The Price of the Prairie: A Story of Kansas

  CHAPTER XIX

  A MAN'S BUSINESS

  Mankind was my business; the common welfare was my business; charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolence were all my business; the dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business.

  --DICKENS.

  Every little community has its customs peculiar to itself. With thepeople of Springvale the general visiting-time was on Sunday between theafternoon Sabbath-school and the evening service. The dishes that wereprepared on Saturday for the next day's supper excelled the warm Sundaydinner.

  We come to know the heart and soul of the folks that fill up a littletown, and when we get into the larger city we miss them oftener than wehave the courage to say. Unselfishness and integrity and stalwartprinciples of right are not confined to the higher circles of society. Aman may be hungry for friends on the crest of his popularity; he maylong for the strong right hand of Christian fellowship in the centre ofa brotherhood of churchmen. Cam Gentry and his good wife are among thosewhom in all my busy years of wide acquaintance with people of all ranksI account as genuine stuff. They were only common clay, generous,unselfish, clean of thought and act. Uneducated, with no high ideals,they gauged their way by the golden rule, and made the most of theirtime. A journey to Topeka was their "trip abroad"; beyond thenewspapers they read little except the Bible; and they built their faithon the Presbyterian Church and the Republican party. But the cosylighted tavern on winter nights, and its clean, cool halls andresting-places in the summer heat, are still a green spot in the memoryof many a traveller. Transients and regulars at the Cambridge Housedelighted in this Sabbath evening spread.

  "Land knows," Dollie Gentry used to declare, "if ever a body feelslonesome it's on Sunday afternoon between Sunday-school and evenin'service. Why, the blues can get you then, when they'd stan' no show aryother day er hour in the week. An' it stan's to reason a man, er woman,either, is livin' in a hotel because they ain't got no home ner nobodyto make 'em feel glad to see 'em. If they're goin' to patronize theCambridge House they're goin' to get the best that's comin' to 'em rightthen."

  So the old dining-room was a joy at this time of the week, with all thata good cook can make attractive to the appetite.

  Mary Gentry, sweet-tempered and credulous as in her childhood, grew upinto a home-lover. We all wondered why John Anderson, who was studyingmedicine, should fancy Mary, plain good girl that she was. John had beena bashful boy and a hard student whom the girls failed to interest. Butthe home Mary made for him later, and her two sons that grew up in it,are justification of his choice of wife. The two boys are men now, onein Seattle, and one in New York City. Both in high places of trust andfinancial importance.

  One October Sabbath afternoon, O'mie fell into step beside Marjie on theway from Sabbath-school. Since his terrible experience in the Hermit'sCave five years before, he had never been strong. We became soaccustomed to his little hacking cough we did not notice it until therecame a day to all of us when we looked back and wondered how we couldhave been so inattentive to the thing growing up before our eyes. O'miewas never anything but a good-hearted Irishman, and yet he had a keenerinsight into character and trend of events than any other boy or man Iever knew. I've always thought that if his life had been spared tomature manhood--but it wasn't.

  "Marjie, I'm commissioned to invite you to the Cambridge House forlunch," O'mie said. "Mary wants to see you. She's got a lame arm, felloff a step ladder in the pantry. The papers on the top shelves had beenon there fifteen minutes, and Aunt Dollie thought they'd better put upclean ones. That's the how. Dr. John Anderson's most sure to callprofessionally this evening, and Bill Mead's going to bring Bess overfor tea, and there's still others on the outskirts, but you're speciallywanted, as usual. Bud will be there, too. Says he wants to see all theAndersons once more before he leaves town, and he knows it's his lastchance; for John's forever at the tavern, and Bill Mead is monopolizingBess at home; and you know, Star-face, how Clayton divides himselfaround among the Whatelys and Grays over at Red Range and a girl he'sgot up at Lawrence."

  "All this when I'm starving for one of Aunt Dollie's good lunches. Offersome other inducement, O'mie," Marjie replied laughingly.

  "Oh, well, Tillhurst'll be there, and one or two of the new folks, alleligible."

  "What makes you call me 'Star-face'? That's what Jean Pahusca used tocall me." She shivered.

  "Oh, it fits you; but if you object, I can make it, 'Moon-face,' or'Sun-up.'"

  "Or 'Skylight,' or 'Big Dipper'; so you can keep to the blue firmament.Where's Bud going?"

  Out of the tail of his eye O'mie caught sight of Judson falling inbehind them here and he answered carelessly:

  "Oh, I don't know where Bud is going exactly. Kansas City or St. Louis,or somewhere else. You'll come of course?"

  "Yes, of course," Marjie answered, just as Judson in his pompous littlemanner called to her:

  "Marjory, I have invited myself up to your mother's for tea."

