoods and tramping the long leaf-carpeted aisles. She wanted to be out in the open. A flock of wild geese wedged their way between two tiny strips of blue sky and were lost in a heavy snow-cloud above the Point. The girl clapped her hands joyfully and, springing backward like a young gazelle, she snatched her cap from a peg and tiptoed into the inner room.
Granny McTavish looked up from her knitting, a smile on her wrinkled face.
“Lass,” she said softly, “but ye are gettin’ mair like your dear mither every day. And she was bonnie, aye, she was bonnie, lassie.”
The girl sank on her knees and took the old hands in hers.
“Am I like my mother, Granny?” she asked eagerly. “Very like her?”
“Aye, dearie, ye have her eyes and ye have her beautiful hair; ye have her face and ye have her smile. Ye tak me awa back to the time I first saw your mither, Gloss. Ye will na gangin’ oot i’ th’ snaw, pet,” noting with concern that Gloss had on her cap and coat. “I ne’er lak ta see ye ramblin’ aboot i’ th’ woods after th’ snaw falls on account o’ th’ wolves, cheeld.”
“And she was beautiful, and I am like her,” said the girl softly. “Oh, Granny, I’m beginnin’ to miss my mother!”
“Cheeld, cheeld,” said the old woman, drawing the girl over to her bosom. “It’s ever the way. The mither is missed always, but the cheeld canna miss her lak the woman. And ye are growin’ into a woman, Gloss; ye are growin’ into a woman fast, lassie.”
She picked up her knitting and rocked to and fro, crooning to herself. The girl arose and, bending, kissed her softly on the smooth white hair. Then she crossed the kitchen and peeped into the larger of the bedrooms.
“She’s sleepin’, lass; best slip awa’ and no disturb her,” whispered Granny. “She’ll no last much langer, dearie; she’ll no last much langer, I fear.”
A look of sorrow came into the girl’s eyes and her mouth trembled.
“God won’t let her die, Granny,” she said chokingly; “He knows we need her so much.”
“Maybe He needs her th’ mair, lassie.”
“No, no, He can’t. And, Granny, she wouldn’t—she wouldn’t be happy away from Boy and—and us.”
“Ye dinna ken, lassie, ye dinna ken; it’s a braw warld and your mither has been lookin’ for her comin’ full lang, I ha’ noo doot. They were greet friends. They looed ain anither reet weel.”
“But mother would not mind waitin’ some longer, Granny. I know she would rather let auntie live a while longer for our sakes. She has got used to waitin’.”
“Lass, you mus’na cry,” said the old woman gently. “If she gangs awa’ it wull be God’s good pleasure. If she bides ’twull be His mercy. We wull hope and pray for the best, Glossie.”
When Gloss sought the wood a white, sweet-scented mist was rising from the leafy carpet where a thin veil of snow had rested. The low calls of the feathered denizens of the Wild sounded mellow and indistinct from the soft-wood swales, for the sky was changing to the slate-blue of eventide. Down in the stumpy potato-patch Boy and Big McTavish were busily engaged in turning the snowy tubers out of the black soil.
Gloss skirted the patch, keeping a thicket between her and the workers, and passed on southward until she reached a wide ridge of giant beech trees, whose long outstretched arms were fruited with the toothsome nuts which the first frost of autumn would send in a shower to the earth.
Black and red squirrels were busy among the trees, garnering their winter’s food. They worked noisily, chattering and scolding. They were a busy little body of workers, and they could not afford to pay much attention to the wood-nymph whom they had become accustomed to see in their kingdom. The old-time restfulness and happiness had stolen back to the heart of the girl. Her great eyes were alive with life and joy, and she passed on, humming a merry tune to herself, drinking in the golden beauty, the songs, and the scents of nature.
Beyond a tangled clump of trees Gloss came unexpectedly upon another creature of the wood. A young doe was browsing among the tender shoots of the brush-pile, and at the girl’s soft footsteps it lifted its shapely head and stood quivering, its nostrils dilated and its sides heaving. And so the two animals of the Wild gazed at each other with a deep and growing wonder.
Nature had built those two after the same fashion. Both were slender and graceful; both were alert and watchful; both possessed long-lashed eyes; both were wild, free, and beautiful.
The doe stood with her slender muzzle lifted, her sensitive lips a-tremble, her humid eyes fastened upon the girl of the forest, who, instinctively, she felt, would do her no harm.
For a moment the two creatures stood gazing at each other. The doe reached forward timidly and plucked another mouthful of the juicy twigs, then with a sudden start leaped into the thicket on the right.
Gloss turned quickly. A little man with a small face fringed with whiskers, and light-blue eyes blinking from beneath a coon-skin cap, stepped out from behind a tree and lowered the hammer of his long rifle.
