XIX
A RAGAMUFFIN OF THE FOOTHILLS
Jeff looked ruefully at the hot dusty road which curled upward and infront of him like a great white snake. At the top of the grade, wheresome pines stood out against the blue sky, hung a small reek of dustconcealing the figure of his late companion. As Jeff gazed, the reekmelted away. The young man told himself that he was alone in the brushfoothills, with a lame horse, and a body (his own) so bruised andbattered that it seemed to belong to somebody else.
"Hello!" said a voice.
Jeff stared into the chaparral. Wild lilac and big sage bushes,flowering lupins and gilias, bordered the road, for spring was abroadin San Lorenzo county. A boy slipped through the lilacs.
"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."
"That's right," Jeff replied.
"How did it happen?"
"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me.Say--do you want to earn an honest dollar?"
The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that thefoothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.
"You must get a buggy, sonny."
"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"
Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemedto slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out ofwhich he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out:"Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"
"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.
"I _am_ in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was goingto lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggonedkeen about my friend leavin' me."
"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."
"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and anoverpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes. When heopened them, the boy had disappeared. Jeff saw that his horse had beentied up in the shade of a scrub-oak.
"That boy seems to have some sense," he reflected. "This is a knock-out, sure."
Again he closed his eyes. A blue jay began to chatter; and when he hadfinished his screed, a cock-quail challenged the silence. Very soonthe wilderness was uttering all its familiar sounds. Jeff, lying flaton his back, could hear the rabbits scurrying through the chaparral.After an interminable delay his ears caught the crackle of dry twigssnapped beneath a human foot.
"Feelin' lonesome?"
"I'm mighty glad to see you again," Jeff admitted. "Ah, water! That'sa sight better'n whisky."
He drank thirstily, for the sun was high in the heavens, and the roadas hot as an oven.
"I reckoned you'd come back," Jeff continued.
"Why?"
"To earn that dollar." He eyed the lad's somewhat ragged overalls."Say--what do they call ye to home?"
"Bud."
"Bud, eh? Short for brother. Folks got a fam'ly." He reflected thatBud's sister, if he had one, might be nice-looking. "Well, Bud, I'munder obligations to ye, for hitchin' up the plug in the shade. 'Twasthoughtful. Where ha' ye been?"
"I've been hunting Dad. But he's off in the hills. If I could get yeto our camp----"
"The plug'll have to do it. Unhitch him."
Bud untied the animal, who limped even more acutely than his master.Perhaps he lacked his master's grit. Jeff was the colour of parchmentwhen he found himself in the saddle, whereon he sat huddled up,gripping the horn.
"Freeze on," said the boy.
"You bet," Jeff replied laconically.
Bud led the horse a few yards down the road, passing from it into thechaparral. Thence, through a tangled wilderness of scrub-oak andmanzanita, down a steep slope, into a pretty canon.
"Here we are."
A sudden turn of the trail revealed a squatter's hut built of roughlumber, and standing beneath a live-oak. A small creek was babblingits way to the Salinas River. The clearing in front of the hut wasstrewn with empty tins. A tumble-down shed encircled by a corral wason the other side of the creek. Jeff knew at once that he was lookingat one of the innumerable mountain-claims taken up by Eastern settlersin the days of the great land boom, and forsaken by them a couple ofyears afterwards.
Jeff slid from the saddle on to his sound leg; then, counting rapidlythe shining tins, he said reflectively:--
"Bin here about a month, I reckon."
"Yes--Mister--Sherlock--Holmes."
Jeff stared. The ragamuffins of the foothills are not in the habit ofreading fiction, although lying comes easy to them.
"Kin you read?" said Jeff.
"I--_kin_," replied Bud, grinning (he had nice teeth). "Kin you?"
"I can cuff a cheeky kid," said Jeff, scowling.
"But you've got to catch him first."
The boy laughed gaily, and ran into the house, as Jeff sat downpropping his broad back against a tree.
"Things here are not what they seem," Jeff murmured to his horse, whotwitched an intelligent ear, as if he, too, was well aware that thiswas no home of squatter or miner. And who else of honest men wouldchoose to live in such a desolate spot?
Presently the boy came back, carrying a feed of crushed barley. Thenhe unsaddled the horse, watered him, and fed him. Jeff gruntedapproval.
"You're earnin' that dollar--every cent of it." A delightful fragranceof bacon floated to Jeff's nostrils. Evidently provision had been madefor man as well as beast.
"That smells mighty good," said Jeff.
Bud helped him to rise, but after one effort Jeff sank back, groaning.
"It's my boot," he explained. "See--I'm wearing a number eight on anumber fifteen hoof. W-w-what? Pull it off? Not for ten thousanddollars. We'll cut it off."
Jeff produced a knife and felt its edge.
"It's sharp," he said, "sharp as you, Bud; but-doggone it! I can't useit."
Bud saw the sweat start on his skin as he tried to pull the injuredfoot towards him.
"S'pose I do it?" the boy suggested.
"You've not got the nerve, Bud. Why, you're yaller as cheese, you poorlittle cuss."
"I'm not," said the boy, flushing suddenly.
He took the knife and began to cut the tough leather: a delicateoperation, for Jeff's leg from knee to ankle was terribly swollen.Slowly and delicately the knife did its work. Finally, a horriblycontused limb was revealed.
"Cold water--and plenty of it," murmured Jeff.
"Or hot?"
"Mebbee hot'd be better."
Bud disappeared, whistling.
"That boy's earning a five-dollar bill," said Jeff. "I'm a liar if heain't as bright as they make 'em."
The hot water was brought and some linen.
"I feel a heap better," Jeff declared presently.
"How about dinner?"
"Bud, if ever I hev a son I hope he'll be jest like you. Say--you'reearning big money--d'ye know it?--and my everlastin' gratitude."
"That's all right. Hadn't I better bring the grub out here? It's niceand cool under this tree."
Jeff nodded. The bacon and beans were brought out and consumed. Bud,however, refused to eat. He preferred to wait for his father. Jeffasked some questions, as he stowed away the bacon and beans.
"Your dad must be an awful nice man," said he.
"He's the best and smartest man in the State," said Bud proudly.
"Is he! And you two are campin' out for yer health--eh? Ye can't foolme, Bud."
"Oh!"
"I sized you up at once as a city boy."
"You're more than half right."
"I'm all right, Bud. In my business I have to be all right. Bless you,it don't do to make mistakes in my business."
"And what is your business?"
Jeff beamed. He was certainly a good-looking fellow, and warmed byfood and, comparatively speaking, free from pain, he was worthy ofmore than a passing glance.
"I'm deputy-sheriff of San Lorenzo County," he declared, "and mightyproud of it."
"Proud of this yere county?" said the boy, "or proud of being de
p'ty-sheriff?"
"By Jing! I'm proud o' both. The county's comin' along fine, and so'mI, Bud. It's a fact, sonny, that I'm held in high esteem as anofficer. Why, my boss said to me this very day: 'Jeff,' says he, 'yermakin' a record.'"
"What sort o' record?"