  "Why, there's nobody at home, Mr. Judson," the girl said kindly; "I'mgoing down to Mary Gentry's, and mother went up to Judge Baronet's withAunt Candace for lunch."

  Nobody called my father's sister by any other name. To Marjie, who hadplayed about her knee, Aunt Candace was a part of the day's life inSpringvale. But the name of Baronet was a red rag to Judson's temper. Hewas growing more certain of his cause every day; but any allusion to ourfamily was especially annoying, and this remark of Marjie's fired him tohasten to something definite in his case of courtship.

  "When she's my wife," he had boasted to Tell Mapleson, "I'll put a stopto all this Baronet friendship. I won't even let her go there. Marjie'sa fine girl, but a wife must understand and obey her lord and master.That's it; a wife must obey, or your home's ruined."

  Nobody had ever accused Tell Mapleson's wife of ruining a home on thatbasis; for she had been one of the crushed-down, washed-out women whonever have two ideas above their dish-pan. She had been dead some years,and Tell was alone. People said he was too selfish to marry again.Certainly matrimony was not much in his thoughts.

  The talk at the tavern table that evening ran on merrily among the youngpeople. Albeit, the Sabbath hour was not too frivolous, for we werepretty stanch in our Presbyterianism there. I think our love for Dr.Hemingway in itself would have kept the Sabbath sacred. He never foundfault with our Sunday visiting. All days were holy to him, and hisevening sermons taught us that frivolity, and idle gossip, and scandalare as unforgivable on week days as on the Sabbath Day. Somewhere in thewide courts of heaven there must be reserved an abode of inconceivablejoy and peace for such men as he, men who preach the Word faithfullythrough the years, whose hand-clasp means fellowship, and in whosetongue is the law of kindness.

  "Say, Clate, where's Bud going?" Somebody called across the table. Budwas beside Marjie, whose company was always at a premium in anygathering.

  "Let him tell; it's his secret," Clayton answered. "I'll be glad whenhe's gone"--he was speaking across to Marjie now--"then I'll get someshow, maybe."

  "I'm going to hunt a wife," Bud sang out. "Can't find a thoul herewho'll thtay with me long enough to get acquainted. I'm going out Wethtthomewhere."

  "I'd stay with you a blamed sight longer if I wasn't acquainted with youthan if I was," Bill Mead broke in. "It's because they do get acquaintedthat they don't stay, Bud; and anyhow, they can run faster out therethan here, the girls can; they have to, to keep away from the Indians.And there's no tepee ring for the ponies to stumble over. Marjie, do youremember the time Jean Pahusca nearly got you? I remember it, for when Icame to after the shock, I was standing square on my head with bothfeet in the air. All I could see was Bud dragging Jean's pony out of themuss. I thought he was upside down at first and the horses were walkinglike flies on the ceiling."

  Marjie's memories of that moment were keen. So were O'mie's.

  "Well, what ever did become of that Jean, anyhow? Anybody here seen himfor five years?"

&nbs
p; The company looked at one another. Bud's face was as innocent as ababy's. Lettie Conlow at the foot of the table encountered O'mie's eyesand her face flamed. Dr. John Anderson was explaining the happening toTillhurst and some newcomers in Springvale to whom the story wasinteresting, and the whole table began to recall old times and oldescapades of Jean's.

  "Wasn't afraid of anything on earth," Bill Mead declared.

  "Yeth he wath, brother," Bud broke in, while Bess Anderson blusheddeeply at Bud's teasing name. Bill and Bess were far along the happy wayof youth and love.

  "Why, what did he fear?" Judson asked Dave Mead at the head of thetable.

  "Phil Baronet. He never would fight Phil. He didn't dare. He couldn'tbear to be licked."

  And then the conversation turned on me, and my virtues and shortcomingswere reviewed in friendly gossip. Only Judson's face wore a sneer.

  "I don't wonder this Jean was afraid of him," a recent-comer to the towndeclared.

  "Oh, if he was afraid of this young man, this boy," Judson declared, "hewould have feared something else; that's it, he'd been afraid of otherthings."

  "He was," O'mie spoke up.

  "Well, what was it, O'mie?" Dr. John queried.

  "Ghosts," O'mie replied gravely. "Oh, I know," he declared, as the crowdlaughed. "I can prove it to you and tell you all about it. I'll do itsome day, but I'll need the schoolhouse and some lantern slides to makeit effective. I may charge a small admission fee and give a benefit todefray Bud's expenses home from this trip."

  "Would you really do that, O'mie?" Mary Gentry asked him.

  But the query, "Where's Phil, now?" was going the rounds, and theanswers were many. My doings had not been reported in the town, andgossip still was active concerning me.

