CHAPTER XXIIIIn the Fire Circle
White splashes of foam clipped and swayed on the slate-blue waters. A hundred yards out from the rushes a clay-hued slash across the turmoiled face of the bay marked the yellow sand-bar beneath. Between the sand-bar and the rushes lay the wild celery bed. Here, shoots succulent and tender, sweetest of morsels to the man-hunted, fear-haunted fowl of the Wild, gripped the oozy muck below. With the lowering of the late afternoon skies a pair of canvasbacks came skimming on strong, swift wings high over the sunken bog and tangled marshland toward the white beaten water of the open. Weary from the flight of leagues, nervous with the dread of hidden dangers, and hungry from long fasting, their glistening wings beat the buffeting west wind a little more quickly at sight of the long dark streak of their kind far in the center of the bay. There, at last, was rest; food, too, perhaps. So, curving high over the marsh, the noble pair flashed, now gray against the snowy cloud-crest, now white against a crumpled sky of slate, wedging the wind with a new strength, necks outstretched, the drake leading and muttering now and again to his mate a low croak of cheer.
The wind awoke to greater force, throwing the foam and spray high in air. Shoreward it bore an empty bottle that had been thrown from the schooner anchored half a mile eastward, and which had drifted out into the open water. There it bobbed and glittered, a black dot on the slate-blue, drifting finally across the yellow shallow of the bar into the calmer waters in lee of the long point. The rough waves had overturned it and it rested bottom up in the wild celery bed.
The same winds that had wafted it hither had carried to those frantic sky-voyagers beating bayward the scent of the wild water-plant they loved, and with drooping wings and joyful, low-voiced quacks they curved downward. Inward they sped so as to skirt the shore and alight in the haven against the wind. But just outside of what they had learned was the danger-line, the drake’s sharp eye caught the gleam of the glass bottle, and at his shrill command the pair swerved outward once more on whistling white-crested wings. To live, the water-wild must learn. The early night-shadows had crept down and across the waters before the weary pair settled for rest in the center of the bay. Round and round the flock they flew, now lost in the darkness, now, gleaming white against it, swooping ever lower, with bright eyes alert for danger signals such as a compact bunch of reeds or a tangled spot in the rush-beds. And, by and by, just as day faded, they sank against the dying wind among an animated company of their kind.
Not until then did a tall figure arise from the reeds on the shore of the wild celery bed, and with an imprecation, glance toward the schooner at anchor, and lower the hammer of his muzzle-loading fowling-piece. It was Amos Broadcrook. He stood looking across the water until darkness shut out the tossing schooner from his vision. Then he turned and sought the wood.
He skirted the open and passed along the thicket toward the lower ridges. With the coming of night the wind had died away and the bush-world was very still. It was snowing now; the man could feel the cold, clinging flakes on his face and hands. As he slunk unerringly through the heavy darkness there came to his ears a low, wailing cry. He stopped short and the hand carrying the gun crept to its hammer.
“If it’s a lynx, let it come; if it’s a man, let him come. But if it’s that old witch Betsy on a ha’nt——”
He stood trembling and listening until the long hair across his forehead was wet with the sweat of fear. Then he crept forward again. The cry was not repeated. The man advanced by short steps, his great form crouched, his head thrust forward. By and by he crept from the heavy timber of the swale and sought the ridge. After following it for half a mile he paused abruptly, and, reaching out into the darkness, felt through it with his hand. Instinct had guided the bushman aright. He had found a pile of logs—Paisley’s turkey-trap number one. He moved about the trap until he found the ground floor. Taking the ramrod from his gun he inserted it through the door and moved it about.
“Empty,” he growled. “Jest your luck, Amos.”
He got up and moved forward cautiously. Lower down was trap number two, and as he approached it his sharp, ear caught the unmistakable sound of a turkey in distress. It was a wild, penetrating note which he and all the Bushwhackers had learned to imitate by sucking wind through a straw. The man chuckled with delight and drew a sack from under his coat.
Arrived at the trap, he walked around it until he found the door. It was not necessary for him to feel inside for the game he was sure was there. After listening intently Amos stood his gun up against a tree and, dropping on all fours, crawled into the trap. As he drew his feet in from the doorway a heavy log dropped from without and closed it effectually. With a growl like a trapped beast the man sprang erect and dashed his heavy form against the logs of his prison. But his efforts to throw down those walls were vain. They were too strongly built to topple, even before his prodigious strength. Then he poured forth a torrent of incoherent profanity, cursing his trappers. Without, all was silent as the grave. Suddenly the turkey-thief began to tremble.
“Outside thar,” he called, “for God’s sake, if you be human, speak to me.”
A low wail came from the heavy timber and grew into a shrill scream, drawing nearer to the man crouching now on the inside of his prison.
“Witches!” he gasped, and groveled among the leaves.
“Amos Broadcrook,” spoke a voice, seemingly close beside him, “your hour has come—prepare.”
“Let me out,” begged Amos, “oh, let me out o’ here.”
“Amos,” again came the voice, “we see it’s useless to give you time to repent. The devil has sent us for you. We must hurry away. Which will you have, Amos, rifle-ball or fire? Speak quick.”