Jeff flushed slightly. He was not in the habit of "tooting his ownhorn," as he would have put it, but the boy's face invited confidence.
"A record for dooin' my duty," he answered slowly. "'Tain't as easy asyou might think for."
"No?"
"Not by no means. Ye see, Bud, in a new country 'tisn't only the realbad eggs that worries us. The community can deal with them. No, no,it's the good fellers gone wrong, the straight 'uns grown crooked, whokeep us stirrin'. And, sometimes, when a friend, a neighbour, fliesthe track, an officer is kind o' tempted to look the other way. See?"
"And you don't look the other way?"
Jeff's strong chin stuck out, and his eyes sparkled "You bet I don't."
The boy eyed him attentively. The qualities conspicuous in thepioneer--energy, fortitude, grit, patience--shone finely out of Jeff'seyes.
"I like you, Jeff," said the boy, almost shyly.
"Shake," said Jeff. "I like you, Bud."
The two shook hands solemnly.
"Although I am a city boy," said Bud.
"But it beats me what yer doing--here?"
"Just camping. Dad's a botanist and an entomologist."
"Is that so?" Jeff's face shone. The presence of these strangers inthe wild foothills was adequately explained. Then he laughed, showingstrong, even teeth. "I'd like to meet your dad first-rate, and, Bud,I'd like even better to meet your sister."
He punched the boy in the ribs, chuckling to himself. The boy laughedtoo, freshly and frankly.
"Something like you, I reckon," said Jeff, "only cleaner and----"
"I'm as clean as they make 'em," Bud declared angrily.
"Keep your hair on, sonny. I'll allow yer as clean as they make boys,mebbee cleaner, but we're speaking o' girls. Have ye got her picture?"
"Whose picture?"
"Your sister's."
"Well, I declare! How do you know I've got a sister?"
"I know it," said Jeff. "Call it instinct. Didn't I tell ye that in mybusiness I've got to jest naturally know things? I jump, Bud, wherethe ordinary citizen might, so ter speak, crawl."
The boy laughed gaily. Then he ran off, returning in a minute with asmall leather case. Out of this he took a cabinet photograph, which hehanded to Jeff. That gentleman became excited at once.
"I knew it--I knew it!" he exclaimed. "She's a--_peach_! Bud, I'mmighty glad ye showed me this. Jee--whiz! Yes, and like you, only tenthousand times better-lookin'. What's her name, Bud?"
"You don't want to know her name."
"I want to--the worst kind. My! Look at that cunning little curl! Andher shape! You know nothing o' that yet, Bud, but I tell ye, sir, yersister is put up just right according to my notions. Not too tall.Them strung-out, trained-to-a-hair, high-falutin girls never did fetchme. I like 'em round, and soft, and innocent. What's her name, sonny?"
"Sarah."
"Sairy! Bud, I don't believe that. Sairy! I never did cotton to Sairy.Yer pullin' my leg, ye young scallywag. The nerve! No--ye don't."
Jeff had stretched out a long, lean arm, and seized the boy by theshoulder in a grasp which tightened cruelly.
"Oh--oh!"
"Tell me her right name, ye little cuss, or I'll squeeze ye intopulp."
"Lemmee go! Dad calls her Sadie."
Jeff released the shoulder, grinning.
"Sadie--that's a heap better. I--I could love to--to distraction agirl o' the name o' Sadie."
"If Sadie were here----" Bud had removed himself to a respectfuldistance, and was now glaring at Jeff, and rubbing his bruisedshoulder.
"I wish she was, I wish she was. You were saying, Bud----"
"I was saying that if Sadie were here, she'd fix you mighty quick."
"Would she? God bless her!" He stared sentimentally at the photograph.
"Yes, she would. She'd let you know that a girl may be round--an'soft--an' innocent--and a holy terror, too, when a big, blunderinggaloot of a dep'ty-sheriff talks o' loving somebody to whom he's neverbeen introduced, and never likely to be, neither."
Jeff looked up in amazement.
"Why, Bud; why, sonny--ye're real mad! Why, you silly little whipper-snapper, ye don't think I'd talk that way if the young lady wasaround. Great Scot! Look ye here! Now--now I ain't goin' to hurt yeany. Come nearer. Ye won't? Well, then, don't! But, strictly betweenourselves, I'll tell ye something, although it's agen myself. If yoursister was here, right now, I--I'm so doggoned bashful--I wouldn'thave a word to say--that's a fact."
"I wish she were here," said Bud, savagely.
"Now, Bud; that's a real nasty one. Ye don't mean that. Did I hurt yershoulder, sonny?"
"Hurt it? I'll bet it's black and blue most already."
"I'll bet it ain't. Pull down your shirt, an' let's see. Black andblue? You air a little liar."
Bud slowly pulled up the sleeve of his faded blue jumper. Hand andwrist were burnt brown by the sun, but above, the flesh was white andsoft. Just below the elbow flamed the red and purple marks left byJeff's fingers.
"The shoulder's a sight worse than that," said Bud sulkily. Jeffdisplayed honest concern.
"Pore little Bud," said he, patting the boy's hand which lay in hisown. "It is lucky fer me Miss Sadie ain't round. I reckon she_would_ fix me for this. And I shouldn't have a word for her, asI was tellin' ye. She'd think me the biggest kind of a mug."
So speaking, he picked up the photograph and half slipped it into thecase.
"Twon't do fer me to look at her," he murmured; "but if ever there wasa case----"
"Eh?"
"Never mind."
"What were you going to say?"
"Somethin' very fullish."
"Say it, Jeff. I'll not give ye away to Sadie. Honest, I won't."
"I believe," said Jeff solemnly, "that I've got it where the bottlegot the cork. It's a curious sort o' feeling, not unpleasant, but kindo' squirmy."
"What in thunder are you at?"
"It's love, Bud--love at first sight. Now, mind--yer not to give meaway. I'm in love end over end with your sister. Don't git mad! She'llnever know it."
"Are you often taken this way?"
"Never before, by Jing! That's what's so queer. Mebbee I pitched on myhead. Mebbee I'm delirious."
"Mebbee you always were--half-baked. Looks like it, I must say. Giveme the case."
"Any more sisters, Bud? I reckon not. The mould must ha' been brokewhen Miss Sadie was born. One'll make trouble enough for we men. Isthere another, Bud?"
"No."
"There's another picture in there."
"Yes--Dad's."
Now it chanced that as Jeff drew the portrait of Bud's father from thecase the boy had turned, and so missed the amazing expression ofsurprise, dismay, horror, that flitted into Jeff's honest face, andfor the moment distorted it. But when he spoke his voice was the same,and his features were composed.
"This is your--dad?"
"Yes. I call him a peach." "It's a fine head--sure," murmured Jeff.
Bud bent over him, eager to sing the praises of his sire. But, for thefirst time since man and boy had met, Jeff's face assumed a hard,professional look. Bud eyed him interrogatively.
"Does your leg hurt any?"
"N-n-o."
"I'll fetch some more hot water, if you say so."