  "Up at Topeka," "Gone to St. Louis," "Back in Massachusetts." These werefollowed by Dave Mead's declaration:

  "The best boy that ever went out of Springvale. Just his father overagain. He'll make some place prouder than it would have been withouthim."

  Nobody knew who started the story just then, but it grew rapidly fromTillhurst's side of the table that I had gone to Rockport,Massachusetts, to settle in my father's old home-town.

  "Stands to reason a boy who can live in Kansas would go back toMassachusetts, doesn't it?" Dr. John declared scornfully.

  "But Phil's to be married soon, to that stylish Miss Melrose. She's gotthe money, and Phil would become a fortune. Besides, she was perfectlyinfatuated with him."

  "Well," somebody else asserted, "if he does marry her, he can bring herback here to live. My! but Judge Baronet's home will be a grand place togo to then. It was always good enough."

  Amid all this clatter Marjie was as indifferent and self-possessed asif my name were a stranger's. Those who had always known her did notdream of what lay back of that sweet girl-face. She was the belle ofSpringvale, and she had too many admirers for any suspicion of the truthto find a place.

  While the story ran on Bud turned to her and said in a low voice,"Marjie, I'm going to Phil. He needth me now."

  Nobody except Bud noticed how white the girl was, as the company risingfrom the table swept her away from him.

  That night Dr. Hemingway's prayer was fervent with love. The boys werealways on his heart, and he called us all by name. He prayed for theyoung men of Springvale, who had grown up to the life here and on whomthe cares of citizenship, and the town's good name were soon to rest;and for the young men who would not be with us again: for Tell Mapleson,that the snares of a great city like St. Louis might not entrap him; forJames Conlow, whose lines had led him away from us; for David Mead,going soon to the far-away lands where the Sierras dip down the goldenslope to the Pacific seas; for August Anderson, also about to go awayfrom us, that life and health might be his; and last of all for PhilipBaronet. A deeper hush fell upon the company bowed in prayer.

  "For Philip Baronet, the strong, manly boy whom we all love, thebrave-hearted hero who has gone out from among us, and as his father didbefore him for the homes of a nation, so now the son has gone to fightthe battles of the prairie domain, and to build up a wall of safetybefore the homes and hearthstones of our frontier." And then he offeredthanksgiving to a merciful Father that, "in the awful conflict whichPhilip, with a little handful of heroes, has helped to wage against thesavage red man, a struggle in which so many lives have gone out, ourPhilip has been spared." His voice broke here, and he controlled it byan effort, as in calm, low tones he finished his simple prayer with theearnest petition, "Keep Thou these our boys; and though they may walkthrough the valley of the shadow of death, may they fear no evil, forThou art with them. Amen."

  It was the first intimation the town had had of what I was doing.Springvale was not without a regard for me who had loved it always, andthen the thought of danger to a fellow citizen is not without itsappeal. I have been told that Judge Baronet and Aunt Candace could notget down the aisle after service until after ten o'clock that night andthat the tears of men as well as women fell fast as my father gave thewords of the message sent to him by Governor Crawford on the eveningbefore. Even Chris Mead, always a quiet, stern man, sat with head bowedon the railing of the pew before him during the recital. It was notedafterwards that Judson did not remain, but took Lettie Conlow home assoon as the doxology was ended. The next day my stock in Springvale wasat a premium; for a genuine love, beside which fame and popularity areashes and dust, was in the heart of that plain, good little Kansas town.

  Bud called to say good-bye to Marjie, before he left home.

  "Are you going out West to stay?" Marjie asked.

  "I'm going to try it out there. Clate'th got all the law here a youngman can get; he'th gobbled up Dave and Phil'th share of the thing. Johnwill be the coming M. D. of the town, and Bill Mead already taketh tothe bank like a duck to water. I'm going to try the Wetht. What word mayI take to Phil for you?"

  "There's nothing to say," Marjie answered.

  To his words, "I hoped there might be," she only said gayly, "Good-bye,Bud. Be a good boy, and be sure not to forget Springvale, for we'llalways love your memory."

  And so he left her. He was a good boy, nor did he forget the town wherehis memory is green still in the hearts of all who knew him. His lastthought was of Springvale, and he babbled of the Neosho, and fanciedhimself in the shallows down by the Deep Hole. He clung to me, as in hischildhood, and begged me to carry him on my shoulders when waters ofDeath were rolling over him. I held his hand to the last, and when thesilence fell, I stretched myself on the brown curly mesquite beside himand thanked God that He had let me know this boy. Ever more my life willbe richer for the remembrance it holds of him.

  Bud left Springvale in one of those dripping, chilly, wet days ourKansas Octobers sometimes mix in with their opal-hued hours of Indiansummer. That evening Tell Mapleson dropped into Judson's store and O'miewas let off early.