“Gimme time,” groaned the distracted Broadcrook, “only gimme time.”
Something like a laugh came from the darkness outside, but it was so closely followed by another long-drawn wail that Amos hid his face among the leaves again.
“You have been stealin’ turkeys out of these traps,” accused the voice. “Answer, haven’t you, Amos?”
“Yes, I have.”
“When was you here last?”
“Thursday night.”
“Then it was you fired on Boy McTavish when he surprised you?”
“No, I swear I didn’t.”
“You’re lyin’. Mates, get the fire ready.”
“Hol’ on, devils. I’m speakin’ the truth. I didn’t fire on Boy. I was scared and my rifle went off by accident. It wasn’t p’inted his way at all—I swar it.”
The yellow glow of fire came flickering through the chinks in the logs.
“What air you doin’?” cried the wretch in the trap in agonizing voice.
“We’re goin’ to apply the fire. You are goin’ to be rewarded for stealin’, Amos.”
“Oh, don’t—don’t,” pleaded Amos. “I won’t steal any more if you’ll only let me off this time, good witches.”
Slowly the log fell away from the opening and a voice said:
“Come out here, Broadcrook.”
The man needed no second invitation. He scrambled out and made a dash for the heavy timber. But Boy McTavish tripped him up and Paisley gripped his windpipe. He was dragged back into the light of the fire and Boy picked up his gun.
“Get up,” commanded Bill. “Now, you thief, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Broadcrook commended Paisley to the lower regions.
“I’m not goin’ to say a word,” he snarled, “an’ you can’t make me, either.”
He struggled and Paisley’s knee gripped more deeply into his neck.
“Think you’re a mighty strong ’un, don’t you?” growled Amos. “Think you’ve done somethin’, I suppose, in trippin’ me up an’ hold-in’ me down. Any boy could do as much as that. You was scart t’ give me half a chance, you was.”
“What do you mean by chance, Amos?” asked Paisley, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You don’t mean to say that you’d fight, do you? Why, man alive, you can’t fight—you’re too big a coward.”
“If I was on my feet I’d make you eat them words,” spat Broadcrook.
“If I really thought there was any spunk in you I’d let you try,” grinned Paisley. “By gosh, I’ll do it, but listen, Amos, if you make any break for the woods, Boy there will sure plug you.”
“Don’t let him go, Bill,” warned Boy. “If he gets away now there’s no tellin’ what he’ll do. He’s just wantin’ to get a chance to get in the timber. You know, and I know, he won’t fight. He’s too much of a sneakin’ coward.”
Broadcrook turned his malignant face toward Boy. In the yellow light it looked fearful. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could frame the words he would say a small disheveled form came bounding and panting into their midst.
It was Daft Davie, his face gnashed and bleeding from scratches of low-lying twigs. He sank on his knees before the fire and poured forth some words in his strange gibberish. Boy, quick to understand the daft child, gave a low cry. Paisley spoke sharply.
“What is he sayin’, Boy?” he asked.
“He says that there are five men tryin’ to get into our house,” gasped Boy. “Bill, I don’t understand this, but there’s no time to lose. Let Broadcrook alone till another time. I’ll take his gun. For gawd sake, let’s hurry.”
Broadcrook crept toward the thicket and Paisley’s heavy boot hurried his movements materially.
“Nurse that, you skunk, till we meet again,” he cried.
Then he turned quickly and followed Boy. Daft Davie had already vanished in the darkness.
CHAPTER XXIVThe Night Attack
The men plunged through the timber toward the settlement. The ground was soft with snow now and the darkness was so dense that only their unerring sense of directions made progress at all possible.
“Bill,” panted Boy, “it’s likely Hallibut and his gang.”
“Likely. But they’ll reckon with us now,” fumed Paisley; “that is, if we’re not too late,” he added in his throat.
A rifle shot rang out on the night and the men quickened their pace.
“That’s at our place, all right,” groaned Boy.
Paisley did not reply. In his heart was a great fear that they would be too late to lend succor to the man and helpless women in the McTavish home. At their fastest they could but make slow progress through the thick timber, and several times were they brought up short and breathless by coming in violent contact with trees. It was an agonizing half-hour to both, this frenzied rush through a forest in pitch darkness. When the timber grew sparser and the footing better they bounded on, crashing through thick second-growth groves and leaping white patches of open, their goal the log-house where danger menaced loved ones. As they emerged into the wide clearing the clouds above them parted and the starlight showed a number of forms creeping toward the cover of the wood.
“Come,” whispered Boy. But Paisley, sinking on one knee behind him, leveled his long rifle.
“May this bullet go true to the leader of the dogs,” he muttered.
Then slowly the rifle was lowered, and Paisley arose.
“No, I can’t shoot until I am sure,” he said, “—but if they’ve harmed little Gloss——”
He hurried forward. At the edge of the garden-patch his foot came into contact with a yielding body. The clouds had covered the stars again, but Paisley with a low word of distress bent and lifted Joe, the Irish setter, in his arms. The dog was dead. His head sagged over against the man’s shoulder, as tenderly Paisley carried him forward and laid him just outside the door.