"I'm feelin' a heap easier--in my leg."
He put the two photographs into the case, closed it, and handed it toBud with a sigh.
"Maybe you will meet Sadie some day," said Bud, taking the case.
"Maybe," Jeff replied, with an indifference which made the boy stare.Jeff was gazing across the foothills with a queer steely glint in hisblue eyes. Bud ran into the house.
Instantly, Jeff was alert. He pulled a tattered handbi
ll from hispocket, smoothed it out, and read it with darkening brows. The billoffered a handsome reward for any information which would lead to thearrest of one Sillett, a defaulting assistant-cashier of a SantaBarbara bank. Sillett and his _daughter_ had disappeared in aspringboard, drawn by a buckskin horse, and were supposed to havetravelled south, in the hope of crossing the border into Mexico. Atthe head of the bill was a rough woodcut of Sillett. Jeff crumpled upthe sheet of paper, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"It's him--sure 'nough," he growled. Then he gasped suddenly, "Jee-roosalem! Bud is a rosebud!"
He smiled, frowned, and tugged at his moustache as Bud appeared withsome more hot water. Jeff blushed.
"You're real kind, but I hate to give ye all this trouble."
Bud, after bathing the swollen leg, glanced up sharply.
"You're as red as the king of hearts. You ain't going to have afever?"
"I do feel kind o' feverish," Jeff admitted.
Bud lightly touched his forehead.
"Why, it's burning hot, I do declare."
Jeff closed his eyes, murmuring confusedly, "I b'lieve it'd help mesome if you was to stroke my derned head."
Bud obediently smoothed his crisp curls. Jeff's forehead was certainlyhot, and it grew no cooler beneath the touch of Bud's fingers.
"Hello!" exclaimed Bud, a few minutes later.
"Here's Dad coming across the creek."
* * * * *
Sillett advanced leisurely, not seeing the figures under the live-oak.He carried a tin box and a butterfly-net. He was dressed in the brownover-alls of Southern California, stained and discoloured by sun andtar-weed. His face, brown as the over-alls, had, however, a pinchedlook, and in his eyes lay a curious tenseness familiar enough todeputy-sheriffs. For the rest, he had a mild forehead, which he waswiping as he crossed the creek, a pleasant mouth, and a chin a thoughttoo delicately modelled for a man. He walked soberly, with thedragging stride of a tired pedestrian. He was tall, thin, and angular.
Bud ran to meet him.
"We've comp'ny," he cried, indicating Jeff. Sillett quickened hisstep.
"Company?"
Sillett met Jeff's glance with a simple bow, and the inevitableremark, "Hurt yourself?"
Jeff explained. While describing his misadventure he decided that Budcould not be a party to the father's crime. Sillett asked forpermission to examine the wounded leg Presently he asked Jeff to standup.
"Oh, Dad!" protested Bud.
Jeff obeyed, glad to discover that he could stand upon the injuredfoot.
"Same thing happened to me once," Sillett remarked. "The tight bootcaused more than half the trouble. Sit down, Mr.----?"
"Wells. Jefferson Wells."
"Thank you. My name is--of no service to you. And this is my daughter--Sarah. Run away, Sadie."
Jeff, watching the daughter, thought her confusion the prettiest thinghe had ever seen.
"You are a cowboy, I presume?" said Sillett, as Bud disappeared. Notwaiting for Jeff's answer, he went on fluently: "I'm sure I can trustyou; you have an honest face, sir. I'm collecting certain plants andbutterflies, but--I have other reasons for camping out. My daughterhas played the boy, because a boy is safe in these wild hills; anunprotected girl might be molested. We will do what we can for you.You, I am sure, will respect this confidence."
Sillett played his trumps boldly, not knowing that he was speaking toa deputy-sheriff. Jeff said nothing. Sillett, after asking if thehorse had been fed and watered, followed his daughter into the hut.Jeff groaned to himself. "Mighty soon I'll be wishing I'd never beenborn!"
However, assured that he was alone, he carefully examined his six-shooter, and began to reckon what chances there were for and againstarresting Sillett single-handed. Ordinarily, he was quick enough atsuch calculations, but Bud introduced confusion into every sum. "I'min an awful hole," reflected the unhappy Jeff.
The hole became a bottomless pit when Bud appeared in a pretty linenfrock, and asked him demurely how he fared.
"You're looking worse," she said.
Changing her dress, she had cast off with the rough overalls suchrugosities of manner, speech, and intonation as belonged to theragamuffin of the foothills. Poor Jeff assumed his "society" mannerand accent.
"If I'd only known," he began lamely.
"You never suspected?"
A note of anxiety escaped Jeff's ears.
"N-n-no. Of course not. Why, think how I handled you."
Sadie blushed.
"I'll forget everything," she whispered, showing a couple of dimples,"and we'll begin all over again, Mr.--Wells."
His confusion, which she attributed to bashfulness, encouraged theshameless coquette to add: "Maybe you liked me better as Bud?" Jeffwas scarlet as he replied: "I liked Bud first-rate, but Bud'llremember what I said about his sister." Then he quite spoiled theeffect of this happy phrase by adding hurriedly: "Say, I'd just aslief you didn't tell your father that I am a deputy-sheriff."
Sadie raised her dark brows.
"I thought you were so proud of that."
"I tooted my own horn, like a tenderfoot."
"But I liked what you said, Mr. Wells. That's the part I shan'tforget. About doing your duty, you know. Dad would like that too. He'sdone his duty, has Dad--always."
"I'll allow he's done his duty by you."
She laughed gaily; then, seeing with a woman's quick eyes that the manwas in pain, she said for the second time, "I know you're feelingworse, Mr. Wells."
A wiser than Jeff would have assented to this. Jeff rose hastily andwalked a few paces.
"I'm most well," he declared irritably.
"Then what ails you?"
Jeff sat down again, smiling nervously.
"Well, Miss Sadie, I was thinking of the cruellest thing in this cruelworld."
"My! What's that?"
"Why do the innocent suffer for the sins o' the guilty?"
"You do fly the track." She paused, gazing first at Jeff's troubledface, and then at the scene about them. The enchantress, Spring, hadtouched all things with her magical fingers The time had come when
"Half of the world a bridegroom is, And half of the world a bride."
Very soon--within a month at most--the creek which ran so joyfully tothe great ocean yonder would have run altogether out of sight, leavinga parched and desolate watercourse in its place. The grass, now avivid green, bespangled with brilliant poppies, would fade intopremature age and ugliness. The trees would have assumed the dust-covered livery of summer. The birds would be mute.
Sadie shrugged, protestingly, her slender shoulders.
"Suppose we talk of something else this lovely day?"
But Jeff paid no attention. In a crude, boyish fashion he had come toa decision.
"Shall I tell you a story?"
"Oh, please!"
"It happened to a friend of mine, a man I knew real well."
"A love story, Mr. Wells?"
"There's love in it, Miss Sadie."
"I'm glad of that."
"This man, my friend, he was a brother deputy o' mine, came to betwenty-six without ever falling in love."