  The little Irishman ran up the street at once to the Whately home. Mrs.Whately had retired. Eight o'clock was bed time for middle-aged peoplein our town. Marjie sat alone by the fire. How many times that summer wehad talked of the long winter evenings we should spend together by thatfireplace in Marjie's cosy sitting-room. And now she was beside thehearth, and I was far away. I might have been forgiven without a wordhad I walked in that evening and found her, as O'mie did, alone with hersad thoughts. Marjie never tried to hide anything from O'mie. She knewhe could see through any pretence of hers. She knew, too, that he wouldkeep sacred anything he saw.

  "Marjie, I'm lonesome to-night."

  Marjie gave him a seat beside the fire.

  "What makes you lonesome, O'mie?" she asked gravely.

  "The wrongs av the world bear heavily upon me."

  Marjory looked at him curiously to see if he was joking.

  "What I need to do is to shrive myself, I guess, and then get up aninquisition, with myself as chief inquisitor."

  Marjie, studying the pictures in the burning coals, said nothing. O'miealso sat silent for a time.

  "Marjie,
" he said at length, "when you see things goin' all wrong endto, and you know what's behind 'em, drivin' 'em wrong, what's your ralePresbyterian duty then? Let 'em go? or tend to somethin' else besidesyour own business? Honest, now, what's what?"

  "I don't know what you're up to, O'mie." She was looking dreamily intothe grate, the firelight on her young face and thoughtful brown eyesmaking a picture tenderly sweet and fair. In her mind was the image ofJudge Baronet as he looked the night before, when he lifted his headafter Dr. Hemingway's prayer for his son. And then maybe a picture ofthe graceless son himself came unbidden, and his eyes were full of loveas when they looked down into hers on the day Rachel Melrose came intoJudge Baronet's office demanding his attention. "What's the matter,O'mie? Is Uncle Cam being imposed on? You'd never stand that, I know."

  "No, little girl, Cambridge Gentry can still take care of Cam's interestand do a kind act to more folks off-hand better than any other man Iknow. Marjie, it's Phil Baronet."

  Marjie gave a start, but she made no effort to hide her interest.

  "Little girl, he's been wronged, and lied about, and misunderstood, by acrowd av us who have knowed him day in and day out since he was a littleboy. Marjory Whately, did anybody iver catch him in a lie? Did he iverturn coward in a place where courage was needed? Did he iver do acruelty to a helpless thing, or fight a smaller boy? Did he iverdecaive? Honestly, now, was there iver anything in all the years we runtogether that wasn't square and clane and fearless and lovin'?"

  Marjie sat with bowed head before the flickering fire. When O'mie spokeagain his voice was husky.

  "Little girl, when I was tied hand and foot, and left to die in thatdark Hermit's Cave, it was Phil Baronet who brought in the sunlight anda face radiant with love. When Jean Pahusca, drunk as a fury, was afteryou out on the prairie with that cruel knife ready, the knife I've seenhim kill many a helpless thing with when he was drunk, when this Jeanwas ridin' like a fiend after you, Phil turned to me that day and hiswhite agonized face I'll never forget. Now, Marjie, it's to right hiswrong, and the wrongs of some he loves that I'm studyin' about. The weekPhil came home from the rally I took a vacation. Shall I tell you why?"

  Marjie nodded.

  "Well, Star-face, it was laid on me conscience heavy to pay a part avthe debt I owe to the boy who saved me life. I ain't got eyes furnothin', and I see the clouds gatherin' black about that boy's head.Back of 'em was jealousy, that was a girl; hate, that was a man whosecruel, ugly deeds Phil had knocked down and trampled on and preventedfrom comin' to a harvest of sufferin'; and revenge, that was arebel-hearted scoundrel who'd have destroyed this town but for Phil; andlast, a selfish, money-lovin' son of a horse-thief who was grabbing forriches and pulling hard at the covers to hide some sins he'd never wantto come to the light, being a deacon in the Presbyterian Church. Allthim in one cloud makes a hurricane, and with 'em comes a shallow,selfish, pretty girl. Oh, it was a sight, Marjie. If I can do somethin'to keep shipwreck not only from them the storm's aimed at, but themthat's pilin' up trouble fur themselves, too, I'm goin' to do it."

  Marjie made no reply.

  "So I took a vacation and wint off on a visit to me rich relatives inWestport."

  Marjie could not help smiling now. O'mie had not a soul to call his nextof kin.