“It’s Bill,” he called, and the door was opened. On a chair beside the window lay two rifles and in one corner of the room knelt Big McTavish, his wife, and Granny, beside the still form of a girl lying in Boy’s arms. The big man looked up at Paisley appealingly, and the tears streamed down his seamed face as he said brokenly:
“They tried to steal our little Gloss, Bill, and she’s fainted from fright.”
Paisley, his temples throbbing and his soul sick, came forward and, bending, looked into the white face of the girl. Her eyes were closed and her bosom rose and fell. Her arms were about Boy’s neck and her lips moved in meaningless words. Bill sank on a stool and took one of the girl’s limp hands in his own.
“Missus,” he said, addressing Mrs. McTavish, “we’ll find out who it was tried to do this thing. Will you take care of little Gloss, marm?—I want to talk things over with Mac and Boy.”
“Let me take her, Boy,” said Mrs. McTavish. “Gloss, dear, do you feel better now?”
Gradually the great eyes opened and a smile fluttered on the girl’s lips.
“I’m all right now,” she answered weakly, “only those rough men frightened me so much I feel like bein’ babied, auntie. Take me like you used to when I was a little girl and hold me tight. It seems I want you so much—so much——”
She broke off and her arms tightened about Boy’s neck. Then quickly they unclasped and she arose, staggering, a flush wiping the pallor from her face.
“I guess I wasn’t just myself, Boy,” she stammered.
And leaning on the older woman’s arm she passed slowly from the room.
Big McTavish, who was replacing his rifle in the rack, turned.
“Will they come back, d’ye think?” he asked.
“Most likely,” Paisley answered; “but not again to-night, though. They’re some anxious to live, I suppose. Now,” he cried sharply, “why were they here, and what do they mean by tryin’ to break into your house and kidnap little Gloss?”
Big Mac shook his head.
“I was playin’ the fiddle here by the fire, and Gloss, ma, and Granny was busy in there with the spinnin’ when Davie opened the window there behind you and dropped in. I could see he was awful excited, so I called Gloss out. She can understand his language better’n I can, and when she told me what Davie had seen I scarcely knowed what to do. When I was gettin’ down the guns and Gloss was lockin’ the door Davie crawled outside again. I wouldn’t have let him go, but he slipped away. I heard ’em shoot, but I’m prayin’ God they didn’t hit the lad.”
“Davie’s all right,” cried Paisley. “He came for me and Boy. What next?”
“I’m awful glad he wasn’t hit,” said the big man. “Well, about ten minutes before I heard the shot, old Joe, who’d been tuggin’ at his leash, broke loose, and I heard him mixin’ things with ’em outside. I heard somebody yellin’ that the dog was killin’ him. Then the shot was fired and——”
Paisley turned quickly and looked at Boy. His head was bowed upon his breast and his hands were clenched.
“And,” continued McTavish, “I didn’t hear poor old Joe after that.”
“Poor old Joe,” said Boy; “poor old pup.”
Then, lifting his head, he looked out of the window at the silver-crested sky-clouds with smarting eyes.
“He always liked these dark, quiet nights,” he said, as if to himself, “and when the starlight slipped through like it’s doin’ now, no matter if it was only early or midnight, he would get up and wag his tail just out o’ happiness—pure happiness. And now he’s dead, and they killed him—damn ’em.”
“I found him just in the edge of the garden,” said Paisley. “Yes, Boy, poor old Joe is dead, and he died fightin’ for you; he sure died fightin’ for you.”
Boy nodded and looked at his father.
“Go on, dad, let’s hear the rest of it.”
“After that they came up and pounded on the door. They demanded that I let ’em in. ‘What do you want?’ I asked. ‘You’ll find that out soon enough,’ they answered. ‘You’re all alone and there’s four of us,’ they said. ‘If you don’t open the door we’ll break it down.’ ”
Big McTavish paused, a catch in his voice.
“I reckon the old devil has a purty good mortgage on my soul yet,” he went on, his voice husky. “I know there’d have been killin’ done right then if it hadn’t been for ma and Gloss and Granny. They wouldn’t let me shoot. They begged for me not to shoot. I heard some of the gang say: ‘We’ve got to get that girl, boys.’ I scarcely knowed what they meant—not then. There was a pot o’ boilin’ pitch on the crane there that I was gettin’ ready for boat calkin’, and just as they banged the door open I hurled that pitch plumb into them. I reckon it found ’em all right, ’cause they scampered back purty quick, and when I peaked through the crack I could see them runnin’ for the timber. ‘Back everybody, there’s somebody comin’,’ I heard someone shout. That’s all I know now. But I wish I knowed why they wanted to steal little Gloss.”
“I reckon we’re goin’ to know why right soon,” mumbled Paisley.
He stood by the open door and the cold night was aglow with big early winter stars hanging above the tree-fringe. In their light, beside his old resting-place, the ash-gum, lay old Joe. An owl hooted from a nearby thicket and the chickens in the coop stirred and voiced their alarm in shrill peepings and squawks. But old Joe did not awaken and turn three times around. No more would he arise in the golden or silvery night and stretch and yawn his thanks for life to the deep skies.