“Jinks and ironwood!” he ejaculated; “you stud right in my way, Glossie. I’d o’ had that doe sure pop if I hadn’t been a trifle timid about hittin’ you.”
“Did—did you want to shoot that pretty little thing, Ander?” asked Gloss, her cheeks aflame.
“Wall, I don’t know,” laughed the little man, coming forward. “I tell you that war as fine a doe as I’ve seen this season, girl.”
“Poor thing,” sighed Gloss; then hotly, “I’m glad she got away; I’m glad she got away.”
“Somebody else’ll get her,” said the man. “She’s pretty tame and she’ll get shot sooner or later.”
The girl stood looking away through the wood.
“Ander,” she said, “I know you are a pretty good man. I want you to promise me that you won’t shoot things—things like her. It’s terrible. Why, they are so young they don’t know any danger. You’ll give them all a chance, won’t you?”
Declute looked puzzled. He scratched his head and grinned; then he looked down.
“Why, I don’t mind promisin’ that,” he stammered. “I ain’t carin’ much to shoot—any deer without givin’ it somethin’ of a chance. And I will say that to shoot ’emwithoutgoes somethin’ again’ my grain. All right, Gloss, old Ander’ll promise not to shoot that doe or any other like her. Dang me, but you and her seemed a lot, a lot alike to me somehow. I reckon I’m good enough of a shot to have got by you, girl; but somethin’ kept my rifle down. I see you two lookin’ at each other—her eyes, your eyes—wall, I can’t say what makes me think you two are alike, but you are. No, siree, Ander won’t shoot any more does—at least, not this season. Now, Gloss, I want you t’ come along over to my place and see my missus. She’s bound to have a loggin’-bee right soon, and she wants you to help her lay out the eatin’ line. I can’t say much—you know what Rachel’s like. When she takes a notion to do a thing I might as well give in right on the start and save trouble. I don’t know why we wanter log, but that don’t matter—we’re goin’ to log ’cause Rachel says so. Come along over and sorter give th’ old woman a tip or two about what she should get together for the table. I’ll see you back through th’ bush, ’cause I wanter see Boy about some traps.”
They started out, the man keeping up a running fire of conversation, his short legs taking two steps to the tall girl’s one, and his little eyes, by force of habit, shooting here and there through the bush.
As they approached Declute’s home, a house of logs close to the shore of Rond Eau, a couple of wire-haired mongrel curs came yelping out to meet them.
“There’s David and Goliath,” said Ander. “Rachel named them dogs. She’s great on Bible names, is Rachel—too danged great,” he finished in a lower key.
Gloss opened the door and stepped inside. Mrs. Declute turned slowly from the table and a smile spread across her flour-streaked face.
“Oh, you dear,” she said, pounding forward and implanting a resounding smack on the girl’s rosy cheek. “You little dear, to come just now of all times, when I most wanted to see you.”
Mrs. Declute smiled again and a bit of powder fell from her face. It was a big matronly face, with big-heartedness written clean across it, and real kindness gleaming in its large black eyes. She was a big woman, “nigh two hundred and thirty,” as Ander put it.
“Where are the babies?” asked Gloss, sitting down on a stool and glancing about the small room.
“Sleepin’ like angels, th’ troublesome little good-fer-nothin’s,” smiled the woman fondly. “Moses is just that troublesome I think sometimes I’ll have to tie him up. Only this mornin’ he upsot the cradle and spilt little Martha out on the floor ker-bump. Give my life if I wasn’t so provoked I could have beeched him if he hadn’t been just gettin’ over th’ jaundice.”
“Ander tells me that you are thinkin’ of havin’ a loggin’,” said Gloss. “Is there anythin’ I could help you to do, Mrs. Declute?”
“Just what I was wantin’ to see you about,” cried the beaming woman, sitting down and wiping her face with her apron. “Thought first as I’d run across to Totherside and ask widder Ross to come over. Then I thought about her havin’ that teacher boardin’ there, and I didn’t want to put her out any. Fine cook is the widder, but somehow I can’t think as anybody can cook meats and sarve ’em up quite like you, Glossie. I’m fixin’ up some dried-apple pies. Sent over to Bridgetown this mornin’ by Jim Peeler for the dried-apples. Guess he’ll be along soon.”
“He’s comin’ right now,” called Declute from the door. “I’ll go along and give him a hand, I guess. He’s got some tobaccer for me—leastways I hope he has; I sent for some.”
