“Our school opens Monday, doesn’t it, Marie?” asked Moran.
She turned her black eyes on him and allowed them to rest a moment before replying. Jim Ashe was aware of the somber glow of them.
“Yes,” she said, shortly.
Moran chuckled. “You’re tickled to death over it, aren’t you?”
The glow of her eyes became a flame—such a flame as might eat its way through plates of steel. Jim Ashe would have drawn back from such a fire disconcerted; Moran was unable to meet it with his eyes, but he was not disconcerted. Instead, it seemed to give him satisfaction. He chuckled again.
“Well,” he said, jovially, “you know you can leave it when you want to.”
Jim was startled; looked quickly at Marie. The flame lay dead in her eyes; she seemed merely tired, very tired. Moran spoke again, this time to Ashe and the widow.
“I’ve offered her a place in my office back in town,” he said. “I guess she don’t hate Diversity as bad as she says she does, or she’d take it. But the offer holds good, Marie. Any time. Any time.”
The widow ruffled her feathers.
“Marie’s goin’ to stay right where she is. Maybe Diversity hain’t a suburb of heaven; maybe teachin’ school’s a long ways from strummin’ a harp in Paradise; but Marie’s got too much sense to go flutterin’ off like a blind owl in the sunshine, not knowin’ what she’s like to bump her head against.”
Marie turned slowly on the widow.
“When the time comes to choose I’ll choose,” she said, speaking, it seemed, not to the widow, but to herself.
The widow looked puzzled; even Moran seemed not to understand; but Jim understood. In the light of his first meeting with Marie on the knoll he comprehended the significance of her words, the rashness, the worldly wisdom of them. Hers would be no blindfold journey. If she spread her wings for flight it would be with eyes wide and seeing; it would be on a calculated course, and the cost would be itemized. He saw that she read Moran better than he had done, and in the light of her knowledge the page of Moran’s soul became more legible to him. Before Moran had been an adversary--no chivalric adversary; now he felt a cold hatred for the man, a personal, throbbing hatred coupled with a stinging, physical aversion. From that moment Moran became a snake to be scotched.
“There’s a lot less choosin’ in this world than folks think there is,” said the widow. “Folks spends a heap of time separatin’ in their minds what they’re goin’ to do from what they hain’t—gen’ally choosin’ the pleasant and throwin’ out the disagreeable. But when they git along toward the end of things and look back at the figgerin’ they done, they mostly find that the good they chose wasn’t the good they got, and the bad they chose not to have was the very thing that pestered them. Most folks meets up with about so much good and bad, about so much joy and so much trouble; but the joys hain’t the ones they looked forward to and the troubles hain’t the ones they feared.”
Moran smiled and shook his head.
“I can’t agree with you, Mrs. Stickney. We get what we plan for. Set your mind on a thing and then plan and wait and work toward it every chance you get. Don’t give it up. Keep your mind on it. Don’t let a chance slip to move nearer to it. What I want—if I want it bad enough—that thing I get.”
Suddenly Marie spoke—to Jim.
“What’s your opinion, Mr. Ashe?” she said.
“I? As old Sir Roger de Coverley said, ‘There’s much to be said on both sides.’” Jim had no desire to be drawn into argument with Moran.
Her lip curled. “We used to have a Congressman here who was called Mid-channel Charlie because his attitude toward every question was like yours now. He was never Congressman but once.”
“Well, then,” said Jim, perceiving that for some reason she really desired his opinion, “I believe that if you don’t choose and work to get the thing you have chosen, you miss one of life’s finest games. I do agree with Mrs. Stickney that if you drift along and take what comes the chances are that good and ill will run a fairly even race. I agree with Mr. Moran that the man who visualizes his desire and sets it up before him as a lighthouse—and then rows his boat to it with all the strength of his oars—stands at least a moderate chance of getting there. But for me, I do not believe a man should be too set on a desire, that he should steer a course for his lighthouse regardless of everything else. If I have a plan of life it is to row for my lighthouse, but not to miss the scenery along the way. My boat may carry me past something better than my lighthouse. If I should suddenly find myself floating over an oyster-bed I should stop to hunt pearls. I believe that as a man pushes forward to his desire he should stand ready to pounce on the treasure that chance or circumstance floats in his way; he should be ready to repel the evil he fears, but he should keep his ammunition dry and his weapons loaded for trouble he doesn’t in the least foresee—which is not likely to happen, but which sometimes does happen. I believe that a plan to arrive at one’s choice should be modified by the happening of every moment, and that one should be ready to abandon his boat, abandon his lighthouse, to dive over the side after the chance-sent mass of floating ambergris.”
“Yes. Yes, that’s it. The moment determines. The mood of the moment determines,” said Marie.
“And,” said Jim, carried onward by the flow of his thought, “meetings with other voyagers determine. One’s course is sure to cross the courses of others. At some point those moving at right angles to each other may meet bow to bow, when there will result collision, or else one or both the travelers must modify their courses for a time. It may even be that the adventure of one traveler will cause the other to abandon his quest and follow. If you’re going to look ahead, Miss Ducharme, and plan and choose, you must not forget to estimate the chances of contact with other planners and choosers, nor the modifications contact may cause.”
