CHAPTER XIThe Wild of the Wild
Colonel Hallibut rode the lone trail, his hounds at his heels. A spent moon draggled across a spiteful, crumpled sky, low down above the fringe of ravished forest. The wind had died, and the night was still, except for the calls of the forest things that voice their woes and joys at night. There were the low “whoo-hoos” of the owls, the “perru-perrs” of the night-hawks, and away far down toward the westward came, now and again, a fluted call dying in a wail that bespoke the lynx’s unsuccessful stalking. Deeper down in the forest a stray timber-wolf called hopelessly to a wandering pack. Anon the call was answered faintly, but clearly, far above; then a new note came into the strayer’s voice, and the yelp was sharper, clearer than before.
Colonel Hallibut rode on, his head low and his rifle thrown across his saddle-pommel. Occasionally his lips moved and he sat erect with a jerk.
“Hate me, do they?” he mused. “I wonder why? And I wonder why I should care? I am growing old and fanciful, I guess. Thank God I have my dogs—and a dog is a true friend.”
The thin moon dropped down behind the heavy fringe and the night blackened as the trail narrowed.
“I don’t know but I’ve made a mistake in making Watson and Smythe my agents,” thought the man. “I can’t trust either of them, and——”
From far ahead there came again the long, low cry of a wolf; not the undulating cry; but the long-drawn, unvarying note that bespoke the rejoining of the pack. Hallibut lifted his head and half-reined in his horse.
“Howl, you devils,” he cried. Then he slapped the horse’s neck with the rein. “If it were mid-winter now,” he soliloquized, shrugging his shoulders, “I wouldn’t just feel safe in this place.”
Miles of the trail still lay before him—miles of lonely land. But the man was inured to the Wild; he had ridden the night trail many, many times. Still the life had taught him caution. He knew that in mid-winter, when the food was scarce, the timber-wolves grew fearless and were bad company. In winter he would not have thought of journeying on this trail alone. But it was barely autumn now, and he gave himself not the slightest thought of danger, but rode boldly on.
The Colonel was the big man of his particular day. The village of St. Thomas, miles onward, he practically owned, as well as the greater portion of the partly cleared land surrounding it. St. Thomas was simply a drab-colored blotch on the Wild as yet, but the lake lay close to it and its natural resources promised to make of the half-cleared country about it a great land some day not far future. Hallibut owned the grand home of the country-side; a big, rambling house of planed boards, with wide rooms and oiled hardwood floors. It sat on the crest of a hill among a grove of butternuts, and near it stood the stables and kennels, famous far and near.
Horses were a rarity in those old days, but in Colonel Hallibut’s stables were some of the best blood-horses of the time. He loved riding and he loved the chase. Being of English birth he had adopted the customs of his homeland and carried them to the limit. His cellar contained bitter ale, beer, and choice wines. He loved to sit beside his wide fireplace with his long pipe alight, a mug at his elbow, and hounds snoozing about him, and there dream, with his pets, of the events of the day’s chase. He was a power in his land. No man dared to gainsay his command. He held more than money-power; he represented the law as well. He was a monopolist. He had secured land for the asking; land for a pittance; land for an hour or two of patient head-work. He owned thousands of acres. The scarcity of hard timber, occasioned by heavy northern forest fires, had recently enhanced its price so materially that one thousand acres of prime hardwood was worth a small fortune, provided there were facilities for shipping the timber. Hallibut owned the facilities in the shape of a trim schooner, which he now felt he could use to advantage; for he had long realized the wealth resident in those beautifully timbered ridges of the Bushwhackers. Having seen the great maple and beech, the magnificent walnut and the yellow and black and white oak, now worth many dollars a thousand, Hallibut was willing to pay a good price for the timber. He had purchased a strip of timber along Lee Creek across from the Bushwhackers, and erected a portable mill there.
In order to show the Bushwhackers that he wished to be neighborly, the big man had built them a schoolhouse and supplied a teacher for it, in doing which he felt that he had been actuated by pure magnanimity, without thought of gain.
But the Colonel was finding out that the Bushwhackers resented his advances of friendship, and he wondered why. Now they were threatening him, and they must learn that he did not fear them.
The Colonel had never married, but kept as his housekeeper an old-country woman of advanced years. Her name was Davis, and her grown-up son, Dick, lived with them and looked after the kennels and stables.
Austere as he appeared to be to the people in village and country-side, Colonel Hallibut was in reality a man of great and generous impulses. He was a man of reserve, for in his heart rested a pitiful little story—pitiful because so simple.
Years ago, on a fine estate in England, he had possessed a little sister who was all the kin he could claim in the world. He more than loved the girl—he worshiped her as few men have been known to do. She could not make a wish he would not gratify. And the girl—she loved the big brother better than anything in the world, until that other love awakened within her. One day she forsook the brother, leaving a brief note behind. She had married a man who was beneath her station in life, and fled with him across the ocean. Hallibut faced his grief and went the way alone. From that day his world had been a lonely world. Change of scenes, excitement, or even the chase could never make him forget. The sister’s face was always there. He sold the estate and sought forgetfulness in travel. Then he did what he should have done at first—he sought the girl. But he found her not. He joined the army, but even the thrill of the fight gave him no respite from sad memories. At last he turned for solace to the Wild; and in the big house, with one old family servant, he had lived for years now. Out in the open all day long, and at night by his fireplace with a picture in the glowing coals and a portrait looking from the wall—this was the man’s life as it was lived.