"My! He must have been hard-hearted--your friend."
"Mebbee. Well, one fine day he met his mate----"
"What was she like?"
"Like? Why, she was the sweetest thing on earth. I'd as lief try todescribe a day such as this----"
"Oh! I know what's coming. You fell in love with your friend'ssweetheart. Poor Mr. Wells!"
Jeff ignored this interruption.
"I was saying that my friend met _his_ mate, nobody's else's, andthough he'd never met her before, by Jing! he knew right off she washis mate."
"Love at first sight."
"That's right. Love at first sight."
Sadie's face and figure perceptibly relaxed. Her eyes softeneddelightfully. With parted lips she seemed to hang upon Jeff's nextwords.
"Unfortunately, she was the daughter of a th
ief."
"A thief!"
"That ain't the right word. Embezzler, I reckon, would fit better.Leastwise, he'd made away with other folks' money, meanin' to put itback, no doubt, if he happened to strike the right lead. Luck was deadagainst him. Mind ye, he was a good citizen enough, as Westerners go.I don't deny that he'd average up as well as most. I remember the casewell, because I read about it in the papers. The dry years had busthim, and the most of his friends too. Some o' these friends he'dhelped. He was on their notes of hand, ye understand?"
He glanced at her sharply. Would she understand? Would she guess? No.In the pure, clear eyes upturned to his he read pity, sympathyinterest--nothing more. She nodded.
"When times mended in Southern California he thought he saw his chanceto get back all he'd lost: just one o' those dead sure shots whichwill miss fire. He'd not a cent of his own, so he borrowed, withoutaskin' leave, a few hundreds, that was all, jest a few hundreds fromsomebody else."
"He was a--thief," said Sadie calmly.
"It's too hard a word that. Now then, I'm getting to the point. Myfriend, deputy-sheriff like me, found himself in this hell of--I meanin this terrible tight place. He was sent to arrest the father of thegirl he loved."
"Oh-h-h!"
This prolonged exclamation sadly puzzled Jeff, whose claim toconsideration at the hands of many friends was a guilelesstransparency of purpose, a candour and simplicity unhappily too rare.Now, his climax, so artfully introduced, provoked nothing moresatisfactory than this "Oh-h-h!"
"Well," continued Jeff, gazing almost fiercely into Sadie's eyes, "myfriend found the father, and he knew that he could arrest him, or hecould earn the everlastin' gratitude of the girl by letting himescape--and _helping_ him to escape."
"And what did your friend do?" Sadie asked quietly.
"What do you think he did, Miss Sadie?"
"Did the girl know that her father was a thief?"
"She was as innocent as Mary's little lamb."
"I don't know what your friend did," said Sadie, in a clear, emphaticvoice, "but I do know what he ought to have done. His first duty wasto his State."
Jeff stared, and then laughed.
"To his State. That's so. Yes, yes; and that's how my friend acted. Hedid arrest the father, and the daughter--why, o' course, she neverspoke to him again."
"It's a sad story," said Sadie, after a pause. "I'm sorry you told itto me to-day, because----" her voice faltered.
"Yes," said Jeff, "because----"
"Because it has been so pleasant to-day-for me, I mean."
She looked down, blushing. Jeff seized her hand. Sadie tried, not veryhard, to pull it away. Jeff felt the muscles relaxing, the slight formswayed towards him. Suddenly he released her.
"O, my God!" he exclaimed. "You are right, I feel in all my bonesyou're dead right. I ought to do my duty. I'm feeling and behavinglike a madman."
Sadie stared at him in troubled silence. She believed that in losinghis heart the poor fellow had lost his wits also. Yet she was sensiblethat love for her lay at the root of his distress. And his pain, forhis suffering was pitiful to behold, puckered her brows, twisted herlips. With a soft cry she touched timidly his shoulder.
"If you think," she smiled faintly, "that because we've only knowneach other a few hours, I----"
Jeff laughed. The laugh hurt the girl, so that she shrank from him. Soengrossed were the pair that neither marked Sillett as he opened thedoor of the hut. He advanced a couple of steps, smoking a pipe, andthen paused, astonished, as Jeff's next words reached him.
"Look at here," he burst out. "That story----It's my own story. I leftSan Lorenzo yesterday afternoon to arrest your father. The sheriff an'me knew he was somewhere in these foothills."
"You have come to arrest--Dad?"
"That's it."
She stared at him confusedly, trying to recall his story. Jeff waited.
"You called him a thief. Dad--a thief! How dare you? How dare you? It'sa lie, or--or," she faltered, "or a mistake."
"No mistake," said Jeff wretchedly.
He had risen. Man and maid stared fiercely into each other's faces.Behind them, Sillett stood quietly observant, but his right hand stoledown to his pocket.
"Hold up your hands!" he said sharply.
Jeff and the girl sprang apart. Sillett had levelled a pistol at thedeputy-sheriff, repeating his words with one addition: "_Quick!_"Jeff raised his hands.
"He carries a 'gun,'" said Sillett to his daughter. "Take it fromhim."
She obeyed. Her face was white as milk, but not with fear. The man whoheld the pistol had ceased for the moment to bear any resemblance toher father, but assuredly he was the defaulter whom Jeff Wells and thesheriff sought. The expression upon his face revealed that, if nothingelse. Sadie removed the pistol and brought it to Sillett.
"In the hut, on a nail behind the door, is a piece of cord. Fetch it!"
She fetched it.
"Tie his hands behind his back. Tie 'em good and firm. Take your time.Make a job of it. That's it. Now, then, hitch the loose ends roundthat scrub-oak. That's right. Now go into the house, and slip intoyour overalls. We'll be shifting camp in less than half-an-hour."
"Dad!"
"Well?"
"It's true, then?"
He smiled grimly.
"Yes--it's true. Get a move on you. Mr. Wells and I are going to havea little talk."
She walked slowly towards the hut; then suddenly she turned, flyingback on nimble feet.
"Dad," she said quickly. "Mr. Wells will help us, if you ask him, if--if _I_ ask him." She approached Jeff. "I told you that your dutywas to the State," she continued, "but I take that back. Do you hear?Save Dad! I don't care what he has done to others, he's always been sogood to me. And if you will help us, I--I----"
"Sadie!"
Sillett's voice was very harsh.
"Yes, Dad."
"Leave us. Not a word, child. Go!"
She moved away, the tears trickling from her eyes. Nothing was saidtill the door had closed behind her; then Jeff broke the silence, in avoice with a strange rasp to it.
"I _will_ help you, Mr. Sillett."
Sillett thrust his weapon into his pocket, and came close to thespeaker, eyeing him attentively. An impartial observer might havepronounced the younger man to be the defaulter.
"You'll help me--eh? How?"
"I can get you safe into Mexico."
"Can you?"
"At a word from me the sheriff'll be huntin' somewheres else. See?"
"I see."
"Don't think you'll squeeze through without me. I reckon you've aspringboard and a buckskin in the barn over there?"
"Maybe."