Moran shrugged his shoulders, his jaw set.
“If another man’s path crosses mine, or his boat gets in the way of mine, I let him look out for himself or be run down,” he said, crisply.
“In such collisions,” said the widow, “I’ve knowed both boats to be sunk.”
Jim felt Marie’s black eyes upon him, but he did not look at her. She was studying him, appraising him. He was conscious of it, yet endeavored to appear unconscious. He felt she was more inclined toward friendliness with him than ever before, and because he perceived that she needed friendship—not because of any leaning toward her—he feared to show even by a glance that he was aware of a better understanding between them. It would be so easy to frighten her away.
Moran pushed back his chair.
“I must catch my train, Mrs. Stickney. I always enjoy my suppers with you. They remind me of suppers I used to eat at grandmother’s farm.”
“It’s a good thing for men to git reminded of their grandmothers once in a while,” she answered, cryptically.
“You’re coming to see me to the door, Marie?” Moran said. It seemed to Jim more a command than a question. Marie obeyed, and the man and girl left the room.
Jim emptied his coffee-cup, which was not a thing to do quickly when the widow had made the coffee. Indeed not! One sipped and tasted and stopped betweenwhiles to think on the aroma of it. Presently Jim set down his empty cup.
“More?” asked the widow.
“Thank you, no.”
Jim moved back his chair. He was frowning at the tablecloth abstractedly.
“Hum!” said the widow. It was a very significant, expressive hum, an eloquent hum, but, withal, a hum that needed further elucidation before it became wholly and perfectly clear.
“The difference between girls,” she said, “is that most of them is just ordinarily foolish.”
“And the difference between men,” said Jim, “is that some of them are like Michael Moran.”
“I calc’late from that,” she said, “that your heart don’t flow out to him in love and admiration.”
“It’s men like him that make murder a virtue.”
“Hum!” said the widow. “I’ll say this for you, you don’t leave folks fumblin’ round to understand your meanin’.”
“I said exactly what I meant. Mrs. Stickney, Miss Ducharme is in a dangerous humor. I can’t make her out. Probably it is because I’m too young. But you ought to understand her—whether she means some of the reckless things she says. I believe she does. She has intelligence and a will, which makes the condition more dangerous. She talks about choosing her course when Diversity becomes unbearable. Michael Moran is planning to be present when that time comes. Possibly his plans include making Diversity unbearable. At any rate, he plans and plans, and because he is what he is, because she knows he is what he is, he offers her an opportunity of escape. He offers her what she thinks is an opportunity to choose. But it won’t be any such thing. When she chooses—if ever she does choose—to go to him, it will be because he has planned it and forced the choice.”
“Hum!” said the widow again, eying him with eyes that age had not robbed of their brightness. “Hum!”
This was no startling contribution to the conversation. But the exclamation “Hum!” uttered by an old woman who has buried two husbands and kept boarders is not to be despised. There is more wisdom in such a monosyllable than in all the pages of the valedictory of a girl emerging from college—which is generally credited with being an erudite message. Two husbands and a succession of boarders may teach things that even professors of sociology have not had called to their attention.
“She’s so infernally alone,” said Jim.
Marie stepped into the dining-room again—one might almost say pounced. Her eyes glittered, her hands were clenched.
“I am infernally alone. Oh, I heard! I heard what you said before that, I listened. What business have you to discuss me and my affairs? I suppose it’s your meddlesome notion to help me. I don’t want help; I don’t need help; and what help could you give? What do you know about me—or about life? What do you know about a woman? I will not be discussed by either of you. I have the right to order my own life—to make it good or bad as I want to—and it’s nobody’s business. Do you think I don’t know Michael Moran? I tell you I see into the farthest corner of his soul. I’m not demanding happiness. I doubt if happiness is the best thing life has to give. But I do demand to live. Nobody can compel me to rot. What if I do suffer? What if there is pain and suffering and remorse? That is part of life. It is living. And you would meddle! I tell you again that I see what I am doing; that I am not deceived; that I have weighed consequences. If the time comes when Michael Moran is the stepping-stone I need, I shall use him. Nobody can prevent it—”
“I calc’late there’s somebody might prevent it, Marie,” said the widow, quietly, “and I calc’late there’s somethin’ would fill you up with a kind of regret you ain’t anticipatin’ if it was to happen afterward.”
“Who?” demanded Marie, passionately. “And what?”
“The man you loved might stop you—and comin’ to love a man afterward might bring that kind of remorse that would make dyin’ better ’n livin’.”
Marie stared at the widow, then after one might slowly have counted a dozen she sank into a chair and gazed fixedly downward. Nobody spoke, Jim felt extremely uncomfortable.
Presently Marie lifted her eyes, first to Jim, then to the widow.