  "Oh, yis, I wint," he continued, "on tin days' holiday. The actual startto it was on the evenin' Phil got home from Topeka. The night of theparty at Anderson's Lettie Conlow comes into the store just at closin'.I was behind a pile of ginghams fixin' some papers and cord below thecounter. And Judson, being a fool by inheritance and choice ofprofession, takes no more notice of me than if I was a dog; says thingshe oughtn't to when he knows I'm 'round. But he forgits me in the prideof his stuck-uppityness. And I heard Judson say to her low, 'Now be sureto go right after dark and look in there again. You're sure you knowjust which crevice of the rock it is?' Lettie laughed and said, she'dwatched it too long not to know. And so they arranged it, and I arrangedmy wrappin'-cord, and when I straightened up (I'm little, ye know), theydidn't see my rid head by the pile of ginghams; and so she went away.When I got ready I wint, too. I trailed round after dark until I foundmeself under that point av rock by the bushes in the steep bendup-street. I was in a little corner full of crevices, when along comesLettie. She seemed to be tryin' to get somethin' out of 'em, and hershort fat arm couldn't reach it. Blamed inconvanient bein' little andshort! She tried and tried and thin she said some ugly words only a boyhas a right to say when he's cussin' somethin'. Just thin somethin' madea noise between her and the steps, and she made a rush for 'em and wasgone. My eyes was gettin' catty and used to the dark now, and I couldmake out pretty sure it was Phil who sails up nixt, aisy, like he knowedthe premises, and in his hand goes and he got out somethin' sayin' tohimself--and me:

  "'Well, Marjie tucked it in good and safe. I didn't know that hole wasso deep.'

  "Marjie, maybe if that hole's too deep for Lettie to reach clear in,there might be somethin' she's missed. I dunno'. But niver moind. I tookme vacation, went sailin' out with Dever fur a rale splurge to KansasCity. Across the Neosho Dever turns the stage aside, U. S. mail and all,and lands me siven miles up the river and ferries me on this side again.Dever can keep the stillest of any livin' stage-driver whose business isto drive stage on the side and gossip on the main line. He never cheepeda chirp. I come back that same day and put in tin days studyin' things.I just turned myself into a holy inquisition for tin mortial days. Now,what I know has a value to Phil's good name, who has been accused ofdoing more diviltry than the thief on the cross. Marjie, I'm goin' toproceed now and turn on screws till the heretics squeal. It's notexactly my business; but--well, yes, it's the Lord's business to rightthe wrongs, and we must do His work now and then, 'unworthy though webe,' as Grandpa Mead says, in prayer meetin'."

  "O'mie, you heard Dr. Hemingway's prayer last night?" Marjie asked, in avoice that quivered with tears.

  "Oh, good God! Marjie, the men that's fighting the battles on thefrontier, the fire-guards around them prairie homes, they are the saltof the earth." He dropped his head between his hands and groaned.Presently he rose to say good-night.

  "Shall I do it, little sister? See to what's not my business at all, atall, and start a fire in this town big enough to light the skies clearto where Phil is this rainy night, and he can read a welcome home init?"

  "They said last night that he's going to be married soon to thatMassachusetts girl. Maybe he wouldn't want to come if he did see it,"Marjie murmured, turning her face away.

  "Oh, maybe not, maybe not. Niver did want to get back when he was away.But, say, Marjie Star-face, Fort Wallace away out on the Plains ain'tRockport; and rich men's homes and all that gabble they was desecratin'the Sabbath with at supper last night--" O'mie broke off and took thegirl's trembling hand in his. "Oh! I can look after that rascal's goodname, but I don't dare to fix things up for you two, no matter what Iknow." So ran his thoughts.

  The rain blew in a bitter gust as he opened the door. "Good-night,Marjie. It's an ugly night. Any old waterproof cloak to lend me,girlie?" he asked, but Marjie did not smile. She held the light as inthe olden time she had shown us the dripping path, and watched thelittle Irishman trotting away in the darkness.

  The Indian summer of 1868 in Kansas was as short as it was glorious. Thenext day was gorgeous after the rain, and the warm sunshine and lightbreeze drove all the dampness and chill away. In the middle of theafternoon Judson left the store to O'mie and went up to Mrs. Whately'sfor an important business conference. These conferences were growingfrequent now, and dear Mrs. Whately's usually serene face wore a deeplyanxious look after each one. Marjie had no place in them. It was not apart of Judson's plan to have her understand the business.

  Fortune favored O'mie's inquisition scheme. Judson had hardly left thestore when Lettie Conlow walked in. Evidently Judson's company on theSunday evening before had given her a purpose in coming. In our play aschildren Lettie was the first to "get mad and call names." In her youngwoman
hood she was vindictive and passionate.

  "Good-afternoon, Lettie. Nice day after the rain," O'mie said,pleasantly.