“Ain’t that a man for you?” winked Mrs. Declute. “Ain’t that a man, though? Glossie, my dear, don’t you ever marry a man; don’t you ever do it. You’ll be sorry all the days of your life if you do. Even I am almost sorry sometimes, an’ Ander’s an exception of a man. There ain’t no other like him. And sakes alive, he’s bad enough, dear knows.”
Ander and a short, heavy-set man entered, and the latter laid a number of parcels on the table. He had a jolly round red face with crow’s-feet about the corners of brown eyes, stamped there by much smiling. It was said of Jim Peeler that he had never been known to lose his temper. He stood a short rifle in a corner and sat down near the table. Mrs. Declute arose and brought a steaming teapot from the hearth, also a plate of bread and cold meat.
After disposing of a goodly portion of the victuals before him, Jim turned to Gloss with the question:
“How’s the sick?”
“No better,” answered Gloss, her face growing grave.
“Dear me, how thinkless I am!” exclaimed Mrs. Declute. “I knowed there was somethin’ I wanted to ask you, Gloss. That’s it. How’s th’ dear little woman?”
Ander was cutting off a piece of black chewing-tobacco from a big slab.
“Why don’t you tell old Betsy ’bout her, Glossie?” he asked.
“Shet up, Ander,” flashed his wife. “Be you a Christian, or be you a heathen as believe in witches?”
“There, there,” laughed Peeler soothingly, “I guess Ander is a good Christian. But I was talkin’ to arealChristian to-day; a real pious, right-down good man.”
“Smythe?” questioned Declute, the piece of tobacco poised half-way to its expectant goal.
“The same,” answered Peeler. “And, by the way, I met that man Watson as I was comin’ home. He must have been over here, eh?”
“He was here this mornin’,” said Gloss. “He was tryin’ to—to buy our place.”
“Oh, was he?”
Peeler’s face lost its smile and his bushy eyebrows met in a scowl. “How about you, Ander?”
Declute squirmed.
“Oh, I ain’t thinkin’ much about it, Jim. I ain’t worryin’ none.”
His wife gazed at him contemptuously.
“You ain’t brains enough to worry about anythin’,” she exclaimed. “Was Watson ridin’ alone, Jim?”
“Well, no, he wasn’t. That teacher chap was with him. He was ridin’ the bay belongin’ to Hallibut’s engineer.”
Gloss looked up, her eyes wide.
“Then they were together?” she asked.
“Yes,” replied Peeler. “I suppose the teacher was seein’ him through part of the bush. I was talkin’ to Blake, the sawyer, over at the mill a while ago, and he tells me Colonel Hallibut has hired Smythe and Watson to help get our timberland.”
“Where’bouts on the trail did you meet ’em?” asked Declute.
“Why, they had only got nicely started, I guess. It wasn’t more than two or three miles out at most.”
“Where has Watson been all day, I wonder?” cried Gloss. “He was at our place shortly after sun-up.”
From the next room came a commotion, and three round-eyed youngsters, between the ages of three and six, protruded their heads from beneath the buckskin door-curtain.
“Get back in thar, Moses and Zaccheus,” commanded the mother; “you ain’t had half enough sleep yet.”
“Oh, let me hug them, Mrs. Declute,” pleaded Gloss.
She ran across and gathered the babies up, all together, in her arms. They twined their chubby arms about her neck and rubbed their sleepy eyes against her face. They were sweet, wholesome youngsters, and the girl loved them. She kissed them all, three times around, then set them down.
“Guess we’d better be goin’, Ander,” she said, “that is, if youhaveto come. But I’m not the least timid about goin’ alone.”
“Course he’ll go,” declared Mrs. Declute, “and you, too, Jim Peeler, ’cause I’ve got to get on with them pies. Tell Libby the bee’s next Thursday, and I’ll want her to help with the table. Much ’bliged for your kindness, Jim. Good-night, Glossie.”
CHAPTER IXAnd the Twilight
“Guess I’ll step through the oak ridge here and look in on Bill Paisley for a minute or so,” said Jim Peeler, as the three found the path leading to the creek.
“He’s singin’ his old pet song,” smiled Gloss. “Hark, can’t you hear him?”
Upon the tree-fringe of Rond Eau a red disk of a sun was dripping gold and amethyst glory and all the wild-wood was full of life and harmony. From the thickets the hardiest of the song-birds were bidding good-by to the wood. It was their last night in the old nesting-place.
Mingled with the symphony came Paisley’s voice, trilling happily:
“Massar’s gone away, de darkey say, ‘Ho, ho!’Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’I’ de year ob jubiloo.”
“Massar’s gone away, de darkey say, ‘Ho, ho!’Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’I’ de year ob jubiloo.”
“Massar’s gone away, de darkey say, ‘Ho, ho!’Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’I’ de year ob jubiloo.”
