CHAPTER XXVIIn the Manacles of Winter
That night winter came and gripped the bush-world, and now as far as the eye could span distance she held the Wild in her white embrace, and all the life of nature’s wood, marsh, and water seemed chilled to deep mysterious silence.
Between the scrag-line of Point Aux Pins forest and the hardwood of the mainland, Rond Eau Bay lay patched with shingly ice-scale and frozen snow-drifts. Here and there a strip of white-blue gleamed from her dead bosom like a smear of slate on white, and sheets of powdery snow whirled and scudded before the fierce winds that swept her. Along the forest aisles the snow lay deep—deeper than any of the things of the Wild had ever before seen it.
Winter had swept down almost without warning, gripping the waters in its clutch and breathing into the very marrow of the trees, numbing them to drowsy forgetfulness. They stood in the blue-cold winter morning with still arms uplifted toward the chill skies, great, silent, unprotesting. And with each shortening day the frost bit deeper and their sleep became heavier. Sometimes a dream of golden summer came to bestir the soul of giant beech or tall maple, and its heart, waking to life, would shiver its icy manacles with a mighty crash, only to leave it wounded and shivering, a maimed thing into which spring would breathe her healing balm after a little while. From the dead face of the bay the creek twisted, a blue vein betwixt gray lifeless rushes, and all of nature’s great playground rested lonely and forsaken. On Totherside, Hallibut’s mill squatted, a white mound upon white, and the schoolhouse against the hill—its bell always silent now—seemed to sink toward the valley as though longing to snuggle down and rest in the soft blanket that lay below it.
Adown the cloaked vista of Bushwhackers’ Place drab smoke-spirals, like inverted tree-shadows, twisted above the forest. But there were no sounds—not even the chug of axes biting into the wood. The fiercest winter this new country had ever experienced had been reigning for three long months. The snows lay waist-deep throughout the forest, and through the long nights the wolf-packs howled and protested hungrily to the cold, low-hanging stars. In the log-stables of the woodmen the cattle munched their fodder and rested. There was no work for them with the snows choking the trails and the frost menacing life, neither was there necessity for the easygoing Bushwhackers to risk life in the wintry frost. They had plenty of fuel at their command; also meat in plenty. There was not even an occasion for them to kill the animals and game-birds that had sought the protection of man when Nature seemed to have forgotten them in sleep. Food for the Wild in the deep swales and low-timbers was scarce and growing scarcer. The deer, accustomed to brouse on the low-hanging branches, found it difficult to secure sufficient sustenance to keep their blood warm, and they crept nearer and nearer to the little settlement of man. One morning a Bushwhacker surprised two of them, a buck and a doe, ravenously devouring the dry cornstalks that had been cast from the cattle-stalls into the yard. Broods of quail crept from the thickets across to the fodder-stacks. Hunger-fearless and defiant, they took up their homes about the out-buildings, mingling with the tame fowl and roosting in huddling bunches beneath the warm, protecting stacks at night. Nor were they molested. The Bushwhackers scattered corn among the straw so that the birds might understand that a truce was established, and not until the amber fall dawned again would they have cause for alarm. But the gray timber-wolves neither asked nor sought favors from man. They held aloof from him, hating him and suspicious of him. Born to starve, their vitality outlasted that of the other forest wild things, and they trailed, tore down, and devoured. For three months of unprecedented winter no trapping had been done; no more loggin’-bees had been arranged. But the Bushwhackers had managed to get together by chiseling paths through the drifts between their homes. However, of their more remote neighbors, such as the Broadcrooks, who lived some miles west of Lee Creek, the French trapper, and the Indians on Point Aux Pins, they had seen or heard nothing for many weeks. It was a risk to go even a short distance in the benumbing frost. No man could hope to break his way through the frozen drifts of snow piled mountain-high.
Oftentimes the Bushwhackers met together at the home of a neighbor, and perhaps Big McTavish would have his old fiddle along, and there would be long talks over the cracking of hickory-nuts and walnuts, and as the evening progressed “Mac” would strike up some of the old jig-tunes, and if the party was a particularly jovial one, there would be a clog-dance or two.
The deadly winter had put a stop to further encroachment of their enemies, but of course the one general query among the bushmen was: “How long before they will come again?” There was something pathetic in the question these simple-hearted men asked among themselves, as, in their evening talks together, they discussed how best to meet the big man with the great power. Directly they connected Colonel Hallibut with the attempt to kidnap Gloss from her home, and they debated how best to act when the man capable of planning such a dastardly deed should come again.
So the Bushwhackers talked and waited, and the long, cold weeks dragged onward, and it began to look as though the fierce cold would never moderate. After half the winter had passed without a single thaw they knew that the impregnable barriers of snow would hold their enemy in leash until spring had cleared the trail.
But by and by the deadly cold relaxed its grip and for the first time during Winter’s reign her orange sun dipped through the frost-mist and, touching the drooping snow-clad trees, painted a picture of a still bush-world sleeping beneath a blanket of blue-white diamond dust.
“The cold snap’s over,” said Declute, late one night as he sat with Jim Peeler, Boy McTavish, and Bill Paisley before the great fireplace in the McTavish home. “Never see it fail yet but when we’ve had three days sun and no snow the mild weather stays.”
“Purty near time we was havin’ moderate weather,” replied Peeler. “Never saw such a winter as this one’s been. Think o’ poor Injun Noah bein’ holed up for six weeks like he’s been. No wonder Gloss is some lonesome for the old man; he’s never had to stay away from the little girl so long before. And the old man has never seen her in that silver-fox coat you and him made her, Bill. I’ll bet he’d like to be here.”
“It sure is a beautiful coat,” said Boy, “and Gloss is mighty proud of it. She speaks about Noah every day. ‘Wonder if he’s warm and has enough to eat,’ she’ll say, and, ‘Do you think Noah’ll be very lonesome over on the Point?’ My, but she does think a lot o’ him, boys.”
“Sure she does,” cried Declute. “Bless her, she couldn’t think more of him if he was her own grandaddy, could she now?”
“Bein’ Gloss, she naturally loves everythin’,” nodded Paisley, “—everythin’ that moves and flies and crawls; everythin’ that’s alive, she loves.”
“When she’s sayin’ good-night to me,” said Boy softly, “she always says good-night to all of us, you know——”
“Same’s she does her prayers,” murmured Paisley; “yes?”
“She spoke about the Broadcrooks. Wondered if they were wantin’ for anythin’, and said she wished she knew.”
“Ain’t that like her?” laughed Declute, “—worryin’ about them no-count Broadcrooks? Ain’t that like our Gloss, though?”