"The officers are looking for that buckskin in every little burgbetween Santa Cruz and San Diego. You can't pack your grub andblankets a-foot. I can supply everything. Nobody'll suspect me."
"Why not?"
"Because--because o' my record."
"Oh. It's a clean one, is it?"
"It is that."
"Sadie cottoned to you right away. Because she sized you up asstraight, I surmise."
The speaker smoked silently for a moment; Jeff held his tongue, buthis cheeks were red and hot.
"Sadie may sour on me now," said the father heavily.
"Sour on you, Mr. Sillett! Not she."
Sillett frowned. Then he opened a knife and slashed the cord whichbound Jeff. The fingers which held his pipe were trembling.
"You'll let me fix things?" said Jeff, in a low voice.
"And then--suppose--suppose Sadie soured on you?"
"I'll risk that," Jeff answered slowly. "She's more'n likely to."
"Um."
"You're going to give me a free hand?"
"No."
The monosyllable burst from his lips with a violence that indicatedthe rending asunder of strong barriers.
"No," he repeated. "One of us, Jefferson Wells, must be an honest man.I ain't going to whine about the luck, but I stole--I stole-
-for her.I wanted to give her what she'd always had from me: a pretty home,nice clothes, a good time. And what's the result?" He laughedhoarsely. "This,--this hut, those overalls, beans and bacon to eat,and now--now--the knowledge that her dad is a thief. Well, she'scottoned to you. I read it in her face. Quick work, they'd say backEast, but in this new country folks have to think quick and act quick.I can think quick and act quick. You want her?"
"Worse than I ever wanted anything in my life."
"You can take care of her?"
"I am well fixed. A nest-egg in the bank, a good salary, and a pair ofarms that can carry a heavier load than she'll ever be."
Sillett nodded; then he spoke very deliberately: "I'm going back toSanta Barbara to face the music. I shall give myself up. Hold on--letme finish! I know something of women, and Sadie is the daughter of agood mother. It's lucky she's dead, poor soul! Don't you ever dare totell Sadie _that you weakened_. When she lies awake nights--andshe will--it may comfort her some to think that her husband is anhonest man. I'm going to hit the trail now. When Sadie comes out o'there, tell her with my love, that I've left her in your charge."
XX
DENNIS
The odd thing was that his name was really Dennis. In the West, Dennisstands genetically for the under dog, for the man who is left. Hisname is--Dennis! Why? The man in this story was christened Dennis,and, being a native son of the Golden West, he took particular painsto keep the fact a secret from the "boys." When he punched cattle onour range he was known as "Kingdom Come" Brown, because, even in thosedays, it was plain to tenderfeet that physically and intellectually D.Brown, cowboy, was not likely to inherit the kingdoms of the earth.
Ever since he had been breeched ill-fortune had marked him for herown. Nevertheless, he was rich in the possession of a temperamentwhich soared like a lark above suffering and disappointment. Hebelieved steadfastly that his "turn" would come. "It ain't goin' to belike this yere--always," was a phrase familiar to us. To this wereplied, "Not much!"
In our hearts we, too, believed that the turn would come, but that,humanly speaking, it would occur in the sweet by-and-by. Hence thenickname. The hardest nuts admitted that Brown was travelling upon therough road which leads upwards. His golden slippers were waiting forhim--sure! He set an example which none followed, but which all, insober moments, commended. He neither drank nor swore. He remainedfaithful to the memory of a woman who had married somebody else. Forher sake he sold his horse and saddle, and became a lumber-man. Thelosing of his Mamie was, of course, the heaviest of his manybludgeonings. She was a simple soul, like D. Brown, inured to hardwork, and at the mercy of a drunken father, who had perilously escapedby the very skin of his teeth from the clutches of Judge Lynch. Togive to Mamie a home had been the consuming desire of poor Dennis. Forthis he pinched and saved till, at last, the needful sum lay snug in aSan Lorenzo bank. Then the bank "bust"!
Without a word to Mamie, Dennis drifted away to some distant range,and before he was seen again Tom Barker had appeared. Why Tom, a big,brutal lumberman, desired to marry Mamie, no longer young, neverpretty, penniless, and admittedly fond of Dennis, must remain amystery. Why Mamie married Tom is a question easily answered. Tom was"boss" of a logging-camp, and none had ever denied his Caesareanattributes. He had the qualities and vices conspicuously absent inDennis. He was Barker, of Barker's Inlet. The mere mention of his namein certain saloons was enough to put the fear of God into men evenbigger than himself. A sort of malefic magnetism exuded from everypore of his skin. When he held up his finger Mamie crawled to him. Shebelieved, probably, that she was escaping from a drunken father, andshe knew that Tom could and would supply many things for which she hadyearned--a parlour, for instance, possibly a piano, and a silk dress.She would have taken Dennis without these amenities, but Dennis hadfled to the back of Nowhere without even saying good-bye.
Months after the marriage Dennis came back. Ajax described the weddingand the subsequent flitting to Barker's Inlet. Dennis listened,stroking his too thin, straggling moustache. Next day he sold hishorse and saddle.
When he appeared at Barker's Inlet and asked for a job, Tom Barkersmiled. He had heard of Dennis, and he knew that Mamie had given toDennis what never would be given to him--the love and confidence of asimple woman. Into his savage bull-head crept the determination totorment these two unsophisticated creatures delivered by Fate to behis slaves, and as such at his mercy.
Accordingly, Dennis was engaged.
Tom's position at the inlet must be defined. Some years before he hadbeen known as a timber-cruiser--that is to say, a man who "locates,"during his wanderings through forests primeval, belts of timber whichwill be likely to allure the speculative lumberman. Barker, therefore,had discovered the inlet which bore his name, and in consideration ofhis services, and with a due sense of his physical and mentalqualifications, he had been appointed boss of the camp by the realowners--a syndicate of rich men, who knew that logs were worth tendollars a thousand feet, and that the man to make them so was TomBarker. The syndicate wisely gave Tom a free hand, knowing that, ineverything which concerned the working of men and machinery to thelimit, Tom would begin at the point where their less elasticconsciences might leave off. The syndicate, therefore, remained inVictoria, or Vancouver, or San Francisco, and said of Tom that he wasa rustler from "Way back, and as lively as they make 'em."
It will be guessed that Tom's principal difficulty was engaging men.Having engaged them, he was certain to get plenty of work out of them,and they couldn't leave till they had earned sufficient money to takethemselves elsewhere. All the boys came to Tom stoney-broke; otherwisethey would never have "signed on." To be treated like a hog, to rootassiduously for Tom, or to starve, stared several able-bodied men inthe face. One genial Californian remarked, "It's a choice betweenDeath and Damnation."
You will now understand why Tom smiled when Dennis Brown asked for ajob.
He knew that Dennis was a cow-puncher, and not a star performer on hisown pitch, and he had only to look at the man to realise how unfittedhe was for the rough work of a logging-camp. A derisive chucklegurgled from his huge, hairy throat as he growled out--
"Say! This ain't like teachin' Sunday-school."