“Massar’s gone away, de darkey say, ‘Ho, ho!’
Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’
I’ de year ob jubiloo.”
“He’s a happy beggar,” chuckled Declute. “He’s a happy beggar, is Bill, and the biggest-hearted, softest-hearted baby of a man as ever lived.”
“God built some big things,” said Peeler: “that,” waving a hand toward the mellow glory above; “this,” looking about him; “an’ Bill. Yes, He built Bill, and nobody has ever spoiled His work.”
“And nobody can spoil His work,” said Gloss gently, “dear old Bill.”
“Run along, children,” laughed Peeler, “I’ve got my pockets full of things that Paisley sent to town for. Silk thread, silk cloth—three dollars a yard; look here.” He tapped one of his large, bulging pockets. “Bill’s gone into the dressmakin’ business, it seems.”
Gloss clasped her brown hands and her eyes danced.
“Oh,” she begged, “won’t you let me come too? I want to see all those things. I surely do.”
“Tut, tut,” scolded Peeler, screwing up his face, “that wouldn’t do at all. I’m tellin’ too much. I’m a poor hand at keepin’ secrets.”
He plunged among the trees, his face frowning and his eyes laughing, and when he had put one of the wide ridges between himself and Gloss he clapped his hands and laughed like a boy.
“She don’t know that Bill is gettin’ all this costly finery for her. Bless her,” he murmured, wiping his eyes, “she don’t suspect a thing—not a thing. God bless her dear heart. Ah, but all the silver-fox hides in all this big woods couldn’t make a coat good enough for our girl, let alone six as Bill has. But it’s Bill’s little wish,” he added; “it’s just Bill’s little wish. And Bill’s one of God’s big men.”
Bill scarcely looked his part on this particular evening. Peeler found him sitting just outside his home, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his sinewy arms shining with bear-oil. Across his seamed face were a number of greasy smears, left there by brushing away a troublesome mosquito. Between his teeth he gripped a short clay pipe. At his feet lay a pile of traps, tangled together and red with rust.
“Got back, eh?” he grinned as Peeler approached. “Get them things, Jim?”
“Sure, Bill,” and Peeler commenced emptying his pockets.
“Jim,” said Paisley, “I guess I’d best have your good wife help me out on this coat. I thought maybe she’d do the linin’. Suppose she would?”
“Do I suppose? Wall, I do better,” answered Peeler, “Iknowshe will.”
“Then don’t empty out till you get home. I’ll drop over to-morrow night. I’ve got to get these traps in shape if I’m goin’ to do any trappin’ this season. Who’d you see over at Bridgetown, Jim?”
“Just a few that Declute wants over to his loggin’,” answered Peeler, seating himself on a bench, “an’ that man Smythe who keeps the store.”
“What do you think o’ that feller?”
Paisley made a dip for the pan of bear-oil and started scrubbing another trap.
“Well, I don’t just think I’m takin’ to him much,” replied Peeler. “I don’t like the way he has of shiftin’ his eyes, and he always seems to be expectin’ somebody. He sort of makes me nervous. He tried to find out all about every person that lives here, but I wasn’t sayin’ much. Somehow I wish Tom Gray hadn’t sold out his store to this feller, Bill. I don’t know why, but I can’t take to him.”
“Pshaw,” grunted Paisley, “I guess we’re all too quick at takin’ dislikes. I’ll own I feel purty much the same as you. Did he tell you that he was hand in hand with Watson? I haven’t ever seen Watson yet, but I’m anxious to meet him.”
“He was askin’ me about widder Ross,” said Peeler. “Wanted to know how much property she owned, and all that. Said that he liked her—what he had seen of her.”
Paisley dropped his trap and stared through the twilight at his friend.
“By gum!” he exclaimed, “whatdoyou think of that?”
“He told me quite a lot of things about Colonel Hallibut,” said Peeler, coming over and seating himself close beside Paisley. “Bill, it looks as if Hallibut was bound to scoop us off this place. Smythe says as he is a bad man to hinder, once he has made up his mind. He says as both him and Watson is in sympathy with us, and if we’ll only let on we’re agreeable to leave, that him and Watson’ll see he don’t get hold of the leases.”
Paisley took his pipe from his mouth and laid it on a nearby block.
“Jim,” he said, “I don’t know Smythe very well, but you can bet on this—the man’s a liar. Him and Watson are hand in hand with old Hallibut, and it’s my impression they’re all a pack of rascals. Hallibut threatens to drive us into the bay if we refuse to be reasonable—as he calls it. I was talkin’ to one of the fellers who runs that mill of his, this afternoon, and he says Hallibut rides over to Bridgetown most every day and lays plans with Smythe and Watson. He said as to-day Hallibut intended goin’ over there. Didn’t see him, I suppose?”