“Asked me if I’d seen anythin’ of Amos,” continued Boy, “and that made me think I hadn’t seen him or any of ’em since the first blizzard came.”
“Of course they’re all right,” said Paisley. “I know they had plenty wood up an’ lots o’ meat strung. Still it does seem funny that old Amos hasn’t burrowed his way through the drifts somehow. It ain’t very comfortable for him at home, I guess.”
“It ain’t likely he’s forgiven you fellers for catchin’ him in the turkey-trap,” said Peeler; “at least, not yet. He’ll dig his way out now, though, since the weather’s eased up.—See if he don’t.”
There was a crunching outside on the frozen snow and somebody knocked on the door.
“Hick’ry and hemlock,” whispered Paisley, “visitors at this time of night. Will I open the door, Boy?”
Boy glanced at the rifle leaning against the wall, and nodded. Paisley threw open the door and a tall figure, muffled in furs from tip to toe, staggered in and sank on a stool.
“I’m nigh played out,” gasped the visitor.
“Why, it’s Hank Broadcrook,” cried Declute. “Get the jug, Boy, he’s just about tuckered.”
“I’ve been since mornin’ beatin’ my way over,” panted the man. “I’ve tried to get here afore, but couldn’t.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Peeler. “Anythin’ wrong at home?”
Broadcrook took the mug of whiskey Boy handed him and gulped it down.
“Amos,” he answered, “is he here?”
The friends exchanged glances.
“I see he isn’t,” groaned the man.
“How long has he been missin’?” questioned Paisley.
“Two days afore this awful winter sot in he left hum,” replied the brother, “an’ none of us has seen him since. He’s allars been a lot o’ worry to us. It’s like him to hole up and freeze like a silly rabbit, and I guess he’s done it.”
“Maybe he’s on the Point,” suggested Declute hopefully. “Maybe he’s winterin’ with the Injuns, Hank.”
Hank turned his heavy eyes on the speaker.
“He’s made even the Injuns hate him,” he murmured. “No, he’s not there.”
He arose, threw off his furs, and sat down to the bread and cold meat Boy had placed on the table. After he had eaten he sat back, lit his pipe, and gazed into the fire.
“Boys,” he said, clenching his hands, “flesh is flesh an’ blood is blood when it comes to—to a time like this. Amos has allars been a lot o’ trouble to us, an’ I—I’ve quarreled with him and fought with him an’ thort I hated him; but, boys, I guess I was wrong. I’m huntin’ for him now. Dad an’ th’ other boys is huntin’ for him too. Why? I’ll tell you why—it’s ’cause flesh is flesh an’ blood is blood when it comes to a time like this.”
“Oh, he’s likely all safe and sound somewheres,” encouraged Declute. “Old Amos knows the weather too well to be caught in a blizzard.”
The brother shook his head.
“Amos was gettin’ whiskey somewheres,” he said. “It’s likely the sleep come on him—he’s out thar, I tell you,” pointing out at the cold, moon-kissed wood, “unless the wolves——”
He broke off with a shudder and, springing up, reached for his furs.
“You’re not goin’ out again to-night,” insisted Boy. “See here, Hank, you mus’n’t. Stay with me, like a good feller, and I’ll help you look for Amos to-morrow.”
Broadcrook turned and looked at Boy. His face was twitching and his voice was not quite steady when he said:
“You and Big Mac and all have been mighty good to us all clean through everythin’, an’ when I guess we didn’t deserve it. It’s like you to wanter help us now, but you can’t do nuthin’, Boy; you can’t do nuthin’ any more than I kin. But I’ve gotter keep huntin’, huntin’. It’s hell t’ be like this, but blood’s blood, an’ Amos is out thar somewheres——”
He shook off Boy’s hand and passed out. Paisley snatched his coat and rifle from the hooks.
“He mus’n’t strike the back trail fagged like he is,” he said. “Come on, Jim and Ander; we’ll coax him over to my place and put him to bed.”
“Yes, make him stay with you, Bill,” said Boy. “I guess there’s somethin’ in what he said about flesh bein’ flesh at a time like this.”
He stood in the open doorway until he saw Paisley, Declute, and Peeler overtake Broadcrook far down the snow-packed path. Then he turned into the house, blew out the candle, and sat down before the fire. By and by dreams came to him: they always came to him when the night was late and he was alone by the dying fire. Sweet and restful dreams they were, too, at times, when they were of the wide wood playground of used-to-be; and he roamed its forest aisles with Gloss, and they were just “boy and girl,” and the world was theirs. But there were other dreams—dreams that brought a shadow to his eyes as unreadable and ununderstandable as the shadow that sometimes dipped across the ridges, whose spirit he had caught and held.
To-night the shadow was there, and the dream was not of the water, marsh, or woodland, nor of the wild things, nor of Davie. But the girl was there—she was always there, growing up out of the dead used-to-be in spite of bitter thoughts and gnawing pain. And Boy saw her face to-night, gloriously glad and strong and beautiful.
His love was a bound prisoner, and only the spirit of worship, sublime and beautiful, enshrined his world, and the girl’s, with its sanctity. He did not realize what he was holding bound; he realized only that he was but a thing of the Wild, whose heart had caught aflame at a low word; whose soul had surged at the touch of a warm breath. He did not know that Gloss loved him. He did not realize his power. He was one of God’s strong men.
Then the dream became of the marsh and water, and there was not a single cloud in the world of the Wild, and in the deep quiet of his peace Boy slept before the whitening coals.
When he awoke the gray dawn was peering into the room and he was alone beside the dying embers. But he saw her face in the coals, and it was his nature to be content with little. After all, there would always be something left of which no earthly power could deprive him.
CHAPTER XXVIIWhile the Rain Fell
Watson, his feet on the table and his pipe alight, glanced across at Smythe, who was standing before the window. It was evening, and the falling rain made soothing, swishing music against the pane and upon the low roof of the Bridgetown store. Watson watched the storekeeper speculatively. At last he spoke.
“I told you we were playing a losing game,” he growled, “and here we are waiting like a pair of trapped fox for the end. A mighty shrewd pair we’ve been, to be sure. This double game don’t go, Smythe. I’ve played it all my life—and what have I got by it? Nothing—absolutely nothing.”
Mr. Smythe smiled a faint smile and smoothed his hair with a thin hand.