“Yes,” she said, “that is possible. I could love, but it would be better that I shouldn’t. Better for him. If I loved it would be no pretty bill-and-coo. It would be love. I should give much, but demand much. I do not think it would be comfortable to be loved by me. If I loved it would be the one great concern of my life. I should have room for nothing else. I have studied myself. And if he did not love me as I loved him I should make him unhappy, for I do not believe men like to be bothered by too much love. I should make him hate me. I should be no sweet domestic animal to greet him with a kiss, and fetch him his slippers, and sit by placidly while he read his paper. Men like comfort and coddling. There would be no comfort with me. I should be jealous—jealous even of the food that gave him pleasure. What man wants such a love! What happiness can come from it? Would you want to be loved that way?” She turned abruptly to Jim.
“I do not believe one can love too much. I don’t believe you know what love is, Miss Ducharme. If love is what I believe, it is not fierce, not a fire that burns beyond control. I think it is gentle; I think love forgives; I think real love manifests itself not by clawing and scratching its object, but by spending itself to procure his happiness—or her happiness. I believe the true love of a man for his wife, or of a woman for her husband, has much in it of the love of father or mother for their child. I do not think love threatens; it shelters. No, Miss Ducharme, the thing you have been talking about is not love at all. I don’t know what it is, but love it is not.”
She looked at him wide-eyed, startled, curious.
“When you love,” he said, “you will see that I am right.”
“I should like to believe you, Mr. Ashe,” she said. “It would be sweet—sweet. But you are wrong. How could you know? Have you loved?”
“No.”
Mrs. Stickney spoke, her old eyes twinkling.
“It don’t seem scarcely possible,” she said, “but I’ve been in love. It was some number of years ago, but I hain’t forgot all about it yet. Shouldn’t be s’prised if there was times when I remembered it right well. So I’m speakin’ from experience. When I was in love ’twa’n’t exactly like either one of them things you’ve been describin’. I’ll go so far’s to say that both of you’ll know consid’able more about it after you’ve ketched it.”
Jim felt a sense of relief. There had been a strain; the moments that had passed were tense moments. Possibly Marie, too, was relieved. At any rate, she stood up, and as she walked toward the door she spoke icily:
“Bear in mind, please, Mr. Ashe, that I and my affairs are not to be discussed, nor have you a right to interfere in whatever happens.”
“Miss Ducharme, I have that right. If I see a man ill-treat a dog, I have the right to protect that dog—more than that, it is my duty. How much more is it a man’s right and duty to interfere in behalf of a woman who is in danger!”
“Duty!” exclaimed Miss Ducharme.
Jim found Zaanan Frame at his desk, Tiffany’sJustices’ Guideopen before him as it always was in his moments of leisure. Zaanan nodded.
“Set,” he said.
“Judge,” said Jim, “I’ve been invited to help beat you at the next election.”
“Um!”
“They tell me a corporation hasn’t a chance with you.”
“Some hain’t,” said Zaanan, briefly.
“And that a laboring-man gets all the best of it.”
“An even chance is the best of it for a poor feller,” said Zaanan. “Calc’late you was fetchin’ me news?” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Moran’s a convincin’ talker,” he observed, after a brief pause.
Jim made no reply.
“Thinkin’ of throwin’ in with him?” Zaanan asked.
Jim started to speak, but stopped, startled. It seemed to him for an instant that Marie Ducharme sat before him. He could see her move with the wonderful grace that was hers; he could see the sure, graceful lines of her figure; he could see her face, mobile, intelligent, with possibilities that would have made it interesting, even compelling, but for the expression of sullen discontent that masked it. So real, so material did she seem, that it seemed to Jim he could stretch out his hand and touch her. Then she was gone.
Jim’s teeth clicked together, and his good, square-cornered jaw set.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, with that sudden resolution which seemed to have become a part of him. “I’m going to chase Michael Moran out of Diversity County.”
“Um! Hain’t you perty busy savin’ your own goods from the fire?”
“I’ll keep mine and add something of his,” Jim said, grimly.
“Wa-al, sich things has been done. Ever hear tell of Watt Peters and his bear? Watt he was campin’ with a crowd back in the timber, huntin’ bear. One day he was cruisin’ round and come on to a old he-bear consid’rable more sudden than he calc’lated on. Watt he never got famous for boldness, so this time he clean forgot he was huntin’ bear and turned and run for all was in him. Seems like he irritated that bear somehow, for he turned to and chased Watt ’most to camp. Watt he tripped over a root and like to busted his neck. Old bear he kept a-comin’. Wasn’t anything for it but to shoot, so Watt he up and shot. Dummed if he didn’t kill that there bear deader ’n a door-nail. Fellers in camp came a-runnin’ out.
“‘’Most catched you, didn’t he?’ says a feller.
“‘Catched me!’ says Watt. ‘What you mean, catched me?’
“‘He was a-chasin’ you, wasn’t he?’
“Watt he looked scornful-like and answered right up:
“‘Think I want to lug a bear two mile into camp?’ says he. ‘No, sir, I lured this here bear in so’s I could kill him handy to where I wanted him. I jest figgered to make him carry himself into camp,’ says he. Wa-al, young feller, things does happen that way sometimes, but it looks to me right now like the bear was chasin’ you.”
“I know Moran is in with Welliver and his bunch. I know Moran is at the bottom of the trouble we’re having at the mill. He’s having our logs spiked, and a man of his is tampering with our machinery. I know it, but I can’t prove it even to myself. The first thing I do is to make certain.”
“If I was goin’ to take a drive,” said Zaanan. “I’d take the River Road. Calc’late I’d drive till I come to where a beech and a maple’s growin’ so clost it looks like they come up from one root, and I’d up and hitch there. Then I’d walk off to the right, takin’ care to make plenty of noise so’s not to seem like I was sneakin’. About that election, Jim, I calc’late I’m obleeged to you. G’-by, Jim.”
“Good-by, Judge,” said Jim.
He went to the livery for a rig and presently was driving out the River Road according to Zaanan’s directions. It seemed like a long time before he discovered Zaanan’s landmark, but it appeared at last, and Jim was interested to see that another horse had been tied there not long ago. The marks of its pawing hoofs were visible in the soft soil; the work of its teeth showed on the bark of the tree. It was here that Dolf Springer had tied not many hours before.
Jim looked about him for some indication of man’s presence that would show him how to proceed, but there was none. Away from him on all sides stretched a growth of scrub-oak and jack-pine, with here and there the grayed and splintered shaft of an ancient pine that had been riven by lightning or broken off by wind or age. There was no path, no sign of human usage.
Forgetting Zaanan’s caution to proceed noisily, Jim walked slowly, almost stealthily, through the underbrush. He did so unconsciously; it was the natural impulse of one walking into the unknown. At times he stopped to look about him, dubious if he had not alighted at the wrong landmark.
Presently he fancied he heard voices and stopped to listen with straining ears. Unquestionably there were voices. Jim drew nearer softly, and in a few moments reached a point where words and tones and inflections could be distinguished. There was a man’s voice and a child’s voice. Jim stopped again and listened. The conversation he overheard was not a conversation; it was a ritual. As the words came to Jim he knew it was but one repetition of what had been conned and repeated many times before. Yet there was fire in it, fire and fierce determination.
“Where is your mother?” asked the man’s voice.
“Dead,” answered the child’s.
“Who killed her?” asked the man.
“She killed herself,” said the child.
“Why?”
“On account of me.”
“Did she do right?”
“Yes.”
“Who do you hate?”
“Michael Moran,” said the child.
“What have you got to do?”
“Pay Michael Moran.”
“You won’t ever forget?”
“I won’t ever forget,” said the child.
“See to it that you don’t,” the man said, fiercely.
It was evident the ritual was at an end; that this last was an admonition, not a part of it. Jim shivered but he knew he had not gone astray, that here was the man Zaanan had sent him to see. He retired softly a hundred feet, then called aloud and floundered toward the spot where the ritual had been spoken.
Jim had not traversed half the distance before a man stepped from behind a mound. It was the same big, handsome, somber man whom Dolf Springer had called upon; it was Steve Gilders. Under his arm was the rifle that had sent a shiver up Dolf’s spine.
“Lookin’ for somebody?” he demanded.
“Yes. Judge Frame sent me.”
“What’s your name?”
“Ashe.”
“Own the new mills down to Diversity?”
“Yes. Are you the man I came to see?”
“Calc’late so. Names is handy in talkin’ to folks. Mine’s Steve.”
Jim thought it best not to ask additional names.
“What was you wantin’?” Steve asked.
“Somebody’s playing hob with my machinery and driving spikes into my logs for me to rip off sawteeth on. I think Michael Moran is at the bottom of it, but I want to prove it to myself.”
“If you kin prove it—what?”
“I’ll have a better conscience to go after the man.”
“Not after him personal. You won’t lay hands on him? You hain’t figgerin’ on doin’ anythin’ to his body, be you? ’Cause I can’t have that. That hain’t your concern. It’s a job for somebody else.”
“No. But I’m going to drive him out of Diversity.”
Steve smiled. “If you was to take his money away from him and his power away from him, why I’d be glad. It ’u’d hurt him mighty bad. But I calc’late he hain’t goin’ to be drove out of Diversity. I figger he’s goin’ to stay here permanent—permanent as them in Diversity’s graveyard.”
Jim wondered if the man were not off the mental perpendicular; but a glance at his fine if stern face, his clear eyes, his bearing, argued strongly in favor of his sanity. Perhaps the man was possessed of some Old Testament spirit of vengeance; perhaps here was a Northern relative of the blood feud of the Kentucky mountains. In spite of himself he felt apprehensive for Moran’s sake.
“You want proofs, eh? Be you enured to walkin’?”
“I’ll do my best,” said Jim.
“Seven miles to the loggin’-road,” said Steve.
“I’d better care for my horse then.”
“I’ll see to him. You set right where you be.” It was a command. Jim recognized it as such and obeyed.
It was not long before Steve returned. He did not take Jim to his shanty as he had taken Dolf Springer, but led him straight through the woods toward the southeast. Steve tramped silently. The things his eyes saw, the things his ears heard, and the thoughts moving in his mind were company enough for him. As for Jim, he had difficulty enough maintaining the pace without wasting breath in unnecessary words.
After an hour’s steady going Steve stopped suddenly.