Peeler shook his head.
“No, but I met Watson to-night—him and Simpson.”
“There you are,” cried Paisley; “there you are. Watson intended to come here to-day, and you can bet that old reprobate Hallibut has a hand in anything Watson does.”
“Then you think them fellers are goin’ to try some funny work, do you, Bill?”
“Jim,” answered Paisley, “it’s my opinion that there’s goin’ to be trouble here soon. Them people have laid plans to get our woods, and of course we’ll naturally see that they don’t. But what I’m afraid of is that Boy McTavish is goin’ to kill somebody sure. You know what he’s like, Jim, so I want to ask you to do this: no matter what you see or hear, don’t tell Boy. I’ve just about raised him, you might say, and I know his moods. There’s enough trouble over there at Big Mac’s now. If we just keep cool everythin’ ’ll come out all right. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, and whatever we see and hear we’ll try to meet without Boy knowin’ anythin’ about it. What d’ye say, Jim?”
“Sure,” answered Peeler. “I think same’s you, Bill. It won’t do to be too hasty if things come to the worst, which I hope they won’t.”
“Amen to that,” said Paisley fervently. “I trust there’ll be no trouble, Jim. Old Injun Noah was here to-day, and I could see that somethin’ was worryin’ him. You know he won’t talk—only to Gloss; so I couldn’t get anythin’ out of him.”
“When old Noah worries there’s somethin’ in the wind all right,” said Peeler. “Good old Noah!”
“He stayed here with me quite a time,” said Paisley, “and he never said a word till he was leavin’. Then he said:
“ ‘Bushwhacker no shoot, no kill big man. That mean bad, bad for Bushwhacker. Bushwhacker wait—wait and see.’ And before I could ask him anythin’ he was gone.”
“He comes mysterious and he goes mysterious,” said Peeler slowly, “but I reckon he knows even more than we do about old Hallibut and his gang.”
He arose and walked toward the path.
“Will you come over to Big Mac’s, Bill?” he asked.
“Sure, I will.”
Paisley dived into the house, washed his hands and face, threw on a jacket, and came forth a bright and smiling six feet of manhood.
“I’m wantin’ some to see the little sick woman,” said Peeler, “and hear Big Mac’s fiddle again.”
“Boy was here this mornin’,” said Bill as the two struck off down the path, “and he says the ma is awful sick. I guess she won’t be stayin’ long.”
When the men reached the McTavish home night had fallen, and a big moon was lifting her face from the forest far eastward.
A damp wind off the bay bore on its wings the scent of bog and marsh, and from high overhead came the wing-songs of inflying wild ducks. From inside came the music of the fiddle playing “Ye Banks and Braes.”
CHAPTER XColonel Hallibut
“Jno. T. Smythe; Seller of guns, ammunition, and provisions; Buyer of furs and game.”
This sign creaked and complained against a dingy little building of unplaned boards. It was gray and forsaken-looking, being one of about two hundred others just like it, of gloomy and sullen aspect. This was Bridgetown. On its one side, stretching eastward, lay a drab-gray fallow of partly cleared land. Here and there stood a clump of trees; here and there a solitary stub, ax-scarred or fire-blackened. In these, Nature seemed to be voicing her resentment of the ravishes of man. In this, the close of an October day, the little town seemed as dead as the slain beauties that had once reigned in her place. Westward, beginning with a stubble of second-growth beeches and maples, the land rolled and undulated, at each step southward and westward taking on a more picturesque appearance of natural grandeur. For ten miles inland lay the scars that civilization had left upon the forest. Then the marks were seen no more. A yellow ridge of golden-oak marked the boundary-line, and behind this line lay Bushwhackers’ Place.
Mr. Smythe, the storekeeper, stood gazing out from the dirty pane at the dreary panorama, occasionally lifting his shifting light-blue eyes heavenward. A big storm-cloud was rolling in above the forest from the west.
“Watson ought to be back by now,” he mused for the twentieth time in half an hour. “God forgive me if I did wrong in letting him take gray Fan. He’s three stone too heavy for the mare.” He turned from the window and glanced toward the door. A heavy step was approaching. From without came a sonorous voice calling and scolding a pack of hounds that now came scrambling and barking up the deserted street.
“It’s Colonel Hallibut,” whispered Smythe in dismay. “Why does he want to show up just at this time of all times? Watson might have known that he would put in his appearance just when he wasn’t wanted. All right, sir. Yes, sir, I’ll open for you, Colonel. Come in, sir; come in.”
A big form filled the doorway and a big voice spoke.