Suddenly, bayward, a streak of crimson darted aloft and licked the heavens. Paisley started, and pointed toward it. Boy and his father followed Bill’s gaze.
“It’s Hallibut’s schooner,” exclaimed Boy; “she’s on fire.”
As they watched, a sheet of orange-yellow flame drifted up and the pointed tree-tops of the forest stood out, a broad expanse of fiery spikes, fluctuating and drifting between earth and heaven. In silence they watched the wild lights until they crept down from the skies and the owl’s low hoot sounded again from the shadow. Then the men looked at one another.
“Surely hell is awake this night,” said Paisley, wiping his face on his buckskin, sleeve. “Thank God it’ll soon be daylight.”
Boy picked up his rifle.
“I’m goin’ to look for Davie,” he said.
“In a little while, Boy, in a little while,” soothed Paisley. “It’ll be light then, and you can see. No use to go yet, lad. See, it’s comin’ dawn now, and it’ll be safer for you then.”
“Aye, lad,” spoke McTavish firmly, “we must make no false moves now. The fight’s on and our new law must be lived up to. If we sin in killin’ them who wish to kill us, why, sin we must. The only brother I had in the world was massacred because he found killin’ a red snake hard. We’ll show no mercy to devils that would try to steal our little girl.”
Boy had drawn the dead dog into the room and was stroking its long red hair with his hand.
“It’s not in reason to think Hallibut ’ud get in his work here and turn back and set fire to his own schooner,” said Paisley. “He’s done it, though, to make a case against us. We can’t deny sayin’ that we’d stand up for our own. They thought if they could get hold of Gloss that we’d give up the deeds to our properties to get her back.”
“Who was in the gang?” asked Boy.
“I only saw two of them when I opened the door,” replied McTavish. “I saw the agent Watson, and I saw Simpson the teacher—he was with ’em.”
He broke off, his jaw dropping. Boy sprang to his feet, his face twitching in a fury of hate. His strong teeth had bitten blood from his tightened lips. He gazed across toward the approaching dawn to where the scar of civilization lay upon the Wild. The two older men glanced at each other and the father shook his head. The question asked in Paisley’s glance was beyond all answering from him.
Not until the red sun had cut a disk in the misty eastern skies did Boy turn and sit down weakly on a stool. Then Paisley was the first to break the gloomy silence.
“Boy,” he said, putting his hands on the shoulders of that drooping form, “me’n you have been through close shaves together; have chopped logs again the two next best choppers in Bushwhackers’ Place; have hunted and fished together. And I reckon we’re pals now if we’re ever goin’ to be. It’s ’cause I’ve been through purty much the same thing as you’re goin’ through now that I want to speak a word. You’ve made up your mind to get even with the teacher. Boy, don’t you do it—not until you’re sure o’ what you may only fancy now. Why, you’d about finish him if you ever got started. Let me help you untangle this riddle, and let me give Simpson his deserts like a good old pal ought to do.”
Boy shook his head.
“Bill,” he said in hard, even tones, “you’ve a mighty big claim on me. I know that better’n you do. You know that I’d follow any advice of yours in reason, same’s I’ve always done. I’ll promise to do this much. I’ll let you find for sure that he was with the gang before I do it; but it’s got to be done by me, Bill.”
He wrung Paisley’s hand, smiling bravely, then passed into the next room.
Paisley felt in his pocket and brought forth a smoke-grimed pipe. He twisted off a piece of Canada-Green tobacco the size of a walnut, crammed it into the spacious bowl, and, applying a coal from the fire, smoked as though his life depended upon his filling the room with blue smoke in a specified time. Next, he turned to Big McTavish, who sat bent before the fire.
“It’s funny, ain’t it?” he whispered, nodding toward the other room.
McTavish drew himself up slowly.
“What’s funny, Bill?”
Paisley carried his stool over close to that of the father. His face was working and the blue clouds of raw tobacco-smoke floated from his lips in mountains. He placed the stool down and, sitting on it, peered into the older man’s troubled face.
“Mac,” he said gently, “there ain’t the likes of that boy of yours anywhere on this continent. He’s got a heart that’s open to everythin’ that needs sympathy, and he’s got a heart that’s hell when it gets sot on a thing. It’s sot on Gloss, and I reckon no earthly power is goin’ to keep them two from makin’ a clean job of it. But, Mac, Boy’s heart don’t stop there, by a long ways. It’s got a hatin’ side to it, and a regular Injun-hatin’ side it is, too. I’d naturally want to know that I had a clean slate with the white punter before I tried interferin’ with anythin’ Boy called his.” Paisley jerked his head sideways. “And I reckon Gloss is his, ’cause they are just made for each other. Well, now, this teacher chap he seems to think different—or else why should he be interested in havin’ Gloss kidnapped away? He’s just about let himself commit suicide with his conceit. He’s a bad one, and maybe deserves all he’d get; but you and me mus’n’t let Boy at him. Now, it’s for you to save Boy from himself. I’m goin’ over and have it out with Simpson now, and then I’m goin’ to warn him what he’s in for if he keeps on hangin’ around these parts. Boy’ll never forgive me for warnin’ him, but I can’t help that. I’m goin’ now,” he concluded, rising, “and you see that you don’t let Boy out of your sight till I’m back.”