As the horseman penetrated deeply into the forest gloom and the heavy shadows settled more closely about him, making the trail hard to keep in its blackness, he began to wish he had asked Dick to come out and meet him, as he sometimes did when forced to return after night. The woods had a way of playing pranks upon him. He was not bred for the bush, and therefore there were things about it that he could never hope to learn at his age. Still he knew the trail he was on well enough to have followed it blindfolded, had it been necessary. He settled lower in the saddle, and with his mind on Smythe and Watson and the Bushwhackers, he passed down the trail.
He had been perhaps two hours in the saddle, and was nearing what was known as the Fire-Lick, a low, charred scar of territory that had been swept by fire years ago, when he was aroused from his meditations by the growls of his hounds. The dogs were acting in a most peculiar manner, running ahead for a few feet and then retreating almost beneath the horse’s heels. The horse, too, seemed to catch their spirit, for he reared once or twice, and would have thrown the rider had he been other than Hallibut himself.
“What the devil!” cried the man, striking the horse with the quirt and whistling to the hounds.
“What’s the matter with you all, anyway?”
The horse leaped forward so suddenly that an overhanging branch caught the rider’s cap and swept it from his head. With a promise that he would teach the animal to act differently, the Colonel slid down from his saddle and with the bridle-rein over his arm stooped to feel in the darkness for his cap. A hound almost beneath the horse lifted its head and howled, and the frightened beast with a snort reared and, jerking away from the man, sprang down the trail in the direction from which he had come.
Hallibut arose and fumbled the hammer of his rifle. He had his hands full with the dogs, for they crowded around him whining and growling and in every way manifesting fear of the unseen enemy. He did not understand it. It was a pretty predicament for him to be in, surely. It meant ten miles of a walk, and he was tired. He stepped out and, followed by the dogs, made to cross the Fire-Lick that stretched like a black lake before him. At its border a circle of gleaming eyes met him.
“Wolves!” he shuddered, and throwing forward the rifle he drew a bead on those shifting balls of fire and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell dead. No explosion followed, and the circle narrowed toward man and dogs. Hallibut sprang for a nearby tree and drew himself up into its branches.
As he swung aloft a dark shape hurled itself into the air, and he heard the wolf’s teeth snap within a few inches of his pendant legs.
“They’ll get my hounds,” thought the man. “Back, Pinch; back, Gabe; Nell, you fool, get back there,” he cried excitedly.
But the fighting blood was up in the dogs. In numbers they were inferior to the foe, but in fighting tactics they were superior. The master knew each dog by its voice. And now it was Pinch gurgled a challenge, and the whimper of Nell bespoke her eagerness to back him. Gabe, the heaviest of the hounds, had closed on the wolf which had first sprung. Hallibut heard the snapping of bones—then a number of other wolves hurled themselves forward. He could hear the dogs snarling as they fought, and he lent his voice to their encouragement.
“Easy, Gabe,” he shouted; “Nell, girl, easy now. Lead ’em into the open. Don’t let ’em get you in the thick timber.”
Hallibut had placed another cap on the nipple of his rifle, and as the struggling mass surged back into the charred space he fired into it point-blank. A wild howl told that a wolf had been hit.
“That’s all I can do, poor chaps,” he called.
His powder and ball were in the saddle-bags.
“They’ll kill them all,” cried the man. “They’ll kill my dogs. Ha, if Dick only knew and would loose the big ’uns.”
The “big ’uns” were a pack of wolf-hounds which on account of their vicious natures Hallibut kept in confinement.
Even as he spoke upon his ear fell the sharp crack of a rifle far eastward on the trail, and as its echo died there arose the deep musical bay of the wolf-hounds. Hallibut scrambled upright on a limb and probed the darkness with his eyes. Those gallant hounds beneath had heard the baying, too, and they were fighting as they never had fought before. One of the dogs retreated backward, fighting feebly with two gaunt shapes that strove to bear it to earth. Hallibut, with a cry that was half a sob, forgot all caution in the animal love he bore his best and dearest companions.
“They’d do it for me,” he cried; and clubbing his rifle he leaped to the ground. He was barely in time to save the brave Nell, who with torn sides and lolling tongue had fallen at last, fighting still and snapping with all her remaining force. Just as one of the wolves sprang, Hallibut brought the heavy rifle-barrel down upon its head, crushing the skull as though it had been an egg-shell. The dog scrambled up and met the other wolf as it sprang toward her master. Then a cyclone of panting, bounding bodies swept in and there was grand play in the Fire-Lick for a brief space of time.
“Oh, Colonel!” cried a voice.
“This way, Dick, lad, and be quick,” the man responded breathlessly.
Dick found his master leaning weakly against a tree.
“Are you ’urt, sir?” he asked, dismounting.
“No. See if they’ve killed Gabe and Pinch, Dick. Lord! but how those little hounds did fight!”
Dick returned in a short time.
“I found two dead wolves, and I can’t find any of the dogs, sir,” he said. “Listen!—they’re givin’ of ’em ’ell, sir, an’ no mistake.”
Hallibut sat down on a log and drew the maimed dog over against his knee.
“Nell, old girl,” he said chokingly, stroking her long ears, “you’re a tartar, Nell.”
The dog whined and licked his hand.
“Pinch, sir,” cried Dick, “ ’e be limpin’, but he be none the worse beyond bein’ sore as anythink, sir.”