“Nice storekeeper you are, Smythe, to have your door locked this way. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Let the dogs come in; poor chaps, they’re tired.”
“They don’t take to me, your hounds don’t, Colonel,” ventured the storekeeper. “That brindle fellow took hold of my leg the last time I let ’em in. However, there you are. Nice doggies, come in and make yourselves to home.”
“Finest pack in Ontario; finest pack in the whole Dominion, I say—those fellows,” laughed Hallibut, jolting, in the semi-darkness, against a pile of furs and toppling it over on the floor.
Immediately three of the tired dogs stretched themselves out on the soft bed, as though it had been arranged for them, and went to sleep. Hallibut threw himself into a chair by the fireplace and laughed at the other’s dismay.
“Better not try to disturb ’em, Smythe,” he cautioned. “They’re ugly, I tell you. Get them something to eat, will you? And say, Smythe, just have that nigger of yours get me up a snack, too, like a good fellow; I’ve been riding since morning.”
“St. Thomas?” asked Mr. Smythe, shifting his light eyes to the Colonel’s face and patting his thin hair with his long fingers.
“It doesn’t matter,” returned the other. “Where is Watson?”
“I’m sorry to say,” commenced Smythe; but the Colonel turned upon him, his black brows knit in a frown.
“You needn’t finish. I know.”
He arose stiffly and walked around behind the counter.
“Give me the key, Smythe,” he demanded, holding out his hand.
The Colonel took the key and unlocked a small oak cupboard, extracting from it a bottle of red liquor.
“I’m afraid if Watson persists in drinking I’ll have to find a new agent,” he said, walking to the door and throwing the bottle across the street.
“Seems he can’t resist the drink, Colonel,” stammered the groceryman.
His long face had turned to a yellow-white, though, it was hid by the advancing night-shadows from the black orbs of the ponderous man before him.
“I’ll go and have you a meal prepared. Make yourself comfortable, Colonel Hallibut.”
Not until the door of the inner room closed upon him did the soul of Smythe vent itself in whispered imprecations. He clenched his claw-like fists and shook them fiercely. He let forth a tirade of murmured oaths that would have made a Newfoundland fisherman gasp in wonder. Finally, he turned and, prying through the gloom, sought out the recumbent figure of his colored man-of-all-work, who was peacefully sleeping on a cot of willow-boughs. Smythe crept forward and bent above the sleeper. A prolonged snore met him. He reached forward and, feeling down the wide bridge of the negro’s nose until he got the desired hold, he deliberately gave that member such a violent twist that Sam came out of Magnolialand to this trying sphere with a suppressed snort.
“Yes, massar,” he cried, struggling up.
“Light the candles and put some bacon to fry,” commanded Smythe. “Colonel Hallibut is here.”
“Lawd save us!” groaned the colored man. “Where am dem candles at, I wonder? Hab he got de dorgs, sah?” shading a match with his hands so that its flickering light showed the apprehension in his white eyeballs.
“Some of them, yes. Don’t stand there shaking. Get his supper ready, then go down to the Triple Elms and wait for Watson. They mus’n’t meet until I’ve seen Watson. You tell him the Colonel is here and to lie low until he leaves.”
Sam had lit the candles and now stood tongueing his thick lips.
“It’s gwine to be a bad night, sah, an’ dey do say a-pack of wolves——”
Smythe lifted his hand.
“Hurry up—I hear him tramping out there. What did I tell you?”
The heavy voice of the Colonel was heard requesting that lights be brought and the fire be made more cheerful.
“You’d better take a rifle with you,” said the storekeeper, turning to the negro, his hand on the latch.
Sam waited until the door had closed behind his master. Then he gave way to silent mirth.
“Massar Smiff don’ want Watson t’ meet de Kennel. An’ de Kennel a-waitin’ out dar fer Massar Watson ter pop in any time. He! ho! he! ho!”
He quickly prepared the visitor’s meal, and, lifting the rifle from its pegs, slipped out by the back door.
After he had eaten his supper Hallibut pushed his chair back from the table and felt for his pipe.
“When was Watson over to Bushwhackers’ Place last?” he asked, his eyes on Smythe’s face.
“Let me see—why, I think it was on Tuesday, sir. He said you asked him to use his influence with those misguided people who prefer savagery to civilization.”
“Your friend has a vivid imagination,” remarked Hallibut. “He came to see me and told me a lot of nice things the Bushwhackers intended doing to me if I didn’t mind my own business. Knowing Watson to be even a bigger prevaricator than you are, I believed half what he said and let the rest go by me. However, I know the Bushwhackers haven’t any use for me. I don’t know why. Guess they think I’d do anything to gain what I’d set out to,—and they’re not far wrong. He suggested that I let you and him handle this deal for me, and after consideration I thought maybe I had better. I’m too short-tempered to ever use diplomacy, and as I’m no hypocrite I couldn’t soft-soap the Bushwhackers into coming to my way of thinking. I’m willing to pay them whatever the timber is worth. It ought to be a good thing for them, and I’m inclined to think they’ll be sensible and sell the timber. I only want the biggest of the hard stuff.”