“Set,” he said. “You hain’t used to this.”
Jim sank down without a word. Steve leaned against a maple trunk, for they were now getting into the edge of the hardwood, and took out his pipe. Neither spoke for fifteen minutes. Then Steve straightened up and nodded. Jim got to his feet and followed.
In another hour Steve spoke again: “Road’s right over there. First landin’s half a mile up.”
They turned to the left and shortly were in last season’s slashings. Narrow lanes among the trees, uneven, impassable to teams at this season of the year, marked the tote roads, which in winter would be cared for more skilfully than many a city boulevard, iced, kept clear of refuse, so that heavily ladened sleds might pass smoothly, carrying logs from cutting to landings.
Jim heard the toot of a locomotive whistle and looked at his watch.
“Must be the empty trucks up from the mill,” he said.
Steve nodded.
The engine with its trail of trucks passed them at their right, whistled again, and at last came to a stop. Jim knew the stop was at the landing from which came his logs.
“Where’s the camp?” he asked.
“T’other side of the track.”
In a moment they were at the edge of the clearing and Jim could see the landing, its skidways piled high with hardwood logs, beech, birch, maple, with here and there a soft maple, an ash or an oak. The train crew had already disappeared in the direction of the camp; only one man was visible, standing in the doorway of the sealer’s shanty. He looked after the trainmen, then emerged and mounted a skid way. With a big blue crayon he marked log after log. These, Jim knew, were being selected to go to his mill in the morning. Then the man returned to his shanty.
Presently he appeared with a blacksmith’s hammer. He mounted the skidway again, knelt upon a marked log, and drove a spike into it near the middle. This he proceeded to sink with a punch.
Steve did not so much as turn his head toward Jim. He merely watched the man with a curious intentness. The man repeated the operation five times on different logs, then returned his tools to the shanty and sauntered away toward the camp.
Jim felt a hot flame of rage. With characteristic impulse he started to his feet and would have demanded a reckoning of the man there and then, but Steve caught him by the arm and drew him down.
“Hungry?” he asked, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Maybe I am,” snapped Jim, “but I’m too mad to notice it.”
“Spring back here. I put a snack in my pocket.”
“What’s that man’s name, Steve?” Jim demanded.
“Kowterski—one of Moran’s Polacks,” said Steve, with bitterness in his voice. “Them cattle is drivin’ good woodsmen out of the State. Moran’s fetchin’ ’em in ’cause he kin drive ’em and abuse ’em and rob ’em. There was a day when a lumberjack come out of the woods after the drive with his pockets burnin’ with money. These fellers is lucky if they come out even. I knowed one that come out last spring with fifteen dollars to show for his winter’s work. Sometimes Moran gives ’em half a dollar on Sundays—for church!” He stopped suddenly.
“Kowterski’s brother’s night-watchin’ for you,” he said, shortly.
“Thank you,” said Jim. “Now let’s go back.”
“Better eat a bite,” Steve said, and, taking Jim’s assent for granted, led the way to the spring.
It was an hour before he consented to begin the backward tramp. It was completed as silently as had been the coming. Steve led Jim past his shanty, but not in sight of it, and to the road where the buggy stood.
“Wait,” he said, and shortly reappeared, leading the horse, which he helped Jim to hitch.
Jim climbed to the seat and extended his hand. Steve made no movement to take it.
“I’m more obliged to you than I can say,” Jim said.
“G’-by,” Steve said, briefly, and, turning his back, strode out of sight among the scrub-oak and jack-pine.
The horse Jim drove was not intended by nature to travel rapidly from place to place. He possessed two paces, one a studious walk, the other a self-satisfied trot that was a negligible acceleration of movement. So it was dusk when Jim reached Diversity. Slow as the progress was, it did not give Jim time to cool down from the boiling-point he had reached; instead, it irritated him, brought him where explosion was inevitable.
He returned his horse to the barn and started down the street toward the mill, forgetful that he had eaten nothing but Steve’s snack since breakfast. As he passed the hotel he saw Moran on the piazza—Moran, who had taken a train yesterday to the city.
Jim stopped, gripped his temper with both hands, as it were, to hold it in check, and spoke.
“You’re back soon,” he said.
“Didn’t get to the city at all. Wire met me halfway and called me back.”
“That’s good,” said Jim, with another of his sudden resolutions. “I’m glad you’re here. Can you walk down to the mill with me? I want to show you something.”
“Glad to,” said Moran, rising.
The older man attempted casual talk as they went along, but Jim’s answers were monosyllabic, even brusk. Moran studied the young man’s face out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was in the wind. He was puzzled, uneasy, and he ceased his conversation and speculated on possibilities.
Jim led him round to the rear of the mill. At the fire-room door he paused and called, “Kowterski!”
Presently a bulky figure emerged from the gloom that was beyond the doorway. The man was big, with a clumsy bigness, not so tall as Jim, but heavier by fifty pounds. He came forward slowly.
“Here,” said Jim. “Come here.”
Kowterski recognized Jim and ducked his head.
“Evenin’, boss,” he said, then looked into Jim’s face. Something he saw was disquieting, for he halted, took a step backward, started to raise his hands.