Paisley reached for his cap and gun and stole from the house. It had frozen during the night, and an open slash across the face of the creek showed where a skiff had crossed not many hours before. Reaching the clump of willows where his own canoe lay hidden, Paisley pulled it forth and crossed the creek, breaking the thin ice with his paddle. At Ross’s landing he found a three-seated skiff. There were two empty bottles on its bottom and a crumpled handkerchief beneath one of the seats. Paisley picked up the handkerchief. It was of linen and of a kind not used by the people of the bush. He put it in his pocket and walked slowly toward widow Ross’s home. On the threshold he was met by Mary Ann. There were dark shadows beneath her eyes and her lips trembled when she spoke his name.
“Bill Paisley,” she whispered, and, closing the door behind her, she motioned him into the open lean-to. “Hallibut’s boat was burned last night. I suppose you know it?”
“Yes, I know it, Mary Ann,” he answered.
“Did you see Mr. Simpson last night, Bill?” she asked.
“No.”
“Well, he went deer-shootin’ by starlight with some men from Bridgetown, and he was hurt in some way. I heard them come back here three hours ago, and they were talkin’ about it. They had a couple of extra horses with them. They took him away with them.”
“A couple of extra horses?” mused Bill. Aloud he asked:
“Is he comin’ back here any more, Mary Ann?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I hope not.”
“You hope not?” he said quickly. “Are you sure? They do say you and him are——”
“I can’t help what they say,” she said wearily. “I’m glad he’s gone, Bill.”
Paisley stood his rifle against a tree. His face was aglow with hope.
“Mary Ann,” he said gently, “you’ve known me a long time, and you know just why I ask this question. Has he been square with you?”
She gazed at him in wonderment.
“Square with me?” she exclaimed, and laughed. “Well, you better believe he has been.”
Paisley caught the girl’s hands and held them tight.
“And didn’t you care for him a lot?” he asked huskily.
“No,” she answered, her face averted, “I didn’t care for him at all. He wasn’t my style, Bill.”
“Mary Ann,” said the Bushwhacker, “so long’s I thought you liked Simpson better’n me I kept away. Now, if I could learn somehow that you cared more for me than you do for anybody else, ‘give my life,’ as Mrs. Declute says, if I wouldn’t ask you right out to be Mrs. Paisley. I’ve got a nice home all to myself and three old socks crammed with greenbacks made out of pelts, hid away again’ a weddin’-day with you. You see, Mary Ann,” he said wistfully, “I somehow knowed, or thought I knowed, you didn’t mean right down business with the teacher. Now, girl, am I to be your old man or am I not?”
“You are, Bill,” she whispered, hiding her face on his shoulder.
Widow Ross, coming out hurriedly from the house with a steaming pot of potatoes in her hand, saw something that almost made her drop her burden. There stood long Bill Paisley with his arms about her Mary Ann’s waist.
“Bill Paisley,” gasped the widow, advancing, “you get right away from Mary Ann. Ain’t you ashamed of yourself! You’re old enough to know better. Now, you get right away from my girl or I’ll scald you with this hot potater water.”
“She ain’t your girl no more, widder,” grinned Paisley. “She’s mine now.”
“Mary Ann,” commanded her mother sternly, “answer me—be you?”
“Yes, ma,” answered Mary Ann, and she snuggled down again.
“Well,” flared the widow, “if it’s so, it’s so. Bill Paisley,” she cried, “you get off my property and don’t you come back here no more. You kin steal a poor widder’s only daughter,” she sobbed, dropping the kettle and covering her face with her apron, “but you can’t come here and do it. You’d better get off my place.”
Paisley patted the girl’s hair and picked up his rifle.
“I’m sorry you take it that way, widder,” he stammered. “I hate to go, and now I smell that bacon you’ve been cookin’ I just naturally hate to go more’n ever. I always said that widder Ross could fry bacon like no other woman this side of the creek——”
“Me’n Mary Ann be the only women on this side,” snorted the widow, dropping her apron.
“I mean anywhere in Bushwhackers’ Place, marm,” bowed Bill. “I always remember them pies you made for Mac’s loggin’-bee, and the puddin’ for Declute’s, too.”
“I suppose there’s no hurry for your goin’,” sighed Mrs. Boss, “and I’ll own I did cook more’n enough meat this mornin’; for why, I don’t know. So if you want to, you kin come in and eat breakfast. But,” she added, “you’ll sure have to get off my property after you’ve et.”
The good lady picked up her kettle and whisked into the house. Paisley smiled at Mary Ann.
“You always have such a way of gettin’ round ma,” laughed the girl.
“Mary Ann, you’ve got a proper good ma,” said Bill earnestly.
As they entered the house young Tom came running up the path.
“Isn’t it awful?” he cried. “They think poor old Noah was burnt with the schooner. They found his skiff floatin’ near the middle grounds.”
CHAPTER XXVAnd the Day After
It was nearly mid-day when Paisley sought his skiff once more and made to cross to Bushwhackers’ Place. It had turned bitterly cold within the last couple of hours and the ice upon the surface of the creek was almost too thick to break with a paddle. Out across Rond Eau black wisps of duck were rising from the water and fluttering upward like smoke puffs, melting in a broken line into the hanging snow-clouds. Declute was standing on the opposite shore. He spoke as Paisley’s boat parted the sere rushes.
“They’ll all go to-day, Bill. By night thar won’t be a duck on the bay.”
“Been over to Mac’s?” asked Paisley. His eyes were on the low-lying hulk of the charred schooner and his shaggy brows were puckered in a scowl.
“Just come from there,” answered the other. “Seems like old Nick has been loose amongst us las’ night, it does.”
“Then you’ve heard?” Bill nodded toward the black patch on the white waves.
“It was me seen it first,” replied Declute. “I seen her burnin’ near mornin’. Man, but it was a wild sight! Red sky above her and red water all about her. Arter daylight come I gets in my boat and goes over to the hull. Injun Noah’s skiff was thar floatin’ bottom up near the middle ground.”
Declute felt for his pipe, lit it, and threw the charred match down with a shudder.
Paisley stepped from the boat and brushed past him up the path.
“You told Mac, I suppose?”
“Yep, they know it, and Gloss she is takin’ on some. I guess she thought a lot of poor old Noah.”
“I reckon she did,” agreed Paisley; “he brought her here nigh twenty years ago.”
They found Big McTavish carrying fodder from the corn-stalk stack into the log-stable. From the chinks of the barn between the logs came the white breath of the oxen, and the chickens released from their coop ran in and out of its open door.
“Bill,” said the big man, his blue eyes humid with feeling, “it looks as though poor old Noah went with the schooner.”
“It does,” nodded Paisley. “Mac, we all know who it was burned the boat, and bad as we know Hallibut to be, it’s awful to think he would sacrifice that old man so’s there wouldn’t be a witness against him when he tries to prove we did it. It’s awful!”
Boy came up, his face worn and his eyes heavy. He placed the spade he carried inside the stable door and turned away up the path.
Paisley stepped forward and threw his arm about Boy’s shoulders.
“You’re shakin’,” he said; “you ain’t just yourself. You mus’n’t take on hard like you’re doin’, Boy. I guess maybe Joe had more soul in his poor dog’s body than all them cut-throats had among the lot of ’em, but Joe is done with this life. Boy, don’t you take it hard.”
He drew the young man towards the house, and half-way across the yard Boy stopped and hurled a look down across the valley.
“Bill,” he cried, “I told you I would wait till you came back, and now you’re back I’m goin’.”
“Boy,” said Paisley, “heain’t there.”
“Where’s he gone?”
“He got away last night,” said Paisley. “He was hurt bad. I guess old Joe did it. They carried him off, and he won’t ever come back here again, Boy.”
“Let me go,” cried the young man, shaking himself free. “I don’t care where he’s gone, Bill, I’ll follow him—and——”
He snatched up the rifle leaning against the ash-leach and dashed across toward the creek. Paisley followed more slowly. He came up as Boy was pushing his canoe into the ice-coated creek.
“The ducks are leavin’ to-day, Boy,” he said, “look at ’em. They’ve had a glad time here this season, I guess, take it all round. Look at ’em, Boy,—they don’t seem to want to go very much, do they?”
Boy glanced up, then he stood erect in the boat and watched the detached flocks of frantic water-fowl swerve and pitch and at last mingle in the greater flocks, fading south. Sweetly and shrilly their strong wings beat the frosty air, the sound of their pinions now rising, now fading, and at last thundering as the great flocks dropped low as though to bid the old marsh feeding-ground a last good-by.
“They’re goin’ away, Bill,” he remarked absently. “Even the little teal that were hatched right here in this ma’sh are goin’. Seems odd, don’t it? I guess they know it’s come winter.”
“Seems like they know it has,” answered Paisley, “and I’m thinkin’ they’re sorter promisin’ this old dead ma’sh they’ll come back when it’s spring and nest again. ‘Member the old gray duck’s nest me and you found down near the otter-run, Boy? Gosh, I’d never believed an old ma duck could take on like that one did. Kept flyin’ right in my face, and there her little ducklin’s, just hatched, kept divin’ in the water and pointin’ their heads sideways like they were sickin’ her on to me and enjoyin’ seeing me get a whalin’. By gum, my face was sore for more’n a week where her wings brushed it. And you—why, you just stood there laughin’ at me gettin’ the whippin’.”
Boy was smiling now, his head lagging on his breast, his hands blue with the cold, clasping and unclasping the paddle.
“The little devils,” he said softly, “the little devils. I don’t suppose there is anythin’ cuter than the little wild things of the ma’sh, Bill. I’ve been out springs with Davie, and you know how he can handle birds and things. I’ve seen baby snipe, baby rats, baby rails, and all the little babies of the ma’sh. They’re all like them ducklin’s. There’s none of ’em scared and all of ’em sassy.”
Paisley bent and pulled the skiff high up on the bank. He took Boy’s arm in his and they went back along the walk together. And as they turned, the skies darkened and the snow began to fall in zigzag sheets that hid the flocks of migrating wild ducks, and the low song of their beating wings grew more muffled and at last died away altogether.
“There’s somethin’ I want to tell you, Boy,” said Paisley softly, when at last the companions sought the path to the house. “Me and Mary Ann is goin’ to be married in the spring. I reckon you’ll be glad to know it.”
Boy did not lift his eyes from the ground.
“I sort o’ knowed all along you and Mary Ann would marry some day,” he said. “And, Bill, I am glad—glad as I can be to-day.”
The inner door of the McTavish home had been taken from its leather hinges to make an additional table for the guests assembled. Seated about that table were most of the fathers and mothers of Bushwhackers’ Place. Fat, tousle-headed children ran and toddled and crept about the wide floor. The table was laden with all of the good things that the Bushwhackers were accustomed to partake of. A couple of fragrant boiled hams, a great deal of cornbread, dried venison, fresh venison, cucumber pickles, boiled rice, a deep custard made in a milk-pan by the deft hands of widow Ross, who now sat at the head of the table and dished it out proudly; strong tea, and cream and maple-sugar to make the rice palatable. In addition to these delicacies Peeler had brought along some smoked fish of his own special brand. Widow Ross had brought coffee—a rarity in those old days, and each of the Bushwhackers had, as was their custom, brought something eatable to swell the good cheer. It was a big spread, and the men and women there assembled were doing justice to it. If there was gloom the good people were doing their best to dispel it. A lull fell on the assembly as Boy and Paisley entered and took their places at the table. Big McTavish helped them to meat and potatoes and then he began:
“We’ve been goin’ on and summin’ up. Seems likely to us that Hallibut’s gang will come back here right soon again, and we’ve been talkin’ over what we’d better do. Hallibut’s likely goin’ to bring a bigger force next time, we think. From what the widder tells us, there’s no doubt that he burned his own boat. She says they woke her up about three in the mornin’, and they were in a big hurry. She wanted to get up and dress Simpson’s wounds, but they told her to mind her own business. She tried to see who was in the gang, but they kept in the dark. About half an hour after they had gone she seen the schooner burnin’. Now, it’s just this way. Hallibut has an excuse to push us off of here, as he wants to do, for, of course, he’ll say we burned his boat and poor old Noah. And we, on the other hand, have an excuse to shoot Hallibut. But we mus’n’t do anythin’ rash, boys. We must be careful.”
Boy looked about the room in search of Gloss. He did not see her and rightly divined that she was grieving, in some hidden place, over the death of her old friend.
He arose and passed unnoticed from the room. The sky was dark with storm-clouds and the snow was falling. He took the path toward the grove and as he passed the leach no dog lifted his head and watched him. He entered the bush, but no dog followed him. That part lay behind. In the old playhouse, cold and dreary and dark, Boy found the girl.
“Gloss,” he said, and she answered without lifting her head.
“I couldn’t help it, Boy; I had to come. I know I did wrong, and after what happened last night I know I should be careful. But, oh, Boy, I can’t bear to think of it all. It’s terrible!”
Boy went over and sat on a corner of the stump table. He did not attempt to pacify her. He did not know how. He felt his impotency, and it made him miserable.
“Nobody will know, can know, how good Noah has been to me,” sobbed Gloss. “Oh, Boy, I don’t know how I’ll get along without him. I shut my eyes and I can see him there, and then I see him on that burnin’ boat, and I see the fire all about him, reachin’ its red fingers for him. Oh,” she gasped, “I can’t bear it, Boy; I can’t, I can’t!”
He lifted her up and bore her out to the snow-carpeted open. She had not mentioned Simpson’s name. He was thankful for that. She clung to him, her warm breath biting his cheek and her hot tears eating his soul. And so he half carried, half led her back to the house.
“Go in and lie down,” he said gently.
She loosened her arms slowly, looking into his eyes, and when she had gone he leaned weakly against the wall.
The guests had finished dinner and Mrs. Declute was blocking the space between the table and the fireplace with her matronly figure and discoursing on the probabilities of a hard, long winter.
“As I was tellin’ Ander on our way over, just exactly four years ago to-day, Moses and Zaccheus was down with chicken-pox and David and leetle Rebecca war gettin’ the symptoms of it when it sot in dark and snowy like it is to-day. Winter took a tight hold for nigh three months. Why, you’ll remember there wa’nt no loggin’ done that winter, and the wolves starved to death in the timber. Deer, too, and turkey, and I guess thar wa’nt no visitin’ done much either, and give my life if thar was one dance in the whole Bushwhackers’ Place. Why, it got cold and stayed cold, and Joseph, our cat, friz stiff on the ladder when he was climbin’ to the loft of the barn. And every sign p’ints to jest sech another winter comin’.”
“It looks as though winter was here to stay, all right,” observed Peeler, “and we’re like to have a hard one, too. The rats are buildin’ deep and strong.”