“They’re a bunch of bad ones,” declared Smythe; “a regular band of cut-throats. They know no law and they hold life as cheap as water. Big McTavish has incited the others against you. They swear they will kill you if you set foot on Bushwhackers’ Place.”
“I’m not anxious to set foot on Bushwhackers’ Place, providing I can secure the timber through an agent. But the timber I must have. I gave Watson money with which to start the ball rolling. Maybe I’ll see that money again and maybe I won’t. As I said before, I don’t trust either you or Watson very far. But both of you know me.”
“We will do our very utmost to get the timber,” said Smythe; and as the Colonel turned toward him he added, “foryou.”
“It might be a good idea,” said Hallibut. “As for those Bushwhackers, I’m not caring a cent what they think of me. I tried to show them that I was interested in their welfare by building that schoolhouse, that they might educate their children, and by giving it to them—it and the land it stands on. I’ve hired young Simpson to teach the school, or you did with my money, which amounts to the same, and after all this you say the Bushwhackers want to kill me. Grateful, aren’t they?”
“If you hadn’t built that mill until after you had got possession of the timber——” faltered Smythe; but the Colonel interrupted him.
“See here, I built that mill on my own land, didn’t I? Surely I don’t have to ask permission from anybody else when I want to do anything with my own.”
“I was merely going to say that the mill has driven the fur-bearing animals out of the creek,” smiled Smythe. “The Bushwhackers say you have spoiled the best trapping, sir.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that; but my intentions were good. I looked upon those people as a simple-hearted lot of men and women whose friendship was worth the winning. It’s funny—me wanting friends at my age. But I’m getting old and fanciful, I guess.”
Smythe scratched his chin and squinted along his beak-like nose as though he were aiming the remark at a crack in the floor, as he said:
“They’re not particular about having the trees cut down. They live mostly by shooting and trapping. But I do know that two thousand acres of walnut, beech, and hickory is worth a fortune to somebody.”
“Humph! And how long have you known that? Seems queer to me that you and Watson haven’t tried to corner this timber for yourselves.”
The storekeeper lifted his hands.
“Surely you know us better than that,” he protested.
“I know dogs better than I do men,” said Hallibut, “and I can trust dogs. I’ve never seen many men that I could trust. It was a man stole the best thing I ever had in life.”
“Ah,” Mr. Smythe rubbed his hands together and smiled, “a woman?”
Hallibut looked at him, an expression of disgust on his face.
“Yes, but not the kind of woman you know. This one was my sister.”
“Just so,” smirked the grocer; and then he whispered again, “just so.”
“Did you or Watson tell the Bushwhackers what I intend to do with the boat?” asked Hallibut after a little time had elapsed.
“Yes, and they say that as soon as you try and put your schooner up Lee Creek there will be trouble. They told Watson to tell you so,” said Smythe.
“So they warn me, eh?”
Hallibut left his chair and paced up and down the floor.
Smythe sat with a smile of satisfaction on his weasel-like face.
“Of course, they can’t stop you from entering the harbor and sailing across Rond Eau; neither can they prevent you from sailing up the creek. But,” he added impressively, “they can burn your boat.”
“Don’t talk foolishness,” cried Hallibut. “They aren’t quite crazy. If they tried anything like that on with me, I’d wipe ’em out; you hear me—wipe the whole bunch of ’em out.”
“I think Mr. Watson and I may make some amicable arrangements with the misguided people,” said Smythe.
“Well, see that you do. Neither of you are honest, and you should make a success of any job that requires underhand work. But this is a straight, fair, and square offer. See that you make the Bushwhackers understand that I want to treat them squarely.”
He sat down and gazed across at Smythe. Slowly the purple died in his face, and he relighted his pipe and smoked it thoughtfully.
“It’s hard to understand some men,” he said, “—mighty hard. But then it’s mighty hard to understand some dogs, too. I’ve seen dogs, and owned ’em, intelligent enough to understand most everything I said to them. But somehow I never got to know their language. Still I’m called a dog’s superior. Strange, isn’t it? Now, your friend Watson reminds me of a dog that would wag and fawn all he could out of you.”
He nodded his great head slowly and sent a cloud of smoke ceilingward.
“As the case stands, I’ve trusted him with my money. The question is, will he play square?”