  She did not respond to his greeting, but stood before him with flashingeyes. She had often been called pretty, and her type is alwaysconsidered handsome, for her coloring was brilliant, and her formattractive. This year she was the best dressed girl in town, althoughher father was not especially prosperous. Whether transplanting in afiner soil with higher culture might have changed her I cannot say, forthe Conlow breed ran low and the stamp of the common grade was onLettie. I've seen the same on a millionaire's wife; so it is in theblood, and not in the rank. No other girl in town broke the law asLettie did, and kept her good name, but we had always known her. Theboys befriended her more than the girls did, partly because we knew moreof her escapades, and partly because she would sometimes listen to us. Apretty, dashing, wilful, untutored, and ill-principled girl, she wassowing the grain of a certain harvest.

  "O'mie," she began angrily, "you've been talking about me, and you'vebeen spying on me long enough; and I'm going to settle you now. You area contemptible spy, and you're the biggest rascal in this town. That'swhat you are."

  "Not by the steelyards, I ain't," O'mie replied. Passing from behind thecounter and courteously offering her a chair. Then jumping upon thecounter beside her he sat swinging his heels against it, fingering theyard-stick beside the pile of calicoes. "Not by the steelyards, I ain'tthe biggest. Tell Mapleson's lots longer, and James Conlow, blacksmith,and Cam Gentry, and Cris Mead are all bigger. But if you want to settleme, I'm ready. Who says I've been talking about you?"

  "Amos Judson, and he knows. He's told me all about you."

  O'mie's irrepressible smile spread over his face. "All about me? Ididn't give him credit for that much insight."

  "I'm not joking, and you must listen to me. I want to know why you tagafter me every place I go. No gentleman would do that."

  "Maybe not, nor a lady nather," O'mie interposed.

  Lettie's face burned angrily.

  "And you've been saying things about me. You've got to quit it. Only adirty coward would talk about a girl as you do."

  She stamped her foot and her pudgy hands were clenched into hard littleknots. It was a cheap kind of fury, a flimsy bit of drama, but tragedieshave grown out of even a lesser degree of unbridled temper. O'mie was amonkey to whom the ludicrous side of life forever appealed, and thesight of Lettie as an accusing vengeance was too much for him. Thetwinkle in his eye only angered her the more.

  "Oh, you needn't laugh, you and Marjie Whately. How I hate her! but I'vefixed her. You two have always been against me, I know. I've heard whatyou say. She's a liar, and a mean flirt, always trying to take everybodyaway from me; and as good as a pauper if Judson didn't just keep her andher mother."

  "Marjie'd never try to get Judson away from Lettie," O'mie thought, butall sense of humor had left his face now. "Lettie Conlow," he said,leaning toward her and speaking calmly, "you may call me what youplease--Lord, it couldn't hurt me--but you, nor nobody else, man orwoman, praist or pirate, is comin' into this store while I'm alone incontrollin' it, and call Marjie Whately nor any other dacent woman byany evil names. If you've come here to settle me, settle away, and whenyou get through my turn's comin' to settle; but if you say another wordagainst Marjie or any other woman, by the holy Joe Spooner, and all theother saints, you'll walk right out that door, or I'll throw you out asI'd do anybody else in the same case, no matter if they was masculine,feminine, or neuter gender. Now you understand me. If you have anythingmore to say, say it quick."

  Lettie was furious now, but the Conlow blood is not courageous, and sheonly ground her teeth and muttered: "Always the same. Nobody dares tosay a word against her. What makes some folks so precious, I wonder?There's Phil Baronet, now,--the biggest swindle in this town. Oh, Icould tell you a lot about him. I'll do it some day, too. It'll takemore money to keep me still than Baronet's bank notes."

  "Lettie," said O'mie in an even voice, "I'm waitin' here to be settled."

  "Then let me alone. I'm not goin' to be forever tracked 'round like athief. I'll fix you so you'll keep still. Who are you, anyhow? A nobody,poor as sin, living off of this town all these years; never knowing whoyour father nor mother is, nor nobody to care for you; the very trash ofthe earth, somebody's doorstep foundling, to set yourself up over me!You'd ought to 'a been run out of town long ago."

  "I was, back in '63, an' half the town came after me, had to drag meback with ropes, they was so zealous to get me. I wasn't worth it, allthe love and kindness the town's give me. Now, Lettie, what else?"

  "Nothing except this. After what Dr. Hemingway said last nightSpringvale's gone crazy about Phil again. Just crazy, and he's sure tocome back here. If he does"--she broke off a moment--"well, you knowwhat you've been up to for four months, trackin' me, and tellin' thingsyou don't know. Are you goin' to quit it? That's all."

  "The evidence bein' in an' the plaintiff restin'," O'mie said gravely,"it's time for the defence in the case to begin.