“I will admit it looks as though we have been a little indiscreet,” he returned. “That last move of ours was foolish—very foolish; but, Thomas, we had to protect ourselves, and—ahem! we had to do what Simpson wished. Otherwise——”
“Do you think I would have let that cur lay a finger on that little girl?” cried Watson. “Look here, Smythe, I may be a cheat and a villain, but I tell you I’m not all bad. Simpson’s threat that he would tell Hallibut everything didn’t frighten me. But, drunken fool I was—and you were too—to think that those Bushwhackers could be forced into yielding up their rights through fear for the safety of the girl. Bah! it makes me sick to think of what a fool I’ve been.”
“And I,” murmured Smythe; “I too, Thomas.”
Watson made a jesture of disgust.
“Yes, you, too. Well, what are we going to do about it? Of course, the Colonel will go over to Bushwhackers’ Place, now the trail is clear.”
“He will likely go as soon as he can,” said Smythe in a low voice. “If the weather hadn’t stopped him from going before now——”
“But there’s nothing to stop him now,” broke in Watson. “The trail’s clear, as you know, and winter is about spent. Cursed one it has been, too,” he added with a shiver.
Smythe came over and sat on the edge of the table. He picked up a fork and toyed with it thoughtfully. At length, his light eyes shifting about the room, and his voice softened almost to a whisper, he said:
“The dear Colonel is taking a big chance in visiting Bushwhackers’ Place now. It’s almost suicide for him to attempt it.”
Watson glanced at the speaker and wiped his face on his hand.
“I wish there was some way to prevent his going,” he returned, “—if only for a day or two. We’ve got to get out of here—that’s all.”
Smythe crept over to the window and pulled down the blind. The rain was falling heavily now and the wind had risen to a roar that shook the solid structure.
“My friend,” he smiled, “kindly invite our guest up to the council-chamber.”
Watson bent and lifted a heavy trap-door in the floor.
“Come up, Satan,” he commanded.
In another instant a man’s head and shoulders were thrust through the opening and Amos Broadcrook swung himself up into the room. He stood squinting his good eye at the candlelight and rolling a quid of tobacco from one side of his cadaverous mouth to the other. The man’s cheeks were sunken and his whole attitude was one of abject fear.
“They ain’t comin’, be they?” he asked with a shudder. “You ain’t givin’ me up t’ them, men, be you?”
“Amos,” spoke Smythe, “playing ground-hog for over three months has used you up. I guess a glass of whiskey wouldn’t come amiss, would it?”
“Whiskey,” whispered the wretched man; “be I goin’ t’ get whiskey? I need it now if I ever did. What noise be that?” he asked, gripping Watson’s arm with trembling hand.
Watson shook off the hand and said something in an undertone. Broadcrook drank the whiskey which Smythe brought him and sank upon a stool.
“When are you goin’ t’ let me go?” he asked eagerly. “It’s rainin’ now, and the snow’ll be gone by mornin’. Oh, men, let me go t’-night,” he begged cringingly.
Mr. Smythe raised him gently and patted his shoulder in a fatherly way.
“Amos,” he chided, “you must be a man. You must bear up, my poor fellow. Aye, truly but ‘conscience doth make cowards of us all.’ You should strive to bear up under the burden, Amos.”
Broadcrook rolled his eyes about the room.
“I ain’t sayin’ as I’m sorry fer anythin’,” he growled, “an’ I ain’t sayin’ as I wouldn’t like t’ do more ner I have fer some o’ them Bushwhackers neither. It’s ’cause I’m scared Hallibut ’ll get me that I’m shaky, and besides, old Noah’s ghost has been ha’ntin’ me again. Gimme more whiskey an’ I’ll be all right.”
Watson poured out more of the spirits, and Amos drank greedily.
Watson’s eyes sought Smythe’s.
“They will be hunting you soon, Amos,” he said. “Colonel Hallibut has sworn to run you down. He says he will put his dogs on your track.”
“Lor’,” shuddered Amos, taking his head in his hands.
Smythe edged closer and whispered:
“We have ascertained that he will go to Bushwhackers’ Place before putting the dogs on you. Perhaps he wants something of yours to give the dogs a scent.”
Broadcrook lifted his haggard face.
“An’ he’s goin’ t’ Bushwhackers’ Place?”
He sat nodding his big head up and down, evolving some wicked plan in his slow-working brain.
“If I start away to-night I kin get across th’ border afore he kin let th’ dogs out,” he said eagerly.
Watson shook his head.
“You couldn’t make it in four days, not in this weather,” he asserted. “Besides, you’d leave a track that anybody could follow. Those dogs are swift and they would have you in two days if you tried that way.”
“When d’ye think Hallibut’ll be goin’ over?” asked Amos, standing up. The liquor had steadied his nerves and he spoke in his old voice.
Smythe shrugged his shoulders.
“A man from St. Thomas was in to-night,” he said slowly. “He says the trail was pretty well blocked yesterday. We know Hallibut will go as soon as it is possible for him to do so, and we know this rain means a clear trail to-morrow. Also,” he added sinisterly, “we know that Hallibut will surely call here on his way over, and that he is taking his life in his hands by going at all.”
“Do you think he’ll get shot?” asked Amos.
“No danger,” said Watson. “You know what the Bushwhackers are like, Broadcrook. It was over three months ago they made that threat. They will never fire on the Colonel now.”
Smythe was walking to and fro, his hands in his pockets, his slippered feet padding the floor with a soft tread like that of an animal.
“Of course,” he explained, his face smiling and his eyes on the floor, “Mr. Watson and I both know that the Bushwhackers threatened to kill Colonel Hallibut. But,” lifting his head and clasping his claw-like hands together, “let us hope that a Higher Power will guide his footsteps aright, even though his action in visiting those people is suicidal to a degree.”
Watson made a wry face and relit his pipe.
Smythe continued to pace up and down, his lips moving as though in prayer. Broadcrook sat huddled up in his chair, his great hands gripping each other.
“I orter go back home jest for some things I left as I should have,” he said craftily. He flashed a look from one to the other of the men, then his gaze fell. “I’d sorter like company on account o’ the wolves. I ain’t sayin’ as I’d go along with Hallibut, ’cause I know too much fer that. But I could foller him like an’ keep close an’ he’d be company fer me without knowin’ it.”
He settled lower in his chair, and Watson spoke.
“You will make tracks as fast as God’ll let you out of this country, and if you get away safe it’s more than you deserve. A pretty pickle you’ve put us in! Now, then, swear you’ll get for the States and never show your face in these parts again, or down there in that hole you stay until you can’t tell anything you know. See?”
Watson took a roll of greenbacks from his pocket and held it up.
“When you’re ready to swear that you never heard Smythe here suggest anything, and that you will go where we want you to go—it’s yours.”