“My boy, Tom, he cut down a squirrel tree yesterday,” declared Mrs. Boss, “and that squirrel had stored up feed for a long winter. Hope, though, we don’t have one like that one o’ four years ago. I had both ears and one toe friz that winter.”
“Guess we’d all better get home,” laughed Declute, “else we’ll have to build some snowshoes t’ travel on.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Peeler, “and I guess the cattle and sheep won’t care about standin’ out in this storm.”
Gloss came out and sat at the table. Mary Ann Ross sat down near her, and Bill Paisley, stepping carefully through the babies, drew close enough to the girls to say:
“Didn’t know that you intended to come over, Mary Ann.”
“Ma thought we ought to come,” said the girl.
“Did you hear them prophesyin’ a long winter?” asked Paisley.
Mary Ann looked up and smiled.
“It can’t be too long to suit me,” she retorted.
“I wish it was spring right now,” sighed Bill.
Gloss raised her head and looked inquiringly at the two.
“Ask Mary Ann,” said Paisley solemnly.
“Tell Gloss yourself, if you want to, baby,” flashed Mary Ann, hiding her face.
“Mary Ann is to be Mrs. William Paisley next spring,” grinned Bill.
Gloss drew the blushing head over to her bosom.
“I’m glad,” she said simply.
The babies were being bundled up and there was the commotion that comes of lingering leave-taking among good neighbors. It had been settled among the Bushwhackers as to what they should do when the inevitable should happen. Now they were going to their separate homes, each satisfied and determined. They would have been glad, even, had not the gloom of Injun Noah’s death still hung across their simple hearts. Just as Declute reached for the latch the door opened and Daft Davie sprang into the room, a spray of powdery snow following him as though he had been shot down from the scurrying clouds. He stood looking about him.
“Right here, Davie,” cried Boy. “What is it, lad?”
Davie spoke a few low words, then darted under Declute’s arm and out into the darkening day.
The Bushwhackers looked at one another.
“What does the lad say?” asked Big McTavish.
Boy snatched up his cap.
“I’ll see,” he cried. “Wait here, everybody.”
He glanced at Gloss, then sped out after Davie. For half an hour after the boys had gone there was almost absolute silence among those gathered there.
“I’ve been wonderin’ all day where Davie was,” Paisley said at length. “You didn’t see him when you was over?” turning to Peeler.
“When you said I better go and see if he had got home safe, I went over there to Betsy’s place,” explained Peeler. “The old Granny came to the door, and when I asked if Davie had got home she said ‘yes,’ and slammed the door in my face. That’s all I know, Bill.”
“Boy is comin’ now, and he’s runnin’,” cried Gloss from the window.
She sprang out and ran down the path through the deep snow to meet him.
“Oh, Boy,” she called, “is there anythin’ worth tellin’?”
He caught her in his arms and his voice was husky as he said:
“Noah is alive and well, Gloss. He’s over at old Betsy’s.”
In a flash the good news passed to those waiting inside; and after the preliminary excitement had subsided they crowded about the bearer of the good news for his story.
“Noah was asleep in the hold of the schooner,” explained Boy, “and when he fought his way up through the smoke, the deck and masts were all afire. He made a run for it and jumped into the water, and when he swam around to where his skiff was hid he found the painter had been burned through and the boat gone. He give up, then, but naturally he swam, and as good luck would have it, he found a piece of driftwood and hung to it until he reached shore. Old Betsy found him there just at daybreak, and she and Davie between ’em managed to get him over to her house. She give him some stuff that made him sleep, and he only woke up about an hour ago. Old Noah had an awful close shave, and Betsy won’t let him come over here yet awhile, but he’s all right, people, and I guess we’re all mighty glad.”
Peeler stood forth and gave vent to his feelings in this wise:
“There’s some among us here, good folks, haven’t give old Betsy her just dues. We’ve believed she was a witch and we was all scared of her. Now, neighbors, Betsy has done a mighty lot for us in one way and another, and I move that to show how much we appreciate all this we build her a bran’ new house next spring. That is,” he ended with a grin, “pervided Hallibut don’t push us all off the earth before then.”
“Hear, hear!” cried everybody; and it was decided there and then that Betsy should have one of the finest houses in Bushwhackers’ Place.
And so each of the Bushwhacker neighbors left the McTavish domicile happy and determined. The day shortened, the skies grew darker, and the snow came down in vast white walls. The remnants of the feast lay upon the long table. Old Granny sat quietly beside the fire, her wrinkled face sweet with the peace that comes only to the very young or very old, her worn Bible clasped in her blue-veined hands. Mrs. McTavish sat close beside her, and Gloss stood in her old place at the window. Big McTavish, his face caressing the old fiddle, was playing his favorite tune, and Boy, his head bowed before the fire, was listening to the music and wondering. And so they waited until the dusk of early night came down and the chickens crept to their coop and the owl began his mournful hoot in the tangled copse down near the swale. All was alike, tranquilly sweet and peaceful, after a night and day of storm: only old Joe was not in his accustomed place.
He had left his bed beside the ash-gum for one in the hazel-copse.