  "You saved me a trip, my lady, for I was comin' over this very evenin'to settle with you. But never mind, we can do it now. Judson's havin'one of his M. E. quarterly conferences up at the Whately house and weare free to talk this out. You say I'm a contemptible spy. Lettie, we'rea pair of 'em, so we'll lave off the adjective or adverb, which ever itis, that does that for names of 'persons, places, and things that can beknown or mentioned.' Some of 'em that can be known, can't aven bementioned, though. Where were you, Lettie, whin I was spyin' and whatwere you doin' at the time yoursilf?"

  "I guess I had a right to be there. It's a free country, and it was myown business, not somebody else's," the girl retorted angrily, as thesituation dawned on her.

  "Exactly," O'mie went on. "It's a free country and we both have a rightto tend to our own business. Nobody has a right to tend to a businessof sin and evil-doin' toward his neighbor, though, my girl. If I'vetagged you and spied, and played the dirty coward, and ain't nogintleman, it was to save a good name, and to keep from exposure aname--maybe it's a girl's, none too good, I'm afraid--but it would nivercome to the gossips through me. You know that."

  Lettie did know it. O'mie and she had made mud pies together in the dayswhen they still talked in baby words. It was because he was true andkind, because he was a friend to every man, woman, and child there, thatSpringvale loves his memory to-day.

  "Second, I wish to Heaven I could make things right, but I can't. I wishyou could, but some of 'em you won't and, Lettie, some of 'em you can'tnow.

  "Third, you've heard what I said about you. Why, child, I've said theworst to you. No words comin' straight nor crooked to you, have I saidof you I'd not say to yoursilf, face to face.

  "And again now, girlie, you've talked plain here; came pretty nearcallin' me names, in fact. I can stand it, and I guess I deserve some of'em. I am something of a rascal, and a consummate liar, I admit; butwhen you talk about a lot of scandal up your sleeve, more 'n bank notescan pay by blackmail, and your chance of fixin' Phil Baronet'scharacter, Lettie, you just can't do it. You are too mad to be anythingbut foolish to-day, but I'm glad you did come to me; it may save more 'nPhil's name. Your own is in the worst jeopardy right now. You said, inconclusion, that I was trackin' you, and you ask, am I goin' to quit it?The defendant admits the charge, pleads guilty on that count, and throwshimself on the mercy av the coort. But as to the question, am I goin' toquit it, I answer yes. Whin? Whin there's no more need fur it, and notone minute sooner. I may be the very trash av the earth, with no fathernor mother nor annybody to care for me" (I can see, even now, thepathetic look that came sometimes into his laughing gray eyes. It musthave been in them at that moment); "but I have sometimes been 'roundwhen things I could do needed doin', and I'm goin' to be prisent now,and in the future, to put my hand up against wrong-doin' if I can."O'mie paused, while that little dry cough that brought a red spot toeach cheek had its way.

  "Now, Lettie, you've had your say with
me, and your mind's relieved.It's my time to say a few things, and you must listen."

  Lettie sat looking at the floor.

  "I don't know why I have to listen," she spoke defiantly.

  "Nor do I know why I had to listen to what you said. You don't need to,but I would if I was you. It may be all the better for you in a year ifyou do. You spake av bein' tagged wherever you go. Who begun it? I'lltell you. Back in the summer one day, two people drove out to the stonecabin, the haunted one, by the river in the draw below the bigcottonwood. Somebody made his home there, somebody who didn't dare toshow his face in Springvale by day, 'cause his hand's been lifted tomurder his fellow man. But he hangs 'round here, skulkin' in by night tosee the men he does business with, and meetin' foolish girls who oughtnever to trust him a minute. This man's waiting his chance to commitmurder again, or worse. I know, fur I've laid fur him too many times.There's no cruel-hearted savage on the Plains more dangerous to thesettlers on the frontier; not one av 'em 'ud burn a house, and kill menand children, and torture and carry off women, quicker than thismiserable dog that a girl who should value her good name has beencounsellin' with time and again, this summer, partly on account ofjealousy, and partly because of a silly notion of bein' romantic. Backin June she made a trip to the cabin double quick to warn the varmintroostin' there. In her haste she dropped a bow of purple ribbon whichwith some other finery a certain little store-keeper gives her to do hisspyin' fur him. It's a blamed lovely cabal in this town. I know 'em allby name.

  "Spakin' of bein' paupers and bein' kept by Judson, Lettie--who ispayin' the wages of sin, in money and fine clothes, right now? It's onthe books, and I kape the books. But, my dear girl,"--O'mie lookedstraight into her black eyes--"they's books bein' kept of the purpose,price av the goods, and money. And you and him may answer for that. Ican swear in coort only to what Judson spends on you; you know whatfor."

  Lettie cowered down before her inquisitor, and her anger was mingledwith fear and shame.