Amos glared up and opened his mouth as though to voice a protest, but at sight of the money settled back trembling.
“Be you goin’ t’ give me the money as you promised?” he asked, looking at Smythe and pointing to the bills.
“As soon as you confess that you were lying when you said I hinted anything to you.”
“Course I was lyin’,” said Amos with a leer. “You never told me t’ do nuthin’. You hear me, Watson,” he cried, “Smythe thar never told me what I said he did; I were lyin’.”
“Heaven forgive you, as I do,” murmured Smythe.
“Gimme the money,” cried Amos. “I promise to get across the border right smart.”
“I think,” said Smythe, taking the greenbacks from Watson’s hand and counting them slowly, “I think we had better give you the money, Amos—all but the sixty dollars coming to me for three months’ board, and allow you to go in hiding in the cellar again. When the dear Colonel comes, which I am sure he will very soon now, you will wait until he has left for Bushwhackers’ Place, then you will bid good-by to this place forever. No one will miss you, Amos, because you have no friends—but that is your own fault. You will always have a troubled conscience for a companion, but that is also your own fault. Remember, if you are caught——”
Mr. Smythe slipped his long fingers about his thin neck and winked his watery eyes.
“If you are caught, it’s all up with you, Amos.”
Broadcrook arose, his gaunt face twitching.
“Gimme another drink and I’ll go down in my hole again,” he said hoarsely. “You call me arter Hallibut has been here and gone. I wanter get away inter the States. You’ll let me have a rifle, won’t you, men?” he begged. “I’m scart o’ the wolves—they’ve been bad this winter.”
Watson wheeled upon him.
“You swear you won’t shoot anybody,” he said.
“Haven’t I enough t’ answer fer?” groaned the wretch.
“All right, then, you can have the rifle.”
Then the trap-door fell, and Watson, resuming his seat by the table, looked at Smythe.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
Smythe shivered and glanced about him.
“You haven’t anything to hold you here, have you?” asked Watson. “This place is mortgaged for all it’s worth—and you owe for everything in the store, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“I think we will not tempt Providence by remaining much longer,” said Smythe. “We’ll flit to some far-off land and begin life anew.”
“And it won’t be a partnership affair, either,” said Watson.
CHAPTER XXVIIIA Clear Trail
Colonel Hallibut sat before the fire smoking and dreaming. The monotonous winter had proven drear enough for him, accustomed as he was to out-of-doors exercise, and now the splash of rain upon the roof fell on his ears like the tinkle of music. Every morning for three months the Colonel had told himself that he would visit those outlaws as soon as the trail was clear, and demand that the man who burned his schooner give himself up. But for three months the trail remained choked and the frost promised death to anyone venturing any distance from shelter. However, spring would now soon come bounding in, so the big man nursed his wrath and said, “To-morrow.”
During the long waiting-time he walked between his house and stable, or stalked among his dogs with scolding voice. Dick, the man-of-all-work, kept out of his master’s way as much as possible, but sometimes the Colonel had him come into the big room and sit before him while he unburdened his mind.
“Those Bushwhackers have dared to burn my vessel and have threatened to kill me,” he would say. “Think of it—threatened to kill me! I wonder if the idiots have an ounce of sense or honor among them. They claim they have their own laws, but we’ll show them that their laws don’t go very far when it comes to firing men’s property. Here was I, ready to give in that they were in the right about wanting to hold their timber. I was fool enough to let myself be influenced by sentimentality. I was fool enough to think them a simple nature-loving people who were attached to their environment. Now I find them a low, lawless band of cut-throats, capable of any crime. That Big McTavish, their ring-leader, is bad enough, but he has a son who will stop at nothing, I understand. I have no doubt that it was he set fire to my boat.”
At such times Dick would listen attentively and vouchsafe no remark. Experience had taught him that silence was golden. The Colonel would shake his head, relight his pipe, and go on.
“I blame myself a whole lot for not going among the people and finding out just what they were, before allowing anybody else to run into danger. I know they never did like me on account of my hounds. They claim I slaughtered the deer and fox, and I thought it policy to keep out of their way. I have nothing in common with those people. When I took a notion to their timber I naturally thought that Watson and Smythe could deal better with them than I could. You know how well they’ve succeeded. Watson has been nearly killed and has been robbed of six hundred dollars. At least he says so. Well, you numbskull, why don’t you say something!”
Dick would grin foolishly and shake his head.
“I’m thinkin’, sir, as I don’t know hanythink t’ say,” he would remark. “I like t’ ’ear you talk about what you know to be a fact, sir, an’ beggin’ your pardon, prefer t’ listen, sir.”
“Lord,” the Colonel would murmur, “it’s awful to have only a thick-skulled Englishman to pour out my troubles to. But I must talk to somebody. Your mother, lad, is a good woman, with more brains in one bump than you have in your whole cranium. But she’s so deaf I’m afraid I’ll bite her ear off trying to make her hear me. Then, too, she has a nice way with her of thinking out loud. Of course, she can’t hear herself, but I can hear her, and when her thoughts turn to me I tell you I hear a lot that I would rather not hear. ‘Rough on the surface, but a good man at heart, God bless him.’ That’s the kind of bouquets I get from your mother, Dick, whenever I open up and tell her what I intend to do with those Bushwhackers. ‘He wouldn’t hurt a baby, the kind gentleman. He’s a Hallibut, every inch of him, and I carried him about when he was a baby.’ That’s the kind of rubbish I get when she’s in the room. By George! if she wasn’t an old family servant I’d fire her and I’d fire you, too, you good-for-nothing, you. Why, fellow, just you watch those dogs get down and crawl when I speak to ’em. Does that look as though I was a kind-hearted gentleman? Does it?—answer me, sir.”
“It do not, sir. You surely are ’ell, sir, yes sir.”
“Only sensible remark you have made since this cursed winter set in. Yes, I’m a rough ’un, I guess. I’m a match for that big hairy McTavish, or any of them, eh?”
“You are, sir.”
“And you think they’ll find it out,—you do, don’t you?”
“They’ll find they have t’ deal with a tartar, sir. They’ll wish th’ ’eavens would fall an’ cover ’em, sir, I’m thinkin’.”
Dick would answer solemnly and the Colonel would slap him on the back and tell him that there was some hope for him yet.
Very often the big man would prefer to be alone, and there in his great chair he would sit listening to the wind moaning through the bare trees. Very often his thoughts would stray away back to the far-away days when he roamed the hills and valleys of the land where he had held and lost his happiness. And as he dreamed, his head would bend lower on his breast and his hand would unconsciously tighten on the arm of his chair. And after his dream he would awaken slowly, and, sighing, arise and stand before the portrait on the wall. All men have their little flower-gardens of memory—Colonel Hallibut’s lay away back among the far hills.
“If she only had not gone,” he would murmur. “If she only had not gone, or if only I had gone with her. Dear little Phoebe, my heart gets hungry for you, and now I can only lead you along the old paths in fancy, girl.”
And the pictured face would grow wistful and he would whisper:
“The part you knew and owned of me is all right, girl. I’m not such a bad chap; I’m a big bluff, just a big bluff. I remember, dear, even though the joy of memory is painful. Glimpses are all I can stand, my little sister.”
Then the shadows would flicker and the Colonel would creep back to his old place and snooze and forget. Sometimes, very late, as he groped his way from the room, his eyes would seek the face in the frame, and all bitter thoughts would melt away from him. He would speak “Good-night” from the door and the portrait would smile upon him. But many and many nights these questions would arise to trouble him:
“Why did they burn my boat! Why should they threaten my life?”
And now the first spring rain was falling, whispering a promise of clear trails and open weather. There was the very essence of spring in the soft voice and damp smell. The Colonel sat before the fire thinking of what he would do, and how he would act, now that the weather permitted his going forth to show the Bushwhackers just how greatly they had erred. And he intended to show them that he had the law behind him. If they refused to give the incendiary up to justice, then he would get the machinery into motion which would speedily make them. He did not believe for a moment that they would refuse to give over the men who had broken the law. They well knew that he, Colonel Hallibut, wasted no words, and made no promise he could not fulfill. As for their threat to shoot him on sight, he hooted the idea as absurd. They might be murderers, but they were not fools. Nor would he, as he had first decided to do, take anyone else with him when he sought an explanation from and made a demand of the Bushwhackers. To take a body-guard would lead them to think that he was afraid.
All night long the Colonel sat listening to the rain, anticipating that of which the elements had deprived him for three long months. As the night advanced he grew more restless, and only when the tardy day began to dawn did his eyes close in sleep. The old housekeeper found him asleep in his big chair. This was nothing unusual, and she simply replenished the fire noiselessly and slipped out to prepare breakfast. Dick came in, when it was ready, and gently shook his master’s arm.
“Breakfast, sir,” he apologized; “it’s ready, sir.”
The Colonel arose and stretched his huge person. Then he went over to the window. Not a single patch of snow was visible. He threw open the door and stepped outside. From the ground arose a smoky haze that tasted of earth and roots, and he breathed it into his lungs with long, grateful breaths. He quickly prepared himself for breakfast and passed into the dining-room.
“After you have finished your meal, Dick, put the saddle on bay Tom,” he commanded. “Don’t ask any questions, now. Fact is, I’m going down to have it out with those murderers in Bushwhackers’ Place. I’m going alone, but I’m going loaded for trouble. I’ll take my pistols and the double-barreled rifle. If I don’t come back in two days you had better come and look for me.”
“Lor’!” breathed Dick, starting.
“There, now, you needn’t get scared,” laughed the Colonel. “I’m going out now to say good-by to the dogs. Get Tom out as soon as you can.”
Hallibut walked to the dog-kennels. Yelps and whines besought him as he passed along, but his head was bowed and he did not call out, as was his fashion, to his friends. Instead, he bent and patted each of those wistful-faced brutes that nosed and rubbed against him, speaking to each in an undertone of forced jollity.
“Sprague, you old beggar, you’re glad it’s spring, aren’t you? Hello, Nell, what are you doing away from your puppies at this time of day? Poor old Jep—come on, old chap. Ha, ha, he’s a good-for-nothing old codger, he is.”
He walked over to the corner of the yard, the pack following him, and, seating himself on a bench, called the dogs in close beside him.
“Boys,” he said, and his voice was not quite steady, “some people would think me either a fool or a crazy man if they saw me out here saying good-by to you. But some people don’t know dogs. I do. We’ve been good friends, old chaps, haven’t we? There, Jep, it’s just like you to speak first,” as the old dog lifted his head and whined, “but I guess you voice the sentiment of the whole pack.” The Colonel glanced about him. “For the first time in a long while,” he said, “I’m going on a journey without taking any of you along. I wish I didn’t have to go, but go I must. If I come back we’ll have many a good chase together. And if I don’t——”
“Your ’orse, sir,” cried Dick from the gate.
Ten minutes later the Colonel rode the trail once again.
It was just coming noon when he drew rein before Smythe’s store at Bridgetown and sent a hello out upon the air. The new spring day was still misty with sweet-smelling fog. The wind blew from the south soft and refreshing. Mr. Smythe opened the door and, seeing who his visitor was, came forward with an exclamation of pleasant surprise.
“Heaven be praised, it’s the dear Colonel,” he cried.
“Watson,” he called, “come out and greet our dear friend, Colonel Hallibut. Just please dismount, sir, and I’ll stable your horse.”
“I’ll dismount, but I’ll stable my own horse, I guess. I want to be sure that he gets fed. He’s got fifteen miles of bush travel before him,” grunted the Colonel.
Watson came forward with outstretched hand.
“How are you, Colonel Hallibut?” he said.
“Why, I hardly expected to see you, at least not in the flesh,” rejoined the Colonel, ignoring the hand. “Haven’t found that six hundred in any of your pockets, I suppose?”
Watson started.
“I have not,” he answered sullenly, a slow flush dyeing his face. “I don’t hope to, either. You know, of course, that the Bushwhackers stole the money.”
“So you said in your touching letter,” replied the Colonel, “but I expect you to repay it—every cent of it. I’ll give you two weeks. Smythe,” he asked, turning to that gentleman, “how is it Watson isn’t dead and buried! I understood you to say he was anxious to die and in a fair way of doing it.”
“Man proposes and God disposes,” said Smythe piously.
“Humph,” returned Hallibut, “it’s too bad the men who tried to dispose of Watson didn’t make a clean job of it.”
“Come into the other part,” invited Smythe, “dinner is all ready, sir.”
The Colonel sat down to the table, placing his rifle close beside his chair.
“A little liquor!” inquired the host, leaning toward the cupboard.
“Not any, thanks,” returned Hallibut. “Who’s smoking that rotten Canada-Green tobacco?” he demanded sharply. “ ’Tain’t you, is it?” as Watson turned quickly.
Watson shook his head and glanced at Smythe.
“Man by the name of Jamison was in here just before you came,” explained Smythe. “He smoked Canada-Green.”
“Funny,” murmured Hallibut, “it seems to be getting stronger.”
Smythe stamped gently upon the floor.
“What are you dancing about?” asked the Colonel, “isn’t it strictly against your religious code?”
“A touch of chilblain, my dear Colonel——‘ghost’s itch,’ my sainted mother used to call it.”
“Humph! it must be a ghost smoking that Canada-twist,” laughed Hallibut.
“If I thought it was,” declared Smythe, “I would bid him cease. I would,” he cried, raising his voice, “I would command him in this way: ‘Stop smoking immediately!’ ” Mr. Smythe enforced his command by another thump on the trap-door.
“You must be crazy,” grunted the Colonel, “guess I’d better be pushing along. I’m going over to let those Bushwhackers know just where they stand.”
“Dear Colonel, don’t go to Bushwhackers’ Place,” begged Smythe. “They’ll shoot you as sure as you are born.”
“They certainly will,” confirmed Watson.
The Colonel nodded.
“Let ’em,” he grated, and, picking up his rifle, he passed out followed by the distressed Smythe.
When they had gone Watson lifted the trap-door.
“You idiot,” he fumed, “you almost cooked our goose with your stinkin’ Canada-Green tobacco. I’ll be mighty glad to see the last of your red head, Amos. No, you mus’n’t come up yet. Be patient for five minutes longer; then, away you go. And may you not stop until you’ve crossed the border.”
“I’ll lose no time, don’t you fear,” whispered a hoarse voice from the darkness, and Watson let the trap-door fall with a shudder.
CHAPTER XXIXBlue Skies and a Cloud
Had Colonel Hallibut known that the Bushwhackers had awaited the melting of the snows quite as impatiently as he himself had, it might have surprised him. And had he known that the Bushwhackers were just as eager to have an explanation from him as he was to have an explanation from the Bushwhackers, he certainly would have been somewhat puzzled.
During the long evenings, as the loom of the weavers chided and the good wives turned the spinning-wheels, the men of the wood molded bright leaden bullets and measured black powder into curved horns. When the three-days’ rain began Bill Paisley went over to McTavish’s and stayed with Boy until the snows were licked away. All throughout Bushwhackers’ Place there surged a wave of unrest; a feeling of apprehension held the people, and they waited for what they felt must soon come. Hallibut, so they believed, had threatened to drive them from their rights. Behind him lay a power of which they knew little, but which they were prepared to combat if necessary with their lives. So during the rains that broke the manacles of winter the bushmen came together, strong-armed and clear of eye, strong of purpose and true to the great law that governed them. On one point they had unanimously agreed, and that was, no shot must be fired upon the interlopers until they themselves had opened hostilities. Big McTavish had urged this and was firm in his mandate.
“We’ll fight, men,” he said, his arm about his wife’s shoulder. “We’ll fight for our own, even if we be but a handful, but we’ll not fire first. Best to be sure than sorry.”
Now the men had met together again on what they seemed to feel was the eve of battle. The trails would be clear to-morrow and Hallibut and his followers would come very soon. So, throughout the night, with the soft rain falling and the forest waking beneath the kiss of spring, the Bushwhackers sat speaking in low tones before the fire in the big inner room, and the wives sat together discussing the probabilities of the coming conflict.
Big McTavish was for having all remain in their domain until the appearance of the enemy. Bill Paisley thought differently.
“What I advise,” he suggested, “is that we send out three men along the trail, and have ’em act as scouts. Let ’em keep to the timber, an’ when they see Hallibut and his men comin’, let ’em drop back and give the alarm. We’ll know best how to meet ’em when we know their numbers.”
Declute supported Paisley.
“I’ll go for one,” he volunteered, “and Peeler thar I know’ll go for another.”
“I’m with you,” nodded Peeler, and Boy sprang up.
“Let me go,” he begged; but the others shook their heads.
“You’re needed here,” they said, and Paisley drew Boy back into his seat again with:
“You can’t go, Boy; that’s all there is to it. Somethin’ tells me that Hallibut won’t bring his men down in a rush. Seems it ain’t his way to do things like ordinary men do ’em. He’s most like to send word by one of his tools that he’s comin’, first. I wouldn’t be at all surprised but that he’d come first himself. He’s goin’ to blame us for burnin’ his schooner, I have no doubt. He’s goin’ t’ do that so’s to have an excuse t’ wipe us out. He’s deep as he is wily. However, be that as it may, you men along the line mus’n’t let your feelin’s get the best of you. If Hallibut sends a spy along, keep clear of him, and don’t cock a gun, remember.”
Gloss stood in the doorway between the two rooms listening to the conversation of the men. Beside her was Daft Davie, his hand in hers. The girl’s face was pale and she looked as though she had not been resting well. Her great eyes were fastened on Boy’s face, and once he glanced toward her, but looked quickly down again. She passed across the room now, and over to him. The men were laying their plans of picketing along the trail. Boy looked up and smiled. Davie squatted in his old attitude beside him.
“Boy,” said the girl softly, “won’t you promise me what I’ve asked—won’t you?” she pleaded, bending over him.
Her breath fanned his cheek and the red blood leaped in his veins. She brushed back his tangled curls with an old-time caress.
“It seems just as though we was little boy and girl again,” she whispered, “and you always promised me what I wanted then.”
“I can’t promise you——” he hesitated. “Glossie,” he said tenderly, “won’t you please not ask it? I don’t want to make a promise I can’t keep, and you know what I intend to do.”
“And if you do it,” she gasped, “oh, Boy, if you do, I can’t—we can’t——”
She turned her head away and he saw a shudder run through her frame. He reached out and drew the girl close to him.
“You’ve got to finish,” he said. “What can’t we do, Gloss?”
“I don’t know,” she answered wearily.
She was looking past him and the despair in her eyes cut his soul.
“Girl,” he whispered, “I’ll promise you not to kill Simpson; ’course I’ll promise you. I reckon I understand why you want my promise. I didn’t know before, I only suspicioned and dreaded. If he was a good man, now,” he smiled, “why, I’d be right down glad for your sake. But I won’t hurt him, Gloss, not even if he tries to shoot me.”
She stooped and looked into his face.
“Boy,” she said softly, “thanks for the promise; but it’s you I love—not him.”
Then she ran from the room.
Boy arose. In his heart a song was ringing that set the whole world—his world—agog with joy. Paisley came over and touched him on the shoulder.
“I’ve asked you somethin’ three times,” he said. “It’s comin’ mornin’, and the rain is done. The scouts are goin’ out along the trail. I want to know who is to stay here with you and Mac while the rest of us are totin’ up what we’ll maybe need for a seige.”
“I guess we don’t need anybody here,” said Boy.
He walked absently about the room and, coming back, put his hands on Paisley’s shoulders.
“Bill,” he pleaded, “I want t’ go with the scouts.”
Paisley shook his head decisively.
“No good,” he said firmly, “you can’t go; that’s all.”
“Bill,” said Boy, “I’ve give my promise that I won’t hurt Simpson, won’t that let me go?”
“Nor anybody else?”
“Nor anybody else.”
“Well, I guess thatwilllet you go,” chuckled Bill. “I guess it will. Fact is, you’re the one ought to go. You’re worth all the others put together at scoutin’. Here you, Lapier, come back here. Boy’s goin’ along in your place. Your wife’s kickin’ like everythin’ on your goin’, so you stay here.”
Boy stepped forward and looked into the inner room. On the floor here and there, on furs, lay chubby-faced babies, sleeping sweetly, and on fur shake-downs close beside them the mothers of Bushwhackers’ Place lay sleeping and dreaming perhaps of olden days in the retreat, before troubles came to cloud its tranquil skies. He tiptoed across the room and stood beside two sleepers in the shadow. His mother’s arm encircled the neck of the girl who had let happiness into his heart. He removed his cap and kneeling kissed the mother’s cheek tenderly, then reverently he touched the girl’s brow with his lips, and slipped away. And through the faint light a pair of wide-open eyes, mellow with God’s earthly happiness, followed him. Boy found his waiting companions outside, and, slapping Declute’s narrow shoulders, he bounded down the path toward the creek.
All the world was waking up to spring. The woody doty smells of the Wild crept into his life and stirred his pulse to the symphony of his world. His whole being responded to the waking-time and his kingdom was still his—aye, more than his kingdom was now his. Above his head, a gray streak against the smoky fog, a flock of home-nesting ducks fluttered lazily by. They were flying low and the leader’s soft quack sounded to him like a greeting from friends long absent. The creek, washed of its snow, lay still ice-fast, but clear and milk-blue with the tinge of wakefulness upon its face. By night the ice would be broken and the current would bear it, grinding and joyful, out to the open water of the bay, and by and by into the clear waters of the lake. A lone grouse strummed his joy upon a log hidden in a thicket. Down in the fallow a cock-quail was whistling “Bob-White.” Across the creek the heavy snows of winter had carried the flimsy roof of Hallibut’s mill to the bank. It lay where the current would sweep it out into the open water. The schoolhouse, through the fog, loomed up totteringly, seeming to bend as though imploring the creek to carry it away from the place from which it was estranged.
“Think the ice strong enough to bear us?” queried Declute. “It’s some worn, ain’t it?”
“It’s strong enough,” Boy answered. “We’ll drag the canoes across. This ice’ll be gone by night.”
Quickly the men secured the boats and with two men to a boat they passed across the creek, carefully keeping to the white ice. Once a man broke through, and one of the others, by a quick movement, caught him and pulled him to safety. So, with a laugh and a “now all together,” they beached the boats on Totherside and sought the soft-wood where the Triple Elm trail lay.
Along the trail the men moved, speaking little, for each was occupied with his own thoughts. To one and all the opening of spring had come as a blessing after the shackles of a long, harsh winter. They all felt its spirit and their steps were springy, their hearts, in spite of apprehension, were glad. Three miles along the trail Boy stationed his first picket.
“You’d better stay here, Jim,” he said, “and keep a sharp lookout for Ander. If you hear a high-holder call, you answer it. Then make for Bushwhackers’ Place fast as your legs’ll carry you.”
Two miles further on Declute took up his station and Boy passed on down the trail alone. In the wood it was deep and still and gloriously restful. Squirrels bounded hither and thither and grouse twittered their joy-notes. A red fox slunk into the thicket and the kittens rolled in front of him in playful dispute. He had to step over them to keep to the path. Further on, a pole-cat, or skunk as the animal was called by the Bushwhackers, was grubbing for food in a decayed log. Boy knew at a glance that she too had babies sleeping somewhere close by, and he smiled as she cast a look of inquiry at him from her bright eyes and went unconcernedly on with her work.
Three miles deeper into the wood Boy stepped aside into the undergrowth and seated himself upon a log. All through the forenoon he sat there thinking and dreaming of Gloss and wondering why he had never before thought she cared. He reviewed bit by bit the events of the past four months and strove to piece them together so as to make something of the whole. Why had Hallibut instructed his men to steal Gloss? And why was Simpson one of the gang? He thought he knew the answer to that question.
The forenoon passed and two hours of the afternoon had gone before Boy’s ears were rewarded with the sound of hoof-beats along the trail. He crept forward and peered down the path. Colonel Hallibut, astride a bright-bay horse, came riding slowly along the trail. His head was low on his breast and he passed so closely to Boy that he might have touched the horse’s nose. Boy let him pass, his intention being to drop back into the timber and run ahead of him. Just as Boy was about to creep back into the bush he heard the muffled tread of a man’s foot. He waited, his hand fumbling the lock of his rifle. As he peered through the brush he could hardly suppress an exclamation, for Amos Broadcrook, his huge form bent and his face haggard and sunken, crept swiftly past him. Five paces on the man sank on one knee and threw his rifle forward. Boy was quick to divine his motive and just as quick to act. His own rifle was leveled and one second before Broadcrook’s rifle cracked Boy’s bullet struck the barrel of the other gun and the would-be murderer’s bullet went singing into the bush on the right.
The shock threw Broadcrook upon his face, and before he could regain his feet Boy was upon him. In vain the giant strove to shake off that sinewy form. Boy clung to him and held him. He heard Hallibut give a cry of surprise and a moment later Amos was pinned down the more effectively by the Colonel’s weight. The big man held a pistol at Broadcrook’s head and Boy arose and unbuckled one of the stirrup-straps. In another minute Amos was fast bound. Then Colonel Hallibut turned to Boy.
“Seems as though life was very uncertain about here,” he remarked. “I understand that animal tried to shoot me, but can’t understand why you didn’t let him. Suppose you explain.”
He frowned at Boy and put his pistol in his belt.
“I understand you Bushwhackers made a threat to shoot me on sight. Why didn’t you lethimdo it?”
Boy’s eyes gleamed dangerously.
“It won’t do you any good to talk like that,” he cried. “I guess if we did shoot you on sight it’s about what you deserve. You tried to steal our little Gloss, you and your gang. And you send us word that you intend to drive us into the bay. Well, Colonel Hallibut, you’ll find it pretty hard to drive us people anywhere. I saved you from bein’ killed just now, but that was only ’cause you wasn’t gettin’ a chance. Us Bushwhackers are queer. We have a funny way of givin’ things a square deal. We don’t fire at folks from behind, and we don’t try to steal women, either.”
The Colonel’s eyes opened in surprise.
“What are you talking about?” he thundered. “Do you mean to say that I tried to kidnap one of your women? Young man,” he warned, “I’m grateful to you for what you’ve just done, but don’t you try to be funny with me. I haven’t been across on your Bushwhackers’ Place. I haven’t done anything to any of your people, either. I did try to buy your timber, but that’s all. My agents have been among you, and a nice way you’ve used them, I must say. Nearly killed Watson, and stole six hundred dollars of my money from him. Then you up and burn my schooner. That’s what I call hospitality with a vengeance.”
“You burned your own schooner,” cried Boy, “and if Watson and Simpson got rough handlin’, it was because they deserved it.”
“What had Simpson to do with this affair you speak of?” asked Hallibut quickly.
“He was there with you and Watson the night you tried to steal Gloss,” said Boy, his mouth twitching.
“Young fellow, you’re crazy,” groaned Hallibut. “I tell you if anybody tried to steal the girl, I don’t know anything about it.”
“Your agent, Watson, says that you threatened to kill a few of us off,” said Boy grimly. “Broadcrook there heard him, didn’t you, Amos?” glancing down at the shaggy form on the ground.
Hallibut snorted.
“Humph! and come to think of it, it was Watson heard you say that you would set fire to my schooner,” he flashed. “You’re Boy McTavish, I guess, aren’t you?”
“I am Boy McTavish, but I never said that.”
“It was me fired the schooner,” said Amos.
“You?” cried the Colonel.
“He as much as hired me to do it,” said Amos, “—Smythe did. And he hinted as he’d pay me fer doin’ fer old Noah, and I did.”
“No, you didn’t,” cried Boy; “Noah is alive and well.”
“Then I ain’t got no murder ’gainst me,” cried Broadcrook, “an’ they can’t hang me, kin they?”
Hallibut stood biting his lip, his shaggy brows twitching. At last he raised his eyes slowly to Boy McTavish.
“See here,” he said at length, “I can’t just make this thing out. I guess I’ve been making a mistake and I guess you have, too, Boy. I’ve done you no wrong, neither you nor yours. And I know now that you and yours have done me no wrong. I came over here purposely to demand that you give yourself up for burning my boat, and I’m glad I came. I want to shake hands with you, if you’ll do it, and thank you for saving my life. Then I want to go down to Bushwhackers’ Place and shake hands all round. I—I——”
The big man’s face was working, and Boy found it difficult to keep his own voice steady as he wrung the Colonel’s hand and said:
“You won’t find any of us hard to get acquainted with, Colonel. We’re a queer lot in some ways, but I guess we all know real men. You come along with me and I’ll show you.”
“What are we going to do with this crazed wretch?”
Hallibut pointed down at Broadcrook.
Boy did not answer at once. He stood looking at Amos thoughtfully.
“What made you try to kill the Colonel?” he asked sternly.
“Smythe and Watson told me he was goin’ t’ set the hounds arter me,” groaned the man, “an’ I thort if I got his horse I would get across the border too quick fer ’em. Oh, I’ve been in hell, I tell you; shut up in the dark for three long months. I guess I was crazy.”
“Here are Declute and Peeler,” cried Boy. “We’ll let them bring Amos back with them. You and I’ll go on, Colonel Hallibut, if you’re ready.”
The Bushwhackers came running up, their faces showing their surprise. In a few words Boy explained everything, and leaving the two men to look after the captive, they passed down the trail, the Colonel riding and Boy leading the way. As they passed into the open of Totherside the Colonel pointed to the mill.
“That’s got to come out of there,” he said. “There aren’t going to be any more mills or schoolhouses in these parts until you people want them. Then you’re going to get what you want.”
Boy did not answer. He could not answer. But there was a crushing, choking joy in his heart. They stabled the horse in widow Ross’s barn. The place was strangely silent. The Rosses were over at Bushwhackers’ Place.
The ice in the creek was breaking up and running out fast. The creek, fed by the rivulets of the wood, was swollen now so as to make crossing by boat comparatively easy. This accomplished, Boy led Colonel Hallibut up to the house.
“Come in,” he invited.
The Colonel stepped inside and bowed low to the body of astonished people who watched him. Boy waved his hand for silence, then he stated the true facts of the case.
“Now,” he cried, “let every man shake hands with Colonel Hallibut.”
They surged about the big man joyfully. Hands were extended, and the Colonel with a laugh made as though to speak, but, instead, he stood gazing across at a tall girl clad in soft deerskin skirt and jacket. She was gazing back at him from eyes he had known long years ago in that playground far back.
“So like!” he whispered. “Same face, same hair, same great, glorious eyes!”
He leaned against the wall, trembling.
“Phoebe,” he said at length, and held out his arms.
Gloss leaned toward him.
“That was my mother’s name,” she said. “Did—did you know my mother, sir? See, this is her likeness in this little locket about my neck.”
She ran over to him and he took the locket from her hand and opened it. For a brief moment he gazed on the face of the little picture, then he raised it to his lips.
“Little girl,” he said simply, “I did know your mother: she was my dear sister.”
Then, with a dry sob, the man clasped her in his shaking arms. She stroked his gray hair with her hand, her soul claiming him and clinging to him, and as she looked into his face she said softly:
“I’m so glad; so very, very glad. I had so much before you came and now I have you—you.”
The Colonel attempted to speak. The tears were streaming down his cheeks. Paisley walked from the room blowing his nose on his red handkerchief. Peeler, his back to the others, whistled a tuneless dirge and looked through the window. As for the women, they were one and all behaving like foolish women must behave on such an occasion. Only Boy stood unmoved, watching, thinking, waiting. It came at last.
“All I have in the world belongs to you now, little girl,” said Hallibut gently. “I give it all to you for the sunshine you have let into my gloomy life. You will never leave me again, now I have found you, Gloss, will you?”
Then Boy went out into his dark-blue open and sought his woods again. Thank God he was strong and able to fight. It was all over now—his newly found dream of happiness. His hope was dead, buried and put away forever. But even a grave may feel the warmth of sunshine. The sunshine of a girl’s new happiness would always warm the grave Boy dug that afternoon alone in the awakening forest. It is the nature of a hurt wild thing to creep away into the dark and heal its wounds or die alone. When Boy returned that night his scar was hidden, and no one guessed that he had fought and conquered for love’s sake.