CHAPTER IX--A FRONTIER TRAGEDY
One autumn day after the leaves had faded and fallen, Nathan was busyhusking corn, with less thought upon his task and the growing pile ofyellow ears than of a promised partridge hunt on the morrow with hisgood friend Job. His father was chopping in a new clearing. Silas hadbeen sent with the oxen to take some logs to Lemon Fair Mill. His mothergrew uneasy at her spinning, for Seth did not come home to dinner, noryet when the afternoon was half spent. After many times anxiouslylooking and listening in the direction of the clearing, and as oftensaying to herself, "What does keep father so?" she called to Nathan.
"I guess you'd better go and see what henders father so. I can't thinkwhat it is. I hope it hain't anything."
"Perhaps he's gone over to Callenders or some o' the neighbors," saidNathan. "I hain't heard a tree fall for ever so long nor his axe a goin'for a long time."
"Mebby he's cut his foot or something," said Martha, beginning to cry.
"I can't hear nothin' of him for all the air's so holler and everythingsounds so plain," said Ruth, listening again. "You'd better go and seewhat henders him. Mebby he can't git home."
As the boy anxiously hastened to the new clearing, the intense stillnessof the woods filled him with undefined dread. His ears ached for somesound, the tapping of a woodpecker, the cry of a jay, but most of all,for the sound of axe strokes or his father's voice. Silence pervaded theclearing also.
There, on a stump, was his father's blue frock, one bit of color in thesombre scene. And yes, there was some slight flitting movement near thelast tree that had been felled and lay untrimmed just as it had fallen,but it was only a bevy of chickadees peering curiously at something onthe ground beneath them, yet voiceless as if their perennialcheerfulness was dumb in the pervading silence. So sick with dread hecould scarcely move, the boy forced himself to approach the spot, andlook upon that which he felt was awaiting him, his father lying deadbeneath the huge, prone tree, that had crushed him in its fall.
The glowing sunset sky and the glistening waters of the lake grew black,the earth reeled. With a piteous groan of "Father! father!" the boy sankdown as lifeless, for a space, as the beloved form that lay beside himin eternal sleep.
He awoke as from a terrible dream to the miserable realization that itwas not a dream. Then walking, as still in a dream, not noting how hewent nor by any familiar object marking his way, he bore home the woefultidings.
Simple as were the funeral rites in the primitive communities, they werenot lacking in the impressiveness of heartfelt sorrow nor in the homelyexpressions of sympathy for the bereaved and respect for the dead. SoSeth Beeman's neighbors reverently laid him to rest in the soil his ownhand had uncovered to the sunlight. They set at his head a rough slatestone, whose rude lettering could be read half a century later, tellinghis name and age, and the manner of his death.
Ruth was left in a sorry plight, so suddenly bereft of the strong armshe had leaned upon, without a thought that it could ever be taken fromher. Now she had only her son, a sturdy lad, indeed, but of an age to becared for rather than to care for others. Toombs had proved better thanhe looked, kind enough, and a good worker, and familiar with the needsof the farm. When his time was out she had no means to pay his wages norcould she well get along without him. So he staid on, taking a mortgage,at length, on the premises in lieu of money, and becoming more and moreimportant in Ruth's estimation, though regarded with increasing dislikeand jealousy by her son, who found himself less and less considered.
Months passed, dulling sorrow and the sense of loss, and bringing many abitter change. The bitterness of Nathan's life was made almostunbearable presently. His mother, of a weak and clinging nature,inevitably drifted to a fate a more self-reliant woman would haveavoided. Worried with uncomprehended business, and assured by Toombsthat this was the only way to retain a home for herself and children,yet unmoved by the kindly advice of Seth's honest friends and neighbors,as well as the anger and entreaties of her son, she went with Toombsover to the Fort, where they were married by the chaplain stationedthere.
With such a man in the place of his wise and affectionate father,Nathan's life was filled with misery, nor could he ever comprehend hismother's course. Though bestowing upon Martha and his mother indifferentnotice or none at all, towards the boy the stepfather exercised hisrecently acquired authority with severity, giving him the hardest andmost unpleasant work to do, and treating him always with distrust, oftenwith cruelty.
"I hate him," he told Ruth. "He's sassed me every day since I come here,and I've got a bigger job 'an that to settle, one that I'd ha' settledwith his father, if he hadn't cheated me by gettin' killed."
"Oh, what do you mean?" Ruth gasped. "I thought you and Seth was alwaysgood friends."
"Friends!" he growled, contemptuously; "I hated the ground he walked on.Look here," and Silas pulled out his leather pocketbook and took from ita soiled paper which he held before her eyes.
She read the bold, clear signature of Ethan Allen, and, with a sickeningthrill, that of Seth Beeman under it.
"Yes, Ethan Allen and Seth Beeman and his neighbors whipped a man forclaimin' his own, and your boy went and gethered 'em in. Mebby youre'collect it."
"I couldn't help it," she gasped. "I didn't see it. I run and hid andstopped my ears."
"Well, 'Rastus Graves 'ould ha' settled his debts if he'd ha' lived. Buthe died afore his back got healed over, and afore he died he turned thejob over to his brother, that's me, Silas Toombs, or Graves--they're thesame in the end."
Ruth stared at him in dumb amazement and horror, while he proceeded,pouring forth his long concealed wrath.
"Well, I've got Seth Beeman's wife, and, what's wuth more, his farm, an'his childern right 'nunder my thumb. I hope he knows on't. And now,ma'am," lowering his voice from its passionate exultation, "you don'twant to breathe a word o' this to your nice neighbors or to your young'uns. It wouldn't do no good and it might be unpleasant all round. Youdon't want folks to know what a fool you be."
After this disclosure, Ruth lived, in weariness and vain regret, a lifethat seemed quite hopeless but for looking forward to the time when herson could assert his rights and be her champion. Her nature was one ofthose that still bend, without being broken, by whatever weight is laidon them.