Mr. Smythe opened his milk-blue eyes wide.
“Oh, you may trust him, my dear Colonel,” he said earnestly. “Mr. Watson, sir, is an honest servant; a faithful Christian.”
“Humph, think so? Well, maybe you’re right. I’m not feeling exactly like myself to-night, Smythe, and I’m fanciful, I guess. The fellow who’s rigging my schooner told me a story this morning—not a nice story, either—and I’ve been thinking ever since about a poor little woman who died with not a single friend near her. Here’s the sailor’s story:
“A man by the name of Watts, who was supposed to be a ferryman, lived on the Detroit River somewhere near Sandwich. A crippled sister kept house for him, and he, according to report, was a bad one all round. One night he brought across from the American side a woman and her baby. They had come a long distance, it seems, and the woman was sick—in fact, she was dying. This Watts saw she had money, and he took her to his home, where she died that very night. Before the end came she consigned the baby to the care of Watts and obtained a promise from him that he would try and find a man—the sailor couldn’t remember the name—and place the baby, along with a certain parcel she was carrying, with him.”
Smythe laughed uneasily.
“That was a pretty big contract for Watts to take on.”
“Of course, he never intended to keep it,” said Hallibut. “She gave him money with which to seek out her friends. The sailor says he put it in his pocket and let the County bury the poor woman.”
“And the baby?” queried Smythe, his face twitching.
“I’m coming to that. It seems this Watts’ hunchback sister was a good woman at heart. She wanted to keep the baby. But he sent the child away into the forest with an Indian on a wild-goose chase and kept the parcel.”
Smythe made five dots on the paper before him.
“What was in the parcel?” he asked, wiping his eyes.
“The sailor didn’t know, but it was reported to be money. You’ll make me wish I hadn’t told you this harrowing story, Smythe.”
“Poor mother; poor little orphan,” sighed the storekeeper.
The Colonel stared at him.
“Did I say that the baby’s father had died?” he asked. “You’re right though, its father was dead. The woman told Watts as much.”
Hallibut arose and stretched his long arms. He was a man far past middle age, with iron-gray hair, a large face, and deep, kindly eyes. He stood over six-foot-two, was broad of shoulder, and straight as an arrow.
“That’s the story the sailor told me,” he said grimly. “I’ve been thinking of that poor woman all day. Poor little thing—sick and dying amongst strangers. And that man—think of what he did, Smythe. Could you imagine any man being so inhuman?”
Smythe sat huddled up on his chair.
“How long ago did this thing happen?” he asked.
“It was nineteen years ago; maybe twenty. There’s no doubt about the baby being dead long ago. Of course, the Indian would reason that it was less trouble to let the baby die than it was to keep it alive.”
The Colonel locked his hands behind him and paced up and down the room. He paused before Smythe at last and looked down upon him with misty eyes.
“I guess I’m not very well,” he said with a short laugh, “—why, this thing happened twenty years ago; and maybe after all the sailor was lying.”
Mr. Smythe raised his head.
“Sailors have a habit of lying,” he agreed.
The door opened and Sambo burst into the room.
“I put de hoss inter de stable, Massar Smiff,” he cried.
“Why, who had your horse, Smythe?” asked Hallibut.
Smythe’s weasel eyes shifted from the big man to Sambo.
“I loaned her to—to Alexander Wilson this morning,” he faltered.
“That’s funny,” returned the Colonel. “I met Wilson driving a span of oxen as I was coming here. Say, Sambo, feed my dogs, like a good fellow; I want to push on.”
Half an hour after the hoof-beats of Hallibut’s horse had died away Watson crept into the room. He was breathing heavily and his swarthy face was drawn and haggard. Mr. Smythe wisely asked no questions.
The agent sank into a seat before the fire. He sat fumbling in his pocket and from it finally drew out a leather wallet. He opened it and extracted from it a photograph. He held it out in a shaking hand and looked at Smythe.
“I’ve hung on to this,” he faltered, “because you thought we ought to keep it—because you thought if the baby was alive we might know it from this likeness.”
Smythe nodded, and Watson leaned forward and put the photograph in the red coals.
“You were right,” he shivered. “I found it. I found it to-day, and I knew it by that likeness of its mother. Yes, I found the girl, Smythe.”
Smythe glanced fearfully at the snoring Sambo in the corner.
“Where was she?” he asked in an awed whisper.
Watson did not reply. He picked up the poker and bent above the fire. The cardboard he had tossed in the coals lay there charred and curled. As he gazed upon it, fascinated, a little baby flame sprang out and kissed it to glowing life so that from it a face flashed out, sweet, glad, and triumphant. Then a breeze from the Wild swooped down the wide chimney and carried it away.