In half an hour the rest of the pack had returned and were gamboling and leaping about Hallibut. Great, deep-chested, throaty dogs those wolf-hounds were. Their one consuming desire being to tear down and kill, they felt for the man before them only the blind devotion of dog for master. Hallibut had given them more blows than pats, but he knew how to command respect among dogs.
“How many was in the pack, sir?” asked Dick. He had drawn two dead wolves into the open and was now dragging a third.
“Somewhere about ten, I should judge,” replied the Colonel. “But I can’t understand why they should be on the rampage at this time of year.”
“Look at this one, sir,” cried Dick. “ ’E’s so thin that ’e must ’ave nigh starved to death. All of ’em are thin. There’s only one reason as I can think of that would make ’em vicious, sir: they’re starvin’—that’s why.”
“Nonsense,” cried Hallibut. “Why, the heavy timber is alive with food.”
“Yes, sir, I know that. But you see, sir, these wolves can’t get into th’ ’eavy timber; at least they won’t go. They won’t go through a peopled settlement, an’ they can’t pass back into the woods by the way they came, sir.”
“And why can’t they?”
“Well, sir, I think it’s ’cause you’ve put that mill on the creek. You see they must ’ave come by way of the lower swale—hit’s the only way they could come. An’ when you built th’ mill the saws frightened ’em back further so that they’ve been all through th’ second-growth and they’ve naturally been starvin’ slow, an’ it’s come to such a pass as they’ve growed desperate, sir.”
“By George, Dick, I believe you’re right,” cried Hallibut.
He arose stiffly and looked about him.
“Well, my putting that mill there might have been the death of me all right,” he said. “But, lad, you haven’t told me why you came to meet me with the hounds.”
“Yes, sir; it was this way. A man from the village was chased by this ’ere pack last night. ’E was over at the stables to-night an’ ’e told me. I came out a ways and listened for a time, an’ when I ’eard ’em ’owl I let the big ’uns loose, thinkin’ as you ’ud not mind my doin’ it under th’ circumstances, sir.”
“You did just right, lad,” said Hallibut. “But did you bring their leashes, Dick?”
“Right ’ere in my saddle-bag, sir.”
“Well, you’d better tie ’em up before they happen on an Indian. This country is getting so’s Indians are becoming more valuable every day.”
Dick chuckled.
“They do ’ate Injuns an’ niggers, sir; an’, sir, that reminds me, there’s an old Injun from the Point by the name of Noah Sturgeon waitin’ up at th’ place to see you, sir.”
The Colonel knit his brows.
“Sturgeon,” he repeated; “Noah Sturgeon,—don’t think I ever heard of him——”
“Your ’orse, sir?” questioned Dick, looking about him.
“Never mind about my horse—I’m going to ride yours. You follow up and keep a tight grip on the hounds. I don’t want that old Indian to get eaten up.”
They passed on down the black trail, and the spot that had witnessed the struggle between the “big ’uns” and the starving things of the Wild grew silent again with a great and oppressive silence. Only the tiny bare branches of the trees clicked under the restless wind that slumbered fitfully when the night grew old. The clouds crept from the sky away down and below the forest-fringe; then the white stars came out and rested, looking down on the Fire-Lick. Their soft light swept the open and fell across the crumpled forms of the dead things that had roamed the forest-Wild. They lay pitifully silent and huddled, their red tongues lolling; their starving days at an end. Further into the second-growth bushland there were others of them, lying cold, beyond all life of the Wild. They had been cut off from their own; they had starved and fought and died. But they were only wolves after all.
CHAPTER XIIInjun Noah
The cold dawn was stealing across the lake when Colonel Hallibut rode into his yard and, dismounting, turned the horse over to Dick. The hounds leaped and fawned upon him and he sternly commanded them to keep down. He led them through the door into the great kennel-yards and there arose a bedlam of glad yelps and growls of rage, as some favorite was petted or felt the fangs of jealousy of a stronger fellow. The master played the whip among them, laughing and shouting.
“Oh, you beauties!—Black Dan, you fire-eater. Down, Gabe, you branch of the devil. Poor old Jep; come on, pup, and let me pat your old sides; poor old Jep, noble old Jep. Weren’t in the fight last night, were you? Too old, boy; too old and stiff. Every dog has his day, Jep, and every man, too. Egad, boy, I thought for a while last night that mine was over!”
The old hound laid his wrinkled chin in his master’s hand and gazed up at him with age-weakened eyes. Some of the younger dogs of the pack retreated snarling, with bristles erect, and lying down a short distance away, licked the wounds received in the night’s encounter. Hallibut walked across to a wide, low building and unlocked the door.
“In there, all of you,” he shouted; and the dogs sprang toward the door.
Old Jep came last, limping painfully, his whole attitude one of protest.
“Not you, old fellow,” said the man; “you can stay out, and you’d best hang close to me.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders, and with the old favorite following, crossed the yard and entered the stables. Dick was cleaning out the fetlocks of the horse the Colonel had just ridden in. He looked up as his master entered, then went on with his work.
“Where’s Fury?” asked Hallibut, peering into an empty stall.
“Turned ’im hout in th’ yard, sir,” stammered Dick. “ ’E was kicked in the night some’ow, sir. I’m sorry, but hit couldn’t be ’elped; ’e broke ’is ’alter, sir.”