"I know it ain't," said Dennis cheerfully. But his heart sank at themention of the Sunday-school. Long ago he had taught in a Sunday-school. It was simply awful to think that the piety of a too ardentyouth was now to be held up to the ridicule of the boys.
"I believe your name is--Dennis?" continued the boss of Barker'sInlet.
"It is," our unhappy friend admitted.
"Go up to the bunk-house," commanded Tom, "and tell Jimmy Doolan, withmy regards, to take particler care of yer. I'll speak to him later."Then, as Dennis was moving off, he added, in a rasping voice: "You an'my wife is acquainted, eh? Wal, when you've dropped your blankets,come up to the house and say howdy."
Dennis went up to the house. There was one house at the inlet: a four-roomed frame building with three coats of paint on it and a red roof.It stood some distance from the collection of shacks and cabins at themouth of the Coho River, and it overlooked some of the most gloriousscenery in the world. In front stretched the Sound, a silver sea justdimpled by the soft spring breeze. To right and left, and behind, laythe forest--that silent land of the North, illimitable as space,everlastingly green when the snows had melted, shadowy, mysterious,terrible!
As Dennis approached the house he heard a terrific sound--the crash ofa felled and falling tree--some giant who had held his own in thestruggle for existence when William the Norman ruled in England. Andthen, from all points of the compass, the echoes, in varying cadence,repeated that tremendous, awe-inspiring sound--the last sobbing cry ofa Titan.
A moment later Mamie received him and ushered him into the parlour,where a small piano, a table of shellwork, and crimson plush curtainschallenged the interest and curiosity of all who were privileged tobehold them. "Let me take yer hat," said Mamie.
The hand she held out trembled slightly.
Dennis perceived that she wasthinner and paler.
"Yer well fixed," he murmured. "An' happy as a clam, I reckon?"
"I'd oughter be happy," said Mamie dubiously. Then she added hastily,"Never expected to see you in a logging-camp."
"No? Wal, I kinder wondered how you was makin' it. You don't lookextry peart, Mis' Barker. Lonesome for ye, ain't it?"
Already he knew that except for a few squaws she was the only woman inthe camp.
"I don't mind that," said Mrs. Barker.
Something in her tone arrested his attention. Stupid and slow thoughhe was, he divined that Mamie's thin, white cheeks and trembling handswere not caused by lonesomeness. He stared at her intently, till theblood gushed into her face. And then and there he knew almosteverything.
"Got a baby?" he asked thickly.
She answered savagely, "No, I haven't, thank God!"
Above the chimneypiece hung an enlarged photograph of her husband,taken a couple of days after his wedding. Mr. Barker had faced thecamera with the same brutal complacency which distinguished all hisactions. He smiled grimly, thrusting forward his heavy lower jaw,inviting inspection, obviously pleased to exhibit himself as aferocious and untamed animal. Through the sleeves of his ill-cut blackcoat the muscles of his arms and shoulders showed bulgingly. Theordinary observer, looking at the photograph for the first time, wouldbe likely to reflect: "Here is a ruffian who needs a licking, but hehas not got it yet."
"How's paw?" said Mamie.
"Las' time I seen the old man he was paralysed drunk, as usual."
"Yes, he would be that," assented Mamie indifferently.
After this, conversation languished, and very soon the visitor tookhis leave. When Mamie handed to him his hat she said awkwardly, "Younever told me good-bye"; and to this indictment Dennis repliedlaconically, "Holy Mackinaw! I couldn't."
Those who know the wilder portions of this planet will understand thatall was said between these two weaklings who had loved each otherdearly. Dennis returned to the bunk-house. Mamie ran to her bed-roomand cried her eyes out.
Within a week the camp knew two facts concerning the newcomer. Hisname was--Dennis! And he had loved Tom Barker's dough-faced wife!
Tom's selection of his first instrument of torture indicated subtlety.He bought from a Siwash Indian the most contemptible-looking cur everbeheld at the inlet, and he christened the unfortunate beast--Dennis.There was a resemblance between dog and man. Each, in the struggle forexistence, had received more than his due share of kicks, and thesense of this in any animal manifests itself unmistakably. And each,moreover, exhibited the same amazing optimism, which is, perhaps, asure sign of a mind not quite balanced.
Dennis, the dog, followed his new master wherever he went. Tom wouldintroduce him with the remark, "His name is Dennis, _too_." Andif Dennis, the man, happened to be present, Tom would swear at thedog, calling him every evil name which came to the tip of the foulesttongue in British Columbia. Always, at the end of these comminationservices, Tom would say to Dennis, the man, "I an't a-speakin' to you,old socks, so keep yer hair on."
That the cow-puncher (who, in his day, must have carried a "gun") didkeep on his hair became a topic of talk amongst the boys, confirming aconviction that Dennis had been aptly named. Certainly he lackedbackbone and jawbone. Moreover, change of skies brought to him nochange of luck. Within a fortnight he was badly hurt, and obliged toremain in bed for nearly a week.
"I got mixed up with a log," he explained to Mamie. "It bruk loose,an' I didn't quite get outer the way. See?"
"Me, too," whispered Mamie. "Same trouble here--'zactly."
Twice while he lay upon his back she brought to the bunk-house achocolate layer cake and some broth. Upon the occasion of her thirdvisit she came empty-handed, with her too pale eyes full of tears, andher heart full of indignation.
"I ain't got nothing," she muttered. "Tom says it's his grub."
"That's all right," replied Dennis, noting that she walked stiffly."But, look ye here; he ain't been wallopin' ye, has he?"
"Yes, he has. When he was through I tole him I'd sooner have his blowsthan his kisses any day."
"I hadn't oughter hev come here," said Dennis.
"Never saw the sun shine till you did," murmured Mamie.
At this he tried to take her hand, but she evaded his grasp. Then,with an extraordinary dignity, looking deep into the man's eyes, shesaid slowly: "I tole you that because it's God's truth, and sorterjustifies your comin'; but I aim ter be an honest woman, and you musthelp me to remain so."
With that she flitted away.
Next day Dennis went back to work. And what work, for a man never atbest strong, and now enfeebled by severe pain and illness! Somemagnificent timber had been found a couple of miles inland, situatednot too far from the Coho. The experts had already felled, stripped,and sawed into logs the huge trees. To Dennis and others remained thearduous labour of guiding, with the help of windlasses, these immenselogs to the river, whence they would descend in due time to the inlet,there to be joined together into vast rafts, later on again to betowed to their destination. Of all labour, this steering of logsthrough dense forest to their appointed waterway is the hardest androughest. Dennis, of course, wore thick gloves, but in spite of thesehis hands were mutilated horribly, because he lacked the experience tohandle the logs with discretion. Even the best men are badly knockedabout at this particular job, and the duffers are very likely to bekilled outright.