Putting the weight of his body into the blow, Jim struck him. Kowterski stumbled, went down. He lay still an instant where he had fallen, then wallowed to his knees and remained in that position, mumblingly ridding his mouth of blood and teeth.
“Git!” said Jim.
Kowterski rose, wavering, turned, and ran stumblingly away into the darkness.
Jim turned to Moran. “Good night,” he said, shortly.
“You had something to show me,” said Moran, thrown from his habitual poise.
“That was it,” Jim said, and disappeared into the fire-room.
That night Jim patrolled the mill in the place of the watchman whose resignation he had accepted in front of the fire-room door. Through the long, dark hours he had time and quiet for reflection. His mind was stimulated by the occurrences of the day; he was aware of a clarity of vision, a straightness of thought, a satisfying concentration. His problem, in all its intricate difficulties, lay plain before him. He fancied he had read astutely his enemies’ plans; his own plans began to take form.
Against Welliver and the Clothespin Club he would have to defend himself by business makeshifts and financial strategy. Them he did not underestimate nor did he exaggerate their menace. To defend himself against Moran his best course was to attack. It would now become his business to seek for a point of weakness, and there to deliver his first blow.
It was common talk that Moran was reaching out ambitiously. His former holdings had been considerable; now the affairs which he seemed to control were of magnitude. He had traveled from the one to the other in a short space, a space so short that Jim felt sure it had not been sufficient to multiply his fortune. It forced itself upon Jim that Moran must have spread himself out thinly to cover so much ground. In that case there must be a point where he had spread himself with dangerous thinness. That area, Jim thought, he must find. There, he said to himself, he must strike.
It was daylight when he left the mill and trudged wearily toward his bed at the widow’s. On his way he met John Beam, who regarded him with amazement.
“Up kind of early, ain’t you?” asked Beam.
“No, just a bit late to bed,” Jim said, with a grin of boyishness. “By the way, you’ll have to get a new watchman to take Kowterski’s place. I took it last night.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“When he left,” said Jim, a trifle grimly, “I thought of advising him to go to the dentist’s.”
He looked down at his bruised, abrased knuckles. Beam’s eyes followed his employer’s and the man grinned with sudden comprehension.
“It was him, eh?” he asked.
Jim nodded. “I won’t be down till afternoon.”
Beam walked on his way, chuckling. Presently he encountered Nels Nelson and recounted what he had learned, with certain amendments and surmises of his own, ending with a special word regarding Jim.
“Some boss,” he said, delightedly. “I’ve had a few bosses, but Sudden Jim he’s the boy for my money.” Which would have pleased Jim exceedingly had he overheard it.
Jim devoured the breakfast the widow had ready for him, and went off to bed. He went to sleep with the satisfying consciousness that it was now open warfare between him and Moran. What he had done last night was both a declaration of war and an eloquent expression of his opinion of the man. He knew Moran would be able to translate it correctly.
It was after one o’clock when Jim awoke, but he found the widow had kept his dinner warm for him.
“’S my experience,” she said, severely, “that folks gits more for their money sleepin’ nights than daytimes.”
“I was behaving myself, Mrs. Stickney. Honestly I was. At regular rates I earned two dollars watching in the mill.”
“I was kind of disap’inted in you when you didn’t come home at all. But, ‘Boys will be boys,’ says I, ‘which won’t prevent my speakin’ my mind to him if he hain’t ready with a good excuse, which mostly young men is ready with and ain’t usually believed; but what kin a body do about it?’”
“I hope you’ll do nothing rash,” Jim said, with specious soberness. “You won’t put me out in the street, will you?”
“If it had been any of my husbands I’ll bet I’d ’a’ knowed the reason why,” she said, and disappeared into the kitchen, with an aggrieved air.
Jim went out smiling; somehow the widow’s threatened scolding put him in a better humor with the world. It was good to know that somebody in Diversity had a real, friendly, motherly interest in him.
His way led past Zaanan Frame’s office. Zaanan was standing on the step.
“Afternoon,” said the old justice. “Hain’t much battered up as I kin see.”
“I’m practically intact,” Jim said, gaily.
“Folks round town has it there was consid’able trouble to the mill last night. You was reported laid up in bed with grievous injuries. Calc’lated I’d come round to see you.”
“Nothing much. I just took Moran down to point out a circumstance to him.”
“Moran? What’s he got to do with it?”
“Why,” said Jim, “I met him when I got back to town and invited him down to the mill with me. I—er—rid myself of Mr. Kowterski in his presence and left him to think it over. Haven’t seen him since.”
“He hain’t got any misgivin’s as to how you stand then, eh? You kind of rubbed his face in it, didn’t you? Leetle bit abrupt, wasn’t you?”
“If there’s going to be a fight,” said Jim, “I want it to be a fight. No sneaking under cover.”
“Call to mind that British general—what’s his name? Bradley—Bradish—some sich thing. Didn’t pay no heed to a young feller named Washington when he was goin’ to fight the Injuns. He come right out bold to fight like you’re aimin’ to do. But did the Injuns? Wa-al, accounts says not. They done consid’able sneaking and prowlin’ under cover, and this general got all chawed up.”
“I didn’t want the man to think I was a fool.”
“Um! Shows you’re young, Jim. Hain’t no better way of gittin’ a strangle holt on to a feller than by lettin’ him think you’re a fool. The s’prise of findin’ out sudden that you hain’t comes nigh to chokin’ him.”
“Anyhow, it’s done,” said Jim.
“No argyin’ that p’int. I notice Moran didn’t leave town this mornin’ like he calc’lated to. What you figgerin’ on next? Looks like you run on to some facts up the River Road.”
“I’m going to look for some more facts.”
“What kind of facts, son?”
“Moran’s got a thin spot. I want to find it.”
“Um! Thin spot. Calc’late I understand you. Figger he’s been spreadin’ his butter so thin that the bread won’t be covered enough somewheres, eh? Maybe so. Maybe so. Ever see a map of the Diversity Hardwood Company’s holdin’s?”
“No.”
“I got one. Had the Register of Deeds fix it up for me, thinkin’ it might come in handy.”
Zaanan went to a cupboard and brought out a rolled map which he spread on the table. It was marked off in sections. Those owned by the company were blocked in with red ink.
“Nigh forty-five thousand acres,” said Zaanan.
Jim bent over the map. The Diversity Company’s property ran in two irregular, serrated strips. Between the two portions was a sort of strait nowhere marked with red.
“They’re cut in two,” said Jim. “Who owns the stuff between? Timbered, is it?”
“As good hardwood as ever growed. B’longs to old Louis Le Bar. Run between twenty and twenty-five thousand to the acre. And that’s consid’able hardwood, son.”
“Logically the company ought to own it.”
“Logically it wants to, but old Louis won’t sell. Anyhow, he wouldn’t.” Zaanan emphasized the last word significantly. Jim looked across the table into the old man’s twinkling eyes, shrewd, kindly eyes belonging to a man who had learned humankind by scores of years of meeting with them in their adversities. Zaanan said no more, but rolled up his map.
“I take it,” said Jim, “that you’ve shown me a fact. One of the kind I was looking for.”
“Folks says Opportunity knocks on a feller’s door,” said Zaanan. “Maybe so, but more times it goes sneakin’ past his house quiet in the dark. And sometimes it’s hard to catch as a greased pig.”
“Much obliged,” Jim said. “Where will I find Le Bar?”
“Stiddy, now. Stiddy. Before you pick up that animile be sure it’s a cat and not a skunk. You’re one of them pouncin’ kind of young men. This here’s a time to study first and jump afterward.”
Then an unusual thing happened. Dolf Springer burst in without knocking. He was excited, greatly excited, or he never would have ventured, for Zaanan’s office was sacred.
“Judge,” he panted, “what d’you think? They’ve up and done it. Didn’t b’lieve they’d dast, but they did dast. They’ve up and announced Peleg Goodwin to run ag’in you for justice of the peace.”
Zaanan eyed his henchman. “Git a breath, Dolf. Git a breath. Like’s not you’ll suffocate. Hum! Peleg, eh?” He turned to Jim. “Seem like old times,” he said; “hain’t had no opposition for the nomination in more ’n twenty year. Peleg Goodwin, deacon by perfession.”
“I told you,” said Jim.
Zaanan peered at him briefly and grunted.
“I hain’t so young as I was wunst,” he said. “Maybe my powers is flaggin’. Maybe this here is a spontaneous uprisin’ of the folks, thinkin’ maybe it’s time I was put on the shelf. But, son, I don’t hanker to go on no shelf—anyhow, not to make room for Peleg. But it was bound to come some day. Folks likes change, and I’ve been mighty permanent.”
The old man leaned back in his chair and looked beyond Jim and Dolf; forgot them as his thoughts carried him back over the years. When he spoke it was not to them, it was to the people, to his people, whom he had served and ruled for more than a quarter of a century.
“Yes, folks,” says he, “what some of you is sayin’ is correct. I calc’late I’m a boss. But if you was to look at my bank account or search out my property you’d see I wasn’t that kind of a boss. I’ve run things in this county ’cause I was more fitted to run ’em than you. I’d have liked it if you’d ’a’ had the spunk and gumption to run things yourselves. I’ve let you try it sometimes, and then had to clean up the mess.
“Don’t think, folks, that all these years has been pleasure for me, nor what I’d ’a’ picked out to do. No, siree! When I was younger there was things I had ambitions about. I wanted to git somewheres and be somethin’. But I hain’t had no time. I hain’t had no time to spare to look after Zaanan Frame, owin’ to matters of yourn that was always pressin’. Diversity wa’n’t no heaven when I took holt of it, but now it’s a good place for man to live. I’ve made the laws respected and obeyed; since I’ve been justice one man’s had as much chance in this county as another.
“The days and nights I might ’a’ spent buildin’ up Zaanan Frame I’ve spent buildin’ up you. But I guess you’re tired of it. If it was a good man and a true man and a man worthy of trust I calc’late I could step out of the way. There’s times when I git mighty tired. But not for Peleg. Dolf,” he said, sharply, “I guess we’ll have to show Peleg and the feller that’s puttin’ him up to this some real politics.”
“You bet!” said Dolf.
“It’s Moran,” Jim said; but the statement was half a question.
“He’s the citizen,” said Zaanan.
“They’ll try to get you in the caucus.”
Zaanan nodded. “Dolf,” said he, “if you was goin’ out to talk about this, what would you be sayin’?”
“That we was goin’ to roll up our sleeves and lick the pants off’n ’em,” said Dolf, belligerently.
“Don’t calc’late you’d say I was perty hard hit? Eh? Sort of insinuate the blow bore down on my threescore and ten year? Nor that there didn’t seem to be scarcely any fight left in me?”
“Dummed if I—” began Dolf. Then he stopped and looked at Zaanan. “Guess maybe that’s about what I’d say,” he responded, presently.
“G’-by, Dolf,” said Zaanan.
“G’-by, Judge,” said Dolf.
“Tain’t only me,” said Zaanan, after a time, “it’s the sheriff and the prosecutor and the circuit judge—the whole kit and b’ilin’ of us. There won’t be a decent official left in the county. Law and justice’ll be bought and sold and traded in like so much farm produce.”
“I want to help if I can,” said Jim.
“Calc’late I’ll need what help I kin git. Moran don’t usually start a job he can’t see his way to finish. I’ll call on you when you’re needed. Louis Le Bar lives four mile to the west. How’s things at the widder’s? Do consid’able cacklin’ over you, does she?” He stopped and scratched his head and appeared to ponder. “Say, young feller,” he said, in a few moments, “what’s your special grudge ag’in Moran? Tain’t jest his business dealin’s with you. It’s him you want to git at, ree-gardless. What’s he done to you?”
“There’s a girl up at Mrs. Stickney’s—” Jim began, slowly.
“Um!” grunted Zaanan, and his eyes twinkled. “Moran hain’t in no position to cut you out with a girl. He’s got more wife ’n he knows what to do with now.”
Jim felt himself flushing. He had not connected Marie Ducharme with himself in the way Zaanan connected her. He had not considered his hatred of Moran as prompted by jealousy, nor had he looked on Moran as a rival. It was a new idea to him. He considered it. What interest had he in Marie? Did he even like her? He had fancied he disliked her for her sullenness, her rashness, for the bitterness of her temper toward the world. She was all somber shadows or lurid flame; there was no rosiness of dawn, no brightness of noontime, no peaceful, pure light as of the stars.
When Jim had thought of the woman who was to share his life he had pictured her as bright with star-brightness. He would stand something in awe of her, yet her brightness would not be cold, aloof—not cold moon rays. It would be tender, glowing, throbbing, but, above all, pure, inspiringly pure. Marie knew evil. Her discontent had seen its beckoning finger; she had felt the persuasive touch of its hand on her arm—and had not fled in horror. She eyed it cynically, plumbing its possibilities. Jim’s girl would have felt herself indelibly smirched by thoughts that Marie gave willing housing to. Withal, what did he think of her? What was his interest in her? He could not answer. He dared not answer himself, for he found himself contemplating her with fascination. There was an appeal to her. Her possibilities were magnificent. He found himself wishing for her presence, for the sight of her movements of grace, the sound of her voice, the vivid life desire that lay in her eyes.
“Moran takes her to the top of a high mountain and shows her the kingdoms of the world,” he said, in a hard voice. “He offers them to her.”
“And you’re afraid she’ll accept?”
“She hates Diversity; life discontents her. She is bored. Moran plans deliberately, adds lure to lure. If he catches her in the mood—”
“Interestin’ girl, eh? Talk intelligent? Good company?”
“She can be if she chooses.”
“Ever try to git her to choose?”
“She doesn’t like me.”
“Huh! Hain’t much in the way of excitement in Diversity, but pleasure’s where you look for it hard enough. I call to mind enjoyin’ buggy rides. Ever try to make things pleasant for Marie?”
“No.” Jim said it with a guilty feeling.
“My experience,” said Zaanan, “is that the run of girls prefers a decent, entertainin’ young man to a bad old one. In gen’ral my notion is folks’d rather be good than bad, rather pick out right than wrong. Buggy hire don’t come expensive.” The old fellow eyed Jim with a twinkle.
Jim returned Zaanan’s look; comprehension came to him.
“Judge Frame,” he demanded, “did you send me to Mrs. Stickney’s because Marie Ducharme was there?” The twinkle in his eye answered Zaanan’s. “Was I just a checker you were moving in your game?”
“It’s my policy,” said Zaanan, “to git as many young checkers as I could moved safe into the king row of marriage.”
“But she dislikes me.”
“Hain’t heard you say you was prejudiced ag’in her. Ever ask her if she disliked you? Um! Better try a few buggy rides first. Kin you drive with one hand?”
“I believe,” said Jim, “you’d try to regulate the sex of Diversity’s babies.”
“If I calc’lated it’d benefit the town I dun’no’ but I’d kind of look into the matter. G’-by, Jim!”