  "This purple bow was found, identified. Aven Uncle Cam, short-sighted ashe is, remembered who wore it that day; aven see her gallopin' into townand noticed she'd lost it. This same girl hung around the cliff till shefound a secret place where two people put their letters. She comes inhere and tells me I've no business taggin' her. What business had sherobbin' folks of letters, stealin' 'em out, and givin' 'em into wickedhands? Lettie, you know whose letter you took when you could reach farenough to git it out, and you know where you put it.

  "You said you could ruin Phil. It's aisy for a woman to do that, Iadmit. No matter how hard the church may be on 'em, and how much otherwomen may cut 'em dead for doin' wrong things, a woman can go into acoort-room and swear a man's character away, an' the jury'll give herjudgment every time. The law's a lot aisier with the women than thecrowd you associate with is." O'mie's speech was broken off by hiscough.

  "Now to review this case a bit. The night av the Anderson's party youtried to get the letter Marjie'd put up for Phil. You didn't do it."

  "I never tried," Lettie declared.

  "How come the rid flowers stuck with the little burrs on your dress?They don't grow anywhere round here only on that cliff side. I pulledoff one bunch, and I saw Phil pull off another when your skirts caughton a nail in the door. But I saw more 'n that. I stood beside you whenyou tried to get the letter, and I heard you tell Judson you had failed.I can't help my ears; the Almighty made 'em to hear with, and as you'vesaid, I am a contemptible spy.

  "You have given hints, mean ugly little hints, of what you could tellabout Phil on that night. He took you home, as he was asked to do. Butwhat took you to the top of the cliff at midnight? It was to meet JeanPahusca, the dog the gallows is yappin' for now. You waited while hetried to kill Phil. He'd done it, too, if Phil hadn't been too strong tobe killed by such as him. And then you and Jean were on your way out tohis cabin whin the boys found you. You know Bill and Bud was goin' toRed Range, that night in the carriage when they overtook you. It wasmoonlight, you remember; and ridin' on the back seat was Cris Mead,silent as he always is, but he heard every word that was said. Bud comeall the way back with you to keep your good name a little while longer;took chances on his own to save a girl's. It's Phil Baronet put thatkind of loyalty into the boys av this town. No wonder they love him.Bud's affidavit's on file ready, when needed; and Bill is here totestify; and Cris Mead's name's good on paper, or in coort, or prayermeetin'. Lettie, you have sold yourself to two of the worst men ever setfoot in this town."

  "Amos Judson is my best friend; I'll tell him you said he's one of thetwo worst men in this town," Lettie cried.

  "It's a waste av time; he knows it himself. Now, a girl who visits inlonely cabins at dead hours av the night, with men she knows isdangerous, oughtn't to ask why some folks are so precious. It's becausethey keep their bodies and souls sacred before Almighty God, and don'tsell aither. You've accused me of tryin' to protect Phil, and of keepin'Marjie's name out of everything, and that I've been spyin' on you. GoodGod! Lettie, it's to keep you more 'n them. I was out after my ownbusiness, after things other folks ought to a' looked after and didn't,things strictly belongin' to me, whin I run across you everywhere, andsee your wicked plan to ruin good names and break hearts and get moneyby blackmail. Lettie, it's not too late to turn back now. You've donewrong; we all do. But, little girl, we've knowed each other since thedays I used to tie your apron strings when your short little fat armscouldn't reach to tie 'em, and I know you now. What have you done withMarjie's letter that you stole before it got to Phil?" His voice waskind, even tender.

  "I'll never tell you!" Lettie blazed up like a fire brand.

  "Aren't you willing to right the wrongs you've done, and save yourself,too?" His voice did not change.

  "I'm going to leave here when I get ready. I'm going away, but not tillI am ready, and--" She had almost yielded, but evil desire is a strongmaster. The spirit of her low-browed father gained control again, andshe raised a stormy face to him who would have befriended her. "I'mgoing to do what I please, and go where I please; and I'll fix someprecious saints so they'll never want to come back to this town; andsome others'll wish they could leave it."

  "All right, then," O'mie replied, as Lettie flung herself out of thedoor, "if you find me among those prisent when you turn some cornersuddenly don't be surprised. I wonder," he went on, "who got that letterthe last night the miserable Melrose girl was here, or the night after.I wonder how she could reach it when she couldn't get the other one.Maybe the hole had something in it, one of Phil's letters to Marjie, whoknows? And that was why that letter did not get far enough back from herthievin' fingers. Oh, I'm mighty glad Kathleen Morrison give me themitten for Jess Gray, one of them Red Range boys. How can a man as goodand holy as I am manage the obstreperous girls? But," he addedseriously, "this is too near to sin and disgrace to joke about now."