At the end of ten lamentable days Dennis came to the conclusion thatTom Barker wanted to kill him by the Chinese torture of Ling, or deathby a thousand cuts. More than one of the boys said: "Why don't you getwhat dough is comin' to ye and skip?" Dennis shook his head. Not beingable to explain to himself why he stayed, he held his tongue, and thusgained a reputation for grit which lightened other burdens. JimDoolan, the big Irishman, was of opinion that Dennis Brown was littlebetter than a denied baby with a soft spot in his head, but headmitted that the cow-puncher was "white," and obviously bent uponself-destruction. By this time the camp knew that the boss was takingan unholy interest in Dennis, although he continued to treat him withderisive civility. The rage he couldn't suppress was vented upon thedog. And Dennis never saw the poor beast kicked or beaten withoutreflecting: "He does that to Mamie when nobody ain't lookin'." In hisfeeble fashion he tried to interfere. Dollars to Tom Barker weredearer than cardinal virtues, and he had never been known to refuse anopportunity to make a bit on any deal. Dennis offered to buy the dog.
"What's he worth?" said Tom, thrusting out his jaw.
"I'll give five for him."
"Five? For a dog that I've learned to love? Not much!"
"Ten?"
"Nope!"
"Fifteen?"
Tom laughed.
"You ain't got money enough to buy him," he said. "I'm going to havemore fun than a barrel o' monkeys out o' this yere dog, and don't youforget it!"
After this Dennis, the Sunday-school teacher, the man whose goldenslippers were awaiting him in the sweet by-and-by, began to lie awakeat night and wrestle with the problem: "Is a man ever justified inbreaking the sixth commandment?" The camp held that Tom bore a charmedlife. Men had tried to kill him more than once, and had perishedingloriously in the attempt. His coolness and courage wereindisputable. There are moments in a lumberman's business when nothingwill save an almost impossible situation but the instant exercise ofthe most daring and devil-may-care pluck, determination, and skill.Tom was never found wanting at such moments. To see him "ride a log"was a sight to inspire admiration and respect in a Texas broncho-buster. To kill such a superb animal might well rack a simple andguileless cowboy whose name was--Dennis.
It is relevant to mention that Dennis, the dog, licked the hand thatbeat him, fawned upon the foot that kicked him, and rendered unto hislord and master implicit and invariable obedience. The Siwash, hisformer owner, had trained him to retrieve, and of this Tom tookshameless advantage. He would throw his hat or a glove or a stick intothe middle o
f a rapid, and the gallant Dennis would dash into theswirling waters, regardless of colliding logs, fanged rocks, or spikystumps. One day the dog got caught. Tom, with an oath, leapt on to thenearest log, from that to another and another till he reached the poorbeast, whom he released with incredible skill and audacity, returningas he had come, followed by the dog. The boys yelled theirappreciation of this astounding feat. Jimmy Doolan asked--
"What in thunder made ye do that, Tom?"
Tom scowled.
"I dunno," he answered. "Dennis Brown knows that I think the world ofthat cur."
Within a fortnight, by an admittedly amazing coincidence, Dennis, theman, was caught in a precisely similar fashion. As a "river-driver"Dennis was beginning to "catch on." But he had not yet learned what hecould or could not do. River-drivers wear immense boots, heavilyspiked. Dennis upon this occasion had been sent with a crew to what istechnically called "sweep the river" after a regular drive. Such logsas have wandered ashore, or been hung up in back eddies, are collectedand sent on to join the others. This is hard work, but exciting, andnot without its humours. Certain obstinate logs have to be coaxed downthe river. It would almost seem as if they knew the fate that awaitedthem in the saw-pits, and in every fibre of their being exercised aninstinct for self-preservation. For instance, a log may refuse to passa certain rock in the river which has offered no obstruction whateverto other logs. Then the lumberman, armed with his long pole, with itsspike to push and its sharp hook to pull, must reach that rock andpull and prod the recalcitrant traveller on his appointed way.
Dennis, in attempting this, had slipped upon the rock, and his heavyboot had been caught and held between the log and the rock. Below wasa boiling rapid; above the river swirled in a heavy, oily mass.Dennis, to save his life, held tight on to the rock. He was in theposition of the drunken Scot who dared not abandon his grip of therail of the refreshment bar, because if he let go he would fall down,and if he did not let go he must miss his train. Dennis held on withboth hands. If he endeavoured to unfasten his boot, he would be sweptinto the rapid; if he did not let go, and none came to his rescue, thelog would grind his leg to powder.
Tom happened to see him and plunged into the river. Dennis had crawledon to the rock from the other side, a feat easily achievable. Tommight have gone round; any other man in the camp would have done so.The odds were slightly against his reaching the rock, for the riverwas running like a mill-race.
Five minutes later both men, dripping wet, were safely ashore, and thelog was careering down stream!
"Ye've saved my life," gasped Dennis.
"Never seen such a blamed fool as you in all my days," replied Tom, ashe stared savagely into Dennis's mild blue eyes. "You'd hurt yerselfrockin' a baby's cradle, you would. 'Bout time you quit men's work,ain't it?"
"Not yet," said Dennis.
During these weeks upon the river Dennis had not seen anything ofMamie. Tom Barker, as supreme boss, visited all crews, and thenreturned to his wife, with either a leer or a frown upon his face. Shehad come to loathe the leer more than the frown. In the differentcamps the boys told the same story--
"He knocks the stuffin' out of her!"
The stay-at-home Briton, warm with roast beef and indigestion, willwonder that one man amongst a hundred should be suffered to ill-treata thin, dough-faced little woman. Why did they not arise and slaughterhim? Had Tom stolen a colt in the cattle-country he would have beenlynched. Let publicists resolve the problem!
Finally, one Sunday morning, Dennis and Mamie met again.
"Holy Mackinaw!" exclaimed Dennis.
"Anything wrong?"
"Everything."
"I don't understand." But, of course, she did.
"It's God's truth, then, what the boys say?"
She hung her head.
"I thought he'd quit when I went up the river," said Dennis. "Say,let's you an' me skin out o' this. I'll get my dough to-night."
"Oh, Dennis!" she murmured, in piteous protestation, "we'd burn ineternal torment."
"We'd burn together," said Dennis. "Anyways, if this ain't torment,and if Barker ain't Beelzebub himself, I'm a liar."
She shook her head, with the tears streaming down her thin, whitecheeks.
"Gee!" said Dennis, reduced to silence.
"I tuk him for better and worse," sobbed Mamie.
"You might ha' guessed that it would be worse," growled Dennis. Then,desperately, he blurted out, "Because you're dead-set on keepin' theseventh commandment, you're jest naterally drivin' me to break thesixth."
"What?"
"I've said it. And he saved my life, too. But when I look at yer, Iget to thinking." His voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "I think lots,nights. He comes back to ye alone, through them trees, and there's oneplace where the pine needles is thick as moss. And I mind me what aDago told me onst. He'd killed his man, he had, stabbed him frombehind with a knife he showed me: jest an ordinary knife, only sharp.An' he told me how he done it, whar to strike--savvy? It goes inslick!"
He stopped, seeing that Mamie was regarding him with wide-eyed horrorand consternation.
"Dennis!"
"Yes, my name's Dennis, right enough. That's the trouble. I hav'n'tthe nerve to kill Barker, and you hav'n't the nerve to skip off withme. Were two of a kind, Mamie, scairt to death of what comes afterdeath. And you know it. So long!"