“That flame of Hades is always breaking his halter,” cried Hallibut. “Well, of course that wasn’t any fault of yours. Here’s ten dollars—buy a halter he can’t break, and keep what’s over to get yourself a new jacket. I see this one you’re wearing has been played with recently, eh?”
“Why, sir, that’s so,” laughed Dick. “It do seem, sir, as I can’t keep anythink whole any, more, that stud Dobo is that playful, sir.”
“Well, you best look out that Dobo don’t get your head some time. And now when you’ve eaten and rested a bit I want you to put the saddle on Bay Tom and ride some of the kicks out of him. Go after the mare that turned traitor last night and fetch the wolf-pelts back with you. They’ll make the hounds a nice warm bed for the winter, and I guess they belong to the hounds all right. Don’t know but what I owe those dogs something myself.”
“I don’t think, sir, as Bay Tom’ll take like t’ carryin’ raw furs. ’E do seem t’ ’ate th’ scent of blood. ’E’ll like raise the mischief, sir, ’e will, and maybe kill me, sir.”
“Well, if he kills you,” said Hallibut dryly, “I won’t ever ask you to ride him again. Now, you understand. And, Dick, I want that horse put through his paces. Use quirt and spur, and lather him till he weakens. I’d do it myself only I’ve got to get the schooner stocked for a cruise.”
“Very well, sir. And sir, the old Injun, ’e be waitin’ to speak with you.”
“By George! I had forgotten. Yes, I’ll go in and see him now.”
The Colonel’s housekeeper met him at the kitchen door.
“Oh, sir,” she cried, raising her hands, “I’m so glad you’ve returned. Hall night hi’ve been scared most to death, sir. ’E’s in there yet, sir, sittin’ by the fireplace. ’E’s hawful to look hat, sir.”
Hallibut chuckled and laid his hand on the old lady’s shoulder.
“You mean the old Indian, Nancy? Bless your heart, woman, he’s harmless as a baby most likely. Bet a dollar he’s been at my decanters. I’ll go in and see him. Just lay the table for two of us. Like as not, being an Indian, he can eat whether he’s hungry or no.”
“But, sir,” protested the old woman, “you’ll not ’ave ’im sit with you, sir?”
“My dear Nancy, after what I’ve been through I’d welcome the company of a snake, providing it was a real snake and was clean. You’ll please see that two plates are laid.”
The big man stalked forward and opened the door into the wide sitting-room. Before the log fire was bent a slight figure clad in buckskin. The Colonel saw an old withered man, his thin face seamed with wrinkles, his black eyes peering from deep hollows that age had sunk there. His hair was crow-black and long, falling about his narrow shoulders. He arose with a lithe motion as the Colonel entered.
“How?” he said in good English.
“How?” returned the master of the house, holding out his hand.
The old Indian looked at it, but made no motion toward taking it. He raised his arm and pointed about the room.
“Good,” he said; “much good.”
“Sit down,” invited the Colonel. “Now tell me what brings you here. You live on ‘Point Aux,’ I understand. It’s a long way to the Point.”
The Indian’s eyes were fastened upon the portrait hanging on the wall. They did not leave it as he spoke.
“Much,” he said; “very much. Noah wish to speak of Bushwhacker. You leave Bushwhacker there; no touch. You know Bushwhacker girl—Gloss—you know; good.”
He pointed toward the portrait. It was that of a young girl with glorious long-lashed eyes and smiling lips. Hallibut followed his gaze, frowned, then going over to the sideboard glanced along the array of bottles there. He picked up a glass and sniffed it.
“Have you been sampling of any of these bottles?” he asked sternly.
“Noah no drink until he speak. Noah know her,” pointing to the portrait. “Noah tote her, wee papoose, many day journey. White man pay Noah money and Noah lay papoose in Big Chief wigwam. You know Big Chief Bushwhacker. Ugh, you know her,—Gloss!”
He stretched a claw-like finger toward the portrait.
“You know white girl; good. You no touch Bushwhacker.”
Hallibut stood frowning upon the old Indian.
“Listen,” he said, sitting down beside the old man, “you must understand that the portrait you see on the wall is not of a Bushwhacker girl or of anyone else you know. That’s the likeness of a sister I had and lost years and years ago. It was painted in England, a land across the Great Waters, Noah.”
“No, no,” cried the Indian. “Noah have good eyes. He can see and understand. Big man need not lie—white girl Noah’ good friend.”
Hallibut arose and wiped his streaming brow. Then he sank into a chair and ran his fingers through his gray hair.
“I’m hanged if I know what he’s driving at,” he mused. “Apparently he thinks I want to wipe the Bushwhackers off the map.” Aloud he said: “Who sent you here, my good man?”
Noah did not answer. He was looking into the coals.
“Bushwhacker know big man would steal bush,” he said at length. “They no want big man there. Noah no want see big man steal good friend’ home. Big man no come; no send other man. Gloss big man’ friend.”
Once more Colonel Hallibut looked puzzled. “I’m hanged if I understand what he means,” he muttered.
“Big man no send vessel,” went on the Indian. “Bushwhacker no want ’um. Scare duck plenty bad. Noah come tell big man no send.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Hallibut, “I’m beginning to see light. They sent you over to tell me I mus’n’t send my schooner up the creek, eh?”
“No one send; Noah come himself. Noah know Bushwhacker shoot when big man come take timber. Big man no come—no send agent again.”
The Colonel arose and paced up and down the room.
“Well, of all things!” he exclaimed. “What do you think of all this, Phoebe, girl——” turning to the picture, “what do you think of those impudent Bushwhackers?”
The aged Indian had risen and was wrapping his blanket about him.
“Noah,” said Hallibut, “the Bushwhackers haven’t any particular use for me, I understand. It’s pretty near war between us. But I’m going to send my vessel up that creek just the same. I’m willing to promise you that I won’t do the Bushwhackers any harm until they try to do me harm. They threaten to burn my schooner, and maybe they will—we’ll see. I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I’m going to send that schooner around the Point and into the bay soon. I want you to meet her at the narrows and act as watchman aboard her. If you don’t want the Bushwhackers to come to any harm, you must see that my vessel is not burned. I believe you are honest, and I will pay you well. What do you say, Noah?”
Noah pointed once more to the portrait.
“You do much for her?” he asked simply.
The big man started. Then he smiled and said gently:
“Old man, God only knows how much I would do—if I could.”
“Noah will meet big man’ vessel,” said the Indian, holding out his hand.
After the strange messenger had eaten and gone, Hallibut paced to and fro across the wide room, pondering deeply upon what he had learned. He stopped at last before the portrait on the wall.
“I wonder why the poor old chap should think he knows you, Phoebe?” he said, addressing the girl in the frame.
It was a custom of his to speak all his inner thoughts to the picture. One may lose summer forever; but he can treasure a dead flower, because its perfume clings to it and never quite dies.
“I like the old man because he thinks he knows you,” he murmured, “—just because hethinkshe knows you, Phoebe.”
His head dropped and he strode toward the door.
“I don’t know why I should not teach those Bushwhackers a lesson!” he ejaculated.
He turned and let his frowning eyes rest on the painting, and as he gazed his face softened. The big eyes seemed to be pleading with him.
“Maybe there really is a girl who looks like you, Phoebe,” he said gently; “a little girl of the Wild that looks like you.”
And the face smiled on him as he passed out through the doorway.
CHAPTER XIIIOn the Creek Path
It was early twilight when the old Indian once again reached Bushwhackers’ Place. All day he had kept to the trail, jogging along without a mouthful to eat, simply tightening his belt when hunger gnawed at his stomach. It was a long journey from Rond Eau Point to St. Thomas, and over rough ground—a very long journey for a man of Noah’s age to attempt. But he was an Indian and his years did not weigh him down. His sinews were tough like the seasoned hickory fiber, and his spirit was young like the spirit of the great shadowed woodland. Age counted for naught where life derived its strength from its environment.
To the old man Gloss was a star that had loosened itself from some strange firmament and strayed into the green uplands. He had watched her grow from a slender girl into a graceful creature with beauty that nothing of the woodland could match. One with eyes that held all the lights that ever shone on lake or wood, and life that bubbled and laughed and defied.
For her and her protectors Noah had undertaken the trying mission of visiting the rich man Hallibut, and advising him to leave the men of the hardwoods alone.
He had taken the portrait on the lonely man’s walls for that of Gloss, but this was not strange. The old man’s eyes were growing dim and they sometimes played pranks on him. But the incident was sufficient to bind his loyalty to the man who threatened the Bushwhackers.
Noah was willing to act as watchman aboard the schooner. He had lost all the impetuosity of youth. He was old and wise, and he would watch and wait—and act, if necessary, when the time came.
Gloss, coming up from the spring with a pail of foaming milk, newly strained and ready for “setting,” caught sight of her old friend and gave a call like the trill of a marsh-lark. The Indian, without speaking, overtook her and reached for the pail, which he carried to the house and set on the block outside the cellar door.
Big McTavish was chopping logs for the evening fire, and caught sight of Noah as he came around the corner of the house.
“Well, well, Chief,” he cried, “thought maybe you was on the warpath. Ain’t seen you here for days. Come along in and get some supper.”
“Good,” grunted the old man, and followed McTavish into the kitchen. Gloss laid the cloth for the visitor’s supper. Her eyes brightened and her red lips smiled when the old man turned his wrinkled face toward her.
“Noah,” she said, “you mus’n’t stay away from Gloss so long again. It’s heap lonely without you here.”
Noah’s eyes flashed at the words, and he spoke, using only the mellowest words of the English tongue, as was his custom.
“Wild-bird no lonely where wild world be. Gloss speak to make Injun heart glad: now Injun speak to make wild-bird sing. Big water,” pointing southward, “big forest,” sweeping his arm about, “all stay same. No change. Good, much good. Noah, he know.”
Granny McTavish, coming from the bedroom, caught the words of the Indian.
“Reet, Noah,” she smiled, “there’ll be na’ change teel God wulls, and may He na’ wull it frae lang.”
“Ugh, you tell Boy,” said Noah, “tell ’um Noah say it.”
The old lady held up her hands.
“There’s na’ tellin’ him at all whatever,” she sighed. “He’s muckle disturbed and he’ll na’ listen to reason. He’s oot there noo trudgin’ the wet woods, but he’ll noo get comfort there, mon; he maun seek it i’ the guid Book. I’ve told him o’ it, aye, I’ve told him o’ it aften enoo. God forgive him for th’ wild creature he is—and he’s a guid lad at heart enoo, a guid lad at heart——”
“Tush, Granny,” chided Big McTavish. “Boy’s not worryin’ over anythin’. He’s a bit unsettled, that’s all. He’s out in the woods ’cause he loves th’ woods. See, you’ve spoiled Noah’s supper for him. He’s thinkin’ Boy’s a bit crazy, maybe.”
Noah pushed back his chair from the table and arose.
“You’re not going so soon, surely, Noah?” cried Gloss.
“Noah must go to Point,” answered the Indian. “Canoe down on Eau shore.”
Gloss snatched up her cap.
“I’ll go down to th’ shore with you,” she cried. “Maybe I’ll meet Boy.”
“No,” said Noah, “Gloss no come.”
“But I say yes,” replied Gloss, dancing nimbly in front of the old man. “Remember, I haven’t seen you for ages, and I must go. Come along.”
She took his hand and they passed out together. They walked along, Gloss taking the lead, and neither speaking a word. They understood each other well, and something unbreakable bound them together while life should last.
When they reached the canoe, hidden in thick rushes on the edge of the bay, the girl patted the old Indian’s wrinkled cheek gently and bade him good-by.
When the black rushes of the moon-lit Eau hid his craft, the girl turned homeward on the path again. A tender smile was on her face, and the red blood was dancing in her veins. Her whole young being was alive and calling—calling for—she wondered what!
Where the woodland trail met the creek path a wide sheet of moonlight lay shrouding the dead leaves. When she reached this spot she clasped her hands and raised them to the deep chaotic arch of the skies.
“Boy,” she breathed chokingly, “oh, Boy——” Then the long lashes hid her eyes and something splashed upon the dead sheeted leaves. “—Oh God, I mean,” she whispered, “take care of him; take care of Boy.”
Far down in the dark swales a panther wailed and a loon sent its weird call from the marshlands. A fleeting cloud drifted across the moon and the path darkened. The girl quickened her pace into a run. As she rounded a curve in the path she gave a little cry.
Standing directly in the path was a man.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “it’s only me.”
“You?” she repeated. “Oh, yes, it’s Mr. Simpson. I must hurry on—I must——”
He did not attempt to move aside, and the girl’s head went back and her eyes flashed.
“Please let me past,” she said imperiously.
Simpson laughed.
“All in good time. But I want to say something first. Won’t you listen, Gloss?”
“If it’s what you said before, I don’t want to hear it,” she answered. “You—you mus’n’t keep me here; it’s dangerous—dangerous for you.”
“Or you?” he laughed.
He came toward her and she recoiled.
“You held me once—in your arms,” she panted, “and against my will. You mus’n’t hold me so again. If you do—I’ll kill you.”
“I’ll take the chance,” he said hoarsely; “it’s worth dying for.”
She stood tall and white before him, her great eyes fastened to his, and looking deep into the craven soul of him. He reached for her hands—then something, a new and strange helplessness, overpowered him, and he sank trembling on the moss.
“Mr. Simpson,” said the girl quietly, “you must go—for your own sake. You must go now.”
“Gloss, oh Gloss!” he murmured brokenly, “how I love you, girl! You cannot know how much. I was mad—mad. Can you forgive me, Gloss?”
“No, I can’t forgive you. I have no power to forgive you. It wasn’t me you hurt once—it’s not me you would hurt again.”
“Don’t say that,” he cried. “I merely held you in my arms, and kissed you. Yes, I held you in my arms—I kissed you——”
He struggled to his feet, trembling, his hair matted to his brow with perspiration.
“I did kiss you once,” he repeated, “and I would give my life either to undo it or to do it again.”
“You haven’t the power to do either,” she said earnestly; “believe me, you have not.”
“You are right,” he sighed. “Oh, yes, you are right. That other night when I met you on the path I was actuated by a passing fancy—just a passing fancy. I took you in my arms. You struggled. I kissed you. I looked into your soul—I looked into your soul, and saw what I must forever be banished from, Gloss. Am I not punished! Do you think I can ever forget?”
“I—I don’t know. Now, I must go.”
He stood aside and let her pass.
“Will you forgive?” he asked.
“Will you be strong?”
He shivered, but his moving lips gave out no sound.
When the moon trailed down below the tree-fringe of the Point he was still standing where the girl had left him. The panther’s howl was still, but away down in the mucky marshlands the loon sent his weird cry to the cold stars.
CHAPTER XIVPaisley Reconnoiters
The early autumn twilight had fallen when Bill Paisley stepped from the wood into the fallow. He dropped the long muzzle-loading rifle into the hollow of his arm and peered down through the gathering dusk toward Totherside.
“Why, there sure is a light at widder Ross’s,” soliloquized the man. “Now, it might be that I’d find out some things we should know if I’d just drop over there casual-like. What I’ve heard concernin’ Watson, and Peeler seein’ him and the teacher on the trail together, has roused my suspicions to the boilin’ point. I hope he’s at the widder’s to-night; I want to ‘get to know him better,’ as Boy put it.”
Paisley leaned against a tree and laughed silently.
“He don’t like me very much. I could see that the other night. And I suppose it’s natural that I shouldn’t think much of him.”
He walked on, his feet making not the slightest sound upon the sward that now gleamed gold-brown beneath the moonlight. At the edge of the creek he stepped into a skiff and with one movement of the paddle sent it sweeping into the rushes on the farther shore.
Widow Ross’s home was built much after the style of the homes in Bushwhackers’ Place. It was long and low and constructed of logs. The chinks between the logs were filled with yellow-blue clay. Paisley approached the place cautiously, once or twice hesitating as if he would draw back. He opened the door gently in response to a loud “come in,” and peered about the room as though in search of somebody. A tall, angular woman, dressed in native homespun, and working a huge spinning-wheel, turned as he entered, and, without taking her pipe from her mouth, said shortly:
“Shut that door, Bill Paisley. And you, Tom Ross, stop terrifyin’ that cat.”
A freckle-faced lad of about nine arose from a corner and, administering a last wholesome kick to a sickly looking pussie, came shuffling forward.
“Hello, Bill,” he said, “what’s new! I heard that you and the rest of the Bushwhackers was actin’ balky with Colonel Hallibut for wantin’ to buy your timber. What’s the matter!”
“Want to keep our timber to make bows and arrows with,” answered Paisley dryly. “How’s things at the mill, Tom? Runnin’ overtime, I see.”
“We’re expectin’ old Hallibut down soon,” said Tom. “I heard the boss sayin’ that the Colonel was comin’ in with a boat. Says he’s goin’ to have all your timber before the bay freezes over.”
“Yes?—He’ll get it when Hell freezes over.”
“Bill Paisley,” frowned the woman, taking her pipe from her mouth, “no swearin’—not here, if you please, sir.”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Ross,” said Bill from behind his hat.
Tom kicked the visitor gently with his bare foot, and Mrs. Ross, resuming her smoke, went on:
“We are feelin’ the influence of education and refinement since Mr. Simpson has been boardin’ here. No home that contains a teacher is a place for perfanity. Mr. Simpson says: ‘Perfanity,’ says he, ‘is the most useless sin of all sins. No gentleman swears.’ ”
Mrs. Ross snorted and turned her swarthy face toward her visitor.
“Livin’ in daily intercourse with an educated young man has its advantages. Look what Mr. Simpson has done for our Tom. Look at him, Bill Paisley, and tell me, don’t you see a difference in that boy?”
“I do,” said Bill slowly; “I sure do, widder, now you speak about it.”
“That young man of education did it,” said the widow. “The teacher did it all.”
“Great Christopher Columbus! but he’s smarter than I thought him,” grinned Paisley. “Wonder if he’d cut mine?”
The widow turned her black eyes upon him.
“Cutyours?” she repeated. “What be you talkin’ about?”
“Why, my hair,” said Bill. “I said I wonder if he’d cut mine, seein’ he’s made such a good job of Tom’s.”
Tom tittered and the woman turned her back on the two.
“Swine,” she muttered; “bushwhacker swine.”
“Where’s the teacher to-night?” asked Bill blithely.
“Him and Mary Ann——” commenced Tom.
But his mother, turning, quickly advanced upon him, and catching him by the collar with one powerful hand, administered with the other such a cuff that young Tom went spinning to his corner. The mangy cat sneaked over and crept under Paisley’s chair.
“And howisMary Ann?” asked Bill after a time. “Ain’t seen her but once or twice for the last month. I suppose she often speaks of me, Mrs. Ross?”
“Indeed she doesn’t, then, so you needn’t flatter yourself. Mary Ann’s got no use for a Bushwhacker, let alone a worthless one who would make a joke at his own mother’s funeral. So, there.”
“If I ever made a joke at my mother’s funeral it was ’cause I was too young to know better,” said Paisley pensively. “My little ma died when I was born. I ought to be worth a whole heap, marm—I was bought at a big price.”
He picked up the cat and smoothed her crumpled fur with his big hand.
“That was nigh on to forty year ago,” he said, “and I’ve been wanderin’ about the bush ever since, exceptin’ a few years I was down in the Southern States, ranchin’ it. I picked up a lot down there, but nothin’ worth keepin’, I guess. What I was goin’ to say was, I never see a mother and her boy together without a big somethin’ I can’t name standin’ right out before me, and that somethin’ is what I’ve missed by not havin’ a mother.”
Widow Ross laid her pipe on the table.
“Tommy,” she commanded, “you go right down to the spring and bring up that bucket of milk, and don’t you spill it, or I’ll pull every one of them red hairs out of your head. I don’t suppose you’ve lost your appetite none lately, Bill?”
“Periodically only, marm. I ain’t got over my likin’ for brick-cooked bread and milk, particularly the bread of a lady I know to be the best cook on Totherside.”
Mrs. Ross showed two rows of white teeth in a pleased smile. Then her face grew stern again.
“Totherside,” she flashed, “why, I don’t take that as much of a compliment, Bill Paisley. Ain’t I the only woman on Totherside?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, I mean on the whole country-side—Bridgetown included,” retrieved Bill gallantly.
“What be you all goin’ to do about Hallibut?” asked the woman, sitting down at the spinning-wheel.
Bill shook his long hair and chuckled.
“I got scolded once for sayin’ what I thought about sellin’ our timber, so don’t ask me.”
The widow’s heavy brows met in a frown.
“Here you are forty years old, and that’s old enough for you to have some sense if you’re goin’ to have any. And I must say I don’t think you nor Big McTavish nor any of you Bushwhackers have an ounce of sense among you. Here you are fightin’ off a fortune, or at least keepin’ money, which you might have, out of your pockets. Bosh! I believe that Boy McTavish has got you all under a spell.”
“Boy is sure the strongest and bitterest fighter amongst us,” agreed Bill, “but we’re all of one opinion. We like the woods, and I guess we have reason to. It has give us all a mighty good livin’, and somehow wood-life has somethin’ about it that cleared land ain’t got—smells and sounds and silence and I’ll be——”
“Be careful now, you nigh swore again,” admonished the woman. “There you, Tom, set the pail down on the table; then go to the out-house and bring in the bread, the brick-baked loaf.”
“Mrs. Ross,” said Paisley, “you’re not only a good-lookin’ woman, but you’re a good-hearted woman. Once I hoped I might be your son-in-law and have all the brick-baked bread I wanted, and the corncake which only you can bake. But Mary Ann she seems to think different, and I’m thinkin’, after all, she had some reason, seein’ she is only somethin’ about twenty-two years old and me nearly twice that.”
The widow put her finger on her lip and glanced fearfully toward the door. Then she looked with commiseration at Paisley, and approaching him in a crouching attitude, whispered:
“Mary Ann is goin’ to marry the teacher.”
Bill’s stool, poised on two legs, came to the floor with a thump.
“Marry the teacher!” he repeated; “marry the teacher! Well now, I’ll be turkey-trapped. I didn’t think he was brave enough to ask her.”
“I ain’t sayin’ that hehasasked her, am I?” cried the widow. “But I’ve got two eyes to see with, haven’t I, Bill Paisley?”
“Aye, marm, to do whatever you like with,” answered Bill pleasantly, his own eyes on the loaf of bread which Tom had just brought in. Then noting the widow’s ruffled dignity, he smoothed it with: “I’d know who baked that bread by the appetizin’ smell of it. Says I to Big McTavish just yesterday, ‘There are some good bread-makers in this here place, but none of ’em quite like widder Ross.’ ”
“Time Big McTavish had his last loggin’-bee he sent for me to come and help with the cookin’,” said the widow, as she poured the foaming milk from the pail into the big earthen bowls. “I made a custard in the dishpan. There was forty-two eggs in it, and it was good, if I do say it myself. Not one man in the lot of ’em that set down to the table but asked for a second helpin’. Big Mac he told ’em all who made it, and since that I’ve liked him better than ever. I’m makin’ another just like it for Mrs. Declute, and if you’re at Declute’s loggin’-bee next Thursday you’ll be able to sample it. Big McTavish says that Ander’s loggin’ ’ll be a good ’un, all right, if I make a custard for it.”
“He’s one man in five hundred, marm, is Big Mac,” answered Bill. “Why, Mrs. Ross, there’s not an Injun in the bush, no, or on the Point either, who wouldn’t fight tooth-and-nail for him. He’s been mighty good to the Injuns, has Mac. Any time they want anythin’ he has, they go to him and get it. And Gloss, why she can simply tie them Injuns about her little finger. They all think the world of her.”
“I’d like to know who don’t think the world of Gloss. She’s a dear girl—bless her sweet face.”
Bill with a spoonful of milk-soaked bread well on the way to its destination, suspended operations for a moment.
“Widder Ross,” he said, “God never made a better girl, nor a better lookin’ one, unless it was your Mary Ann.”
His repast finished, he reached for his rifle.
“Must be goin’,” he said in answer to the widow’s invitation to ‘set longer.’ “I’ll call in on you again soon, widder. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” responded the woman.
She was lighting her clay pipe and did not so much as turn as Bill walked out.
Paisley skirted the scrubby walk and passed along the edge of the butternut grove toward the path across the fallow. A whip-poor-will was voicing its joys from the limb of a dead ash. The moon had sunk above the bay, and its wide splash of light lay across the fallow, a blanket of milky haze. Bill lifted his head and breathed in the clear wood-scented air. From the valley came the monotonous buzz of a saw. Suddenly Paisley dived into the hazel thicket. He had heard footsteps approaching, and rightly divined that it was the teacher and Mary Ann.
Not until the young people had passed through the grove and emerged into the interval beyond did Paisley step out from his hiding-place. Then he looked toward the sinking moon and sighed.
“She’s not for the likes of you, Bill,” he murmured as he turned to the path again.
Tommy stood before him.
“Bill,” he said excitedly, “I want to tell you somethin’. I’ve got to tell you, Bill, or I’ll bust.”
“Why, Tommy,” said Bill, “thought you’d gone to bed.”
“No, I slipped out and follered you, but I saw them comin’ too, and I ducked same as you did. Say, Bill, you don’t think much of Mr. Simpson, do you?”
Paisley laughed queerly.
“Well, Tommy, and what if I don’t?”
“Well, I overheard him and that Watson man plannin’ some things together the other day. I thought I wouldn’t tell anybody, but I can’t keep it any longer.”
He stood on tiptoe and whispered something in the man’s ear. Paisley gripped the lad’s arm.
“You’re dreamin’,” he cried.
“No, Bill, I heard ’em make it up between ’em,” gasped Tom. “An’ what I want to know is, what’s going to be done about it?”
“I don’t know,” answered Paisley dazedly. “I don’t know—I’ll have to study this thing out.”
His square jaw was set and he toyed with the lock of his rifle.
“You haven’t told anyone else, Tommy?” he asked.
“Nary a soul.”
“Then don’t. I’ll see you in a night or two. Keep your eyes on the teacher. Remember, if Big McTavish or Boy hear what you’ve told me they’ll kill him sure. You know what that will mean.”
“I won’t tell anybody, cross my heart,” promised the lad, and then darted away.