She caught at his arm.
"You ain't a-goin' to leave the inlet?"
"It's a mighty big country, this," Dennis replied austerely; "but I'vea notion it ain't quite big enough for Barker an' me. So long!"
"I'm comin' up to-morrer, Dennis, to see 'em run the last rapid. Mebbeyou was fullish to leave the range?"
He marked the interrogation in her tone, and answered, for him, almostroughly--
"Mebbe I was, but not so fullish as you by a long sight!"
With that he returned to the bunk-house.
* * * * *
Not half a mile from the inlet the Coho gathers itself together forits last wild rush to salt water. And here there is a huge pool wherelogs lie peacefully as alligators in the sun. At the end of the poolthe river flows gently in a channel free from rocks and snags. Thenthe channel narrows, and a little farther on you behold the head ofthe rapid, and half-way down the Coho Falls thunder everlastingly.When the logs reach the falls they are meat for the mills. Nothing canstop them then. One after another they rise on end to take the finalplunge. Some twist and writhe as if in agony, as if conscious that theriver and forest shall know them no more. Thousands have travelled theself-same way; not one has ever returned. The lower rapid of the Cohohardly deserves its name. Half a mile farther on it is an estuaryacross which stretches the boom.
The crews assembled on each side of the pool. The logs were prickedinto slow movement. This being duffers' work was assigned to the lessexperienced. The picked river-drivers stood upon the rocks of theupper rapid, pole in hand. And here, watching them with a lack-lustreeye, stood Mamie in the shade of a dogwood tree in full blossom. Nowand again a soft white petal would fall upon the water and be sweptaway. Above the hemlocks soughed softly. At her feet the giantmaidenhair raised its delicate fronds till they touched her cheek.
She watched the logs go by in a never-ending procession. The scenefascinated her, although, in a sense, she was singularly devoid ofeither imagination or perception. Movement beguiled a woman whose ownlife had been stagnant for five-and-twenty years. Deep down in herheart was the unformulated but inevitable conviction that the logswere moving and that she was standing still. Tom loomed large in theimmediate foreground. He, too, moved so swiftly that his huge formlacked definition. She saw him snatch a pole from one of the men andstab viciously at a log which refused to budge; and every time thathis arm rose and fell a little shudder trickled down her spinalcolumn. The log seemed to receive the blows apathetically. A bad jamwas imminent. She could hear Tom swearing, and the other logs floatingon and on seemed to hear him also, and tremble. His bull's voice roseloud
above the roar of the falls. Mamie looked down. At her feetcrouched Dennis, the dog, and he also was trembling at those raucoussounds, and Mamie could feel his thin ribs pressing against her ownthin legs.
At that moment light came to her obscure mind. She was like the log.She refused to budge, funked the plunge, submitting to unending blows,and words which were almost worse than blows. And by her obstinacy andapathy she was driving the best man on God's earth to premeditatedmurder.
That morning, let us remember, Tom had beaten the dog, and because shehad interfered with a pitiful protest her husband had struck her closeto the temple. Ever since this blow she had heard the roar of thefalls with increasing intensity.
"Why don't it move?" she asked herself.
As she put the question the log did move, borne away by the fullcurrent. Mamie, followed by the dog, ran after it, with her eyesaflame with excitement. Dennis barked, divining something uncanny,eager to distract the mind of his mistress from what seemed to beengrossing it. Still she ran on, with her eyes upon the log. The dogknew that she must stop in a moment, that no one could pass the fallsunless they went over them. Did he divine also that she meant to goover them--that at last, with her poor, imperfect vision, she had seenthat way out of captivity?
She reached the point where farther advance was impossible. To herright rose a solid wall of stone; opposite rose its twin; between thetwo the river rushed tumultuously, tossing the great logs hither andthither as if they were spilikins.
Mamie watched her own log. After its goadings it kept a truer coursethan most of its fellows. But she had outstripped it. Standing uponthe edge of the precipice, feeling the cold spray upon her face,hearing the maddening roar of the monster below, less to be fearedthan that other monster from whom she realised that she had escaped,she waited for the final plunge....
What was passing in her mind at this supreme moment? We may wellbelieve that she saw clearly the past through the mists which obscuredthe future. Always she had been a log at the mercy of a drunkenfather. Her mother had died in giving birth to her, but she knewvaguely that this mother was a Church member. She did not know--and,knowing, could never have understood--that from her she had inheriteda conscience--or shall we call it an ineradicable instinct?--whichconstrained her to turn aside, shuddering, from certain temptations,to obey, without reasoning, certain ethical laws, solemnly expoundedto her by a Calvinistic grandmother. But Nature had been too much forher. Even as she had turned instinctively and with horror from thebreaking of a commandment, so also she had selected the mate whopossessed in excess the physical qualities so conspicuously lacking inher. She had fallen a victim, and a reluctant victim, to the law ofcompensation. When Tom Barker held up his finger and whistled, shecrawled to him.
The log, slightly rolling, as if intoxicated, neared the brink of thefalls. And then it stopped again, where the river was narrowest andthe current strongest. No log had stopped in this place before; Mamiesaw that it was caught by a small rock, and held fast by the otherlogs behind it.
"It won't go over," she murmured.
Within a minute a terrific jam impended. Across the river Tom wasswearing horribly; and between husband and wife rose a filmy cloud ofspray upon which were imprinted the mysterious colours of the rainbow,which, long ago, Mamie had been taught to regard as the most wonderfulsymbol in the world--God's promise that in the end good should triumphover evil.
Afraid to move, fascinated, she stood still, staring at the rainbow.
Presently Tom disappeared. When he returned Mamie could see him veryplainly. He had a stick of dynamite and a fuse. Mamie saw him glanceat his watch and measure the fuse. Then, leaping from log to log, heapproached the one in midstream which lay passive, blocking theadvance of all the others. With splendid skill and daring he adjustedthe dynamite upon the small rock which held the log, and lit the fuse.He returned as he had come, and Mamie could hear the cheers of the menupon the opposite bank.
"It'll hev to go now," she reflected.
At this moment Dennis, the dog, must have realised that his master hadleft something behind on the rock. Mamie saw him spring from log tolog, and then, holding the dynamite between his teeth, with thespluttering fuse still attached, follow his master.
"Tom!" she screamed. "Look out!"
Tom turned and saw! And the others--Dennis Brown, Mamie, the river-drivers--saw also and trembled. Tom began to curse the dog, adjuringhim to go back, to drop it, _drop IT_, DROP IT!
But the faithful creature, who had risked life to retrieve sticksthrown into fierce rapids, ran steadily on. Mamie saw the face of herhusband crumble into an expression of hideous terror and palsy. Hislips mouthed inarticulately, with his huge hands he tried to push backthe monstrous fate that was overtaking him.
The dog laid the dynamite at his master's feet at the moment when itexploded.
* * * * *
And the man whose name was Dennis knew that his turn had come at last.
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends