The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter

by Gene Stratton-Porter

  “I don’t think he was for having a doubt of the Angel before, but then he just raved. He grabbed out his gun and turned on Wessner. Spang! It went out of his fist, and the order comes: ‘Hands up!’ Wessner reached for kingdom come like he was expecting to grab hold and pull himself up. Jack puts up what he has left. Then he leans over to me and tells me what he’ll do to me if he ever gets out of there alive. Then, just like a snake hissing, he spits out what he’ll do to her for playing him. He did get away, and with his strength, that wound in his hand won’t be bothering him long. He’ll do to me just what he said, and when he hears it really was she that went after you, why, he’ll keep his oath about her.

  “He’s lived in the swamp all his life, sir, and everybody says it’s always been the home of cutthroats, outlaws, and runaways. He knows its most secret places as none of the others. He’s alive. He’s in there now, sir. Some way he’ll keep alive. If you’d seen his face, all scarlet with passion, twisted with pain, and black with hate, and heard him swearing that oath, you’d know it was a sure thing. I ain’t done with him yet, and I’ve brought this awful thing on her.”

  “And I haven’t begun with him yet,” said McLean, setting his teeth. “I’ve been away too slow and too easy, believing there’d be no greater harm than the loss of a tree. I’ve sent for a couple of first-class detectives. We will put them on his track, and rout him out and rid the country of him. I don’t propose for him to stop either our work or our pleasure. As for his being in the swamp now, I don’t believe it. He’d find a way out last night, in spite of us. Don’t you worry! I am at the helm now, and I’ll see to that gentleman in my own way.”

  “I wish to my soul you had seen and heard him!” said Freckles, unconvinced.

  They entered the swamp, taking the route followed by the Bird Woman and the Angel. They really did find the logs, almost where the Angel had predicted they would be. McLean went to the South camp and had an interview with Crowen that completely convinced him that the Angel was correct there also. But he had no proof, so all he could do was to discharge the man, although his guilt was so apparent that he offered to withdraw the wager.

  Then McLean sent for a pack of bloodhounds and put them on the trail of Black Jack. They clung to it, on and on, into the depths of the swamp, leading their followers through what had been considered impassable and impenetrable ways, and finally, around near the west entrance and into the swale. Here the dogs bellowed, raved, and fell over each other in their excitement. They raced back and forth from swamp to swale, but follow the scent farther they would not, even though cruelly driven. At last their owner attributed their actions to snakes, and as they were very valuable dogs, abandoned the effort to urge them on. So that all they really established was the fact that Black Jack had eluded their vigilance and crossed the trail some time in the night. He had escaped to the swale; from there he probably crossed the corduroy, and reaching the lower end of the swamp, had found friends. It was a great relief to feel that he was not in the swamp, and it raised the spirits of every man on the line, though many of them expressed regrets that he who was undoubtedly most to blame should escape, while Wessner, who in the beginning was only his tool, should be left to punishment.

  But for Freckles, with Jack’s fearful oath ringing in his ears, there was neither rest nor peace. He was almost ill when the day for the next study of the series arrived and he saw the Bird Woman and the Angel coming down the corduroy. The guards of the east line he left at their customary places, but those of the west he brought over and placed, one near Little Chicken’s tree, and the other at the carriage. He was firm about the Angel’s remaining in the carriage, that he did not offer to have unhitched. He went with the Bird Woman to secure the picture, which was the easiest matter it had been at any time yet, for the simple reason that the placing of the guards and the unusual movement around the swamp had made Mr. and Mrs. Chicken timid, and they had not carried Little Chicken the customary amount of food. Freckles, in the anxiety of the past few days, had neglected him, and he had been so hungry, much of the time, that when the Bird Woman held up a sweet-bread, although he had started toward the recesses of the log at her coming, he stopped; with slightly opened beak, he waited anxiously for the treat, and gave a study of great value, showing every point of his head, also his wing and tail development.

  When the Bird Woman proposed to look for other subjects close about the line, Freckles went so far as to tell her that Jack had made fearful threats against the Angel. He implored her to take the Angel home and keep her under unceasing guard until Jack was located. He wanted to tell her all about it, but he knew how dear the Angel was to her, and he dreaded to burden her with his fears when they might prove groundless. He allowed her to go, but afterward blamed himself severely for having done so.

  Chapter 14

  Wherein Freckles Nurses a Heartache and Black Jack Drops Out

  “McLean,” said Mrs. Duncan, as the Boss paused to greet her in passing the cabin, “do you know that Freckles hasna been in bed the past five nights and all he’s eaten in that many days ye could pack into a pint cup?”

  “Why, what does the boy mean?” demanded McLean. “There’s no necessity for him being on guard, with the watch I’ve set on the line. I had no idea he was staying down there.”

  “He’s no there,” said Mrs. Duncan. “He goes somewhere else. He leaves on his wheel juist after we’re abed and rides in close cock-crow or a little earlier, and he’s looking like death and nothing short of it.”

  “But where does he go?” asked McLean in astonishment.

  “I’m no given to bearing tales out of school,” said Sarah Duncan, “but in this case I’d tell ye if I could. What the trouble is I dinna ken. If it is no’ stopped, he’s in for dreadful sickness, and I thought ye could find out and help him. He’s in sair trouble; that’s all I know.”

  McLean sat brooding as he stroked Nellie’s neck.

  At last he said: “I suspect I understand. At any rate, I think I can find out. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Ye’ll no need telling, once ye clap your eyes on him,” prophesied Mrs. Duncan. “His face is all a glist’ny yellow, and he’s peaked as a starving caged bird.”

  McLean rode to the Limberlost, and stopping in the shade, sat waiting for Freckles, whose hour for passing the foot of the lease had come.

  Along the north line came Freckles, fairly staggering. When he turned east and reached Sleepy Snake Creek, sliding through the swale as the long black snake for which it was named, he sat on the bridge and closed his burning eyes, but they would not remain shut. As if pulled by wires, the heavy lids flew open, while the outraged nerves and muscles of his body danced, twitched, and tingled.

  He bent forward and idly watched the limpid little stream flowing beneath his feet. Stretching into the swale, it came creeping between an impenetrable wall of magnificent wild flowers, vines, and ferns. Milkweed, goldenrod, ironwort, fringed gentians, cardinal-flowers, and turtle-head stood on the very edge of the creek, and every flower of them had a double in the water. Wild clematis crowned with snow the heads of trees scattered here and there on the bank.

  From afar the creek appeared to be murky, dirty water. Really it was clear and sparkling. The tinge of blackness was gained from its bed of muck showing through the transparent current. He could see small and wonderfully marked fish. What became of them when the creek spread into the swamp? For one thing, they would make mighty fine eating for the family of that self-satisfied old blue heron.

  Freckles sat so quietly that soon the brim of his hat was covered with snake-feeders, rasping their crisp wings and singing while they rested. Some of them settled on the club, and one on his shoulder. He was so motionless; feathers, fur, and gauze were so accustomed to him, that all through the swale they continued their daily life and forgot he was there.

  The heron family were wading the mouth of the creek. Freckles idly wondered whether the nerve-racking rasps they occasionally emitted indicated do
mestic felicity or a raging quarrel. He could not decide. A sheitpoke, with flaring crest, went stalking across a bare space close to the creek’s mouth. A stately brown bittern waded into the clear-flowing water, lifting his feet high at every step, and setting them down carefully, as if he dreaded wetting them, and with slightly parted beak, stood eagerly watching around him for worms. Behind him were some mighty trees of the swamp above, and below the bank glowed a solid wall of goldenrod.

  No wonder the ancients had chosen yellow as the color to represent victory, for the fierce, conquering hue of the sun was in it. They had done well, too, in selecting purple as the emblem of royalty. It was a dignified, compelling color, while in its warm tone there was a hint of blood.

  It was the Limberlost’s hour to proclaim her sovereignty and triumph. Everywhere she flaunted her yellow banner and trailed the purple of her mantle, that was paler in the thistle-heads, took on strength in the first opening asters, and glowed and burned in the ironwort.

  He gazed into her damp, mossy recesses where high-piled riven trees decayed under coats of living green, where dainty vines swayed and clambered, and here and there a yellow leaf, fluttering down, presaged the coming of winter. His love of the swamp laid hold of him and shook him with its force.

  Compellingly beautiful was the Limberlost, but cruel withal; for inside bleached the uncoffined bones of her victims, while she had missed cradling him, oh! so narrowly.

  He shifted restlessly; the movement sent the snake-feeders skimming. The hum of life swelled and roared in his strained ears. Small turtles, that had climbed on a log to sun, splashed clumsily into the water. Somewhere in the timber of the bridge a bloodthirsty little frog cried sharply. “KEEL’IM! KEEL’IM!”

  Freckles muttered: “It’s worse than that Black Jack swore to do to me, little fellow.”

  A muskrat waddled down the bank and swam for the swamp, its pointed nose riffling the water into a shining trail in its wake.

  Then, below the turtle-log, a dripping silver-gray head, with shining eyes, was cautiously lifted, and Freckles’s hand slid to his revolver. Higher and higher came the head, a long, heavy, fur-coated body arose, now half, now three-fourths from the water. Freckles looked at his shaking hand and doubted, but he gathered his forces, the shot rang, and the otter lay quiet. He hurried down and tried to lift it. He scarcely could muster strength to carry it to the bridge. The consciousness that he really could go no farther with it made Freckles realize the fact that he was close the limit of human endurance. He could bear it little, if any, longer. Every hour the dear face of the Angel wavered before him, and behind it the awful distorted image of Black Jack, as he had sworn to the punishment he would mete out to her. He must either see McLean, or else make a trip to town and find her father. Which should he do? He was almost a stranger, so the Angel’s father might not be impressed with what he said as he would if McLean went to him. Then he remembered that McLean had said he would come that morning. Freckles never had forgotten before. He hurried on the east trail as fast as his tottering legs would carry him.

  He stopped when he came to the first guard, and telling him of his luck, asked him to get the otter and carry it to the cabin, as he was anxious to meet McLean.

  Freckles passed the second guard without seeing him, and hurried to the Boss. He took off his hat, wiped his forehead, and stood silent under the eyes of McLean.

  The Boss was dumbfounded. Mrs. Duncan had led him to expect that he would find a change in Freckles, but this was almost deathly. The fact was apparent that the boy scarcely knew what he was doing. His eyes had a glazed, far-sighted appearance, that wrung the heart of the man who loved him. Without a thought of preliminaries, McLean leaned in the saddle and drew Freckles to him.

  “My poor lad!” he said. “My poor, dear lad! Tell me, and we will try to right it!”

  Freckles had twisted his fingers in Nellie’s mane. At the kind words his face dropped on McLean’s thigh and he shook with a nervous chill. McLean gathered him closer and waited.

  When the guard came with the otter, McLean without a word motioned him to lay it down and leave them.

  “Freckles,” said McLean at last, “will you tell me, or must I set to work in the dark and try to find the trouble?”

  “Oh, I want to tell you! I must tell you, sir,” shuddered Freckles. “I cannot be bearing it the day out alone. I was coming to you when I remimbered you would be here.”

  He lifted his face and gazed across the swale, with his jaws set firmly a minute, as if gathering his forces. Then he spoke.

  “It’s the Angel, sir,” he said.

  Instinctively McLean’s grip on him tightened, and Freckles looked into the Boss’s face in wonder.

  “I tried, the other day,” said Freckles, “and I couldn’t seem to make you see. It’s only that there hasn’t been an hour, waking or sleeping, since the day she parted the bushes and looked into me room, that the face of her hasn’t been before me in all the tinderness, beauty, and mischief of it. She talked to me friendly like. She trusted me entirely to take right care of her. She helped me with things about me books. She traited me like I was born a gintleman, and shared with me as if I were of her own blood. She walked the streets of the town with me before her friends with all the pride of a queen. She forgot herself and didn’t mind the Bird Woman, and run big risks to help me out that first day, sir. This last time she walked into that gang of murderers, took their leader, and twisted him to the will of her. She outdone him and raced the life almost out of her trying to save me.

  “Since I can remimber, whatever the thing was that happened to me in the beginning has been me curse. I’ve been bitter, hard, and smarting under it hopelessly. She came by, and found me voice, and put hope of life and success like other men into me in spite of it.”

  Freckles held up his maimed arm.

  “Look at it, sir!” he said. “A thousand times I’ve cursed it, hanging there helpless. She took it on the street, before all the people, just as if she didn’t see that it was a thing to hide and shrink from. Again and again I’ve had the feeling with her, if I didn’t entirely forget it, that she didn’t see it was gone and I must he pointing it out to her. Her touch on it was so sacred-like, at times since I’ve caught meself looking at the awful thing near like I was proud of it, sir. If I had been born your son she couldn’t be traiting me more as her equal, and she can’t help knowing you ain’t truly me father. Nobody can know the homeliness or the ignorance of me better than I do, and all me lack of birth, relatives, and money, and what’s it all to her?”

  Freckles stepped back, squared his shoulders, and with a royal lift of his head looked straight into the Boss’s eyes.

  “You saw her in the beautiful little room of her, and you can’t be forgetting how she begged and plead with you for me. She touched me body, and ’twas sanctified. She laid her lips on my brow, and ’twas sacrament. Nobody knows the height of her better than me. Nobody’s studied my depths closer. There’s no bridge for the great distance between us, sir, and clearest of all, I’m for realizing it: but she risked terrible things when she came to me among that gang of thieves. She wore herself past bearing to save me from such an easy thing as death! Now, here’s me, a man, a big, strong man, and letting her live under that fearful oath, so worse than any death ‘twould be for her, and lifting not a finger to save her. I cannot hear it, sir. It’s killing me by inches! Black Jack’s hand may not have been hurt so bad. Any hour he may be creeping up behind her! Any minute the awful revenge he swore to be taking may in some way fall on her, and I haven’t even warned her father. I can’t stay here doing nothing another hour. The five nights gone I’ve watched under her windows, but there’s the whole of the day. She’s her own horse and little cart, and’s free to be driving through the town and country as she pleases. If any evil comes to her through Black Jack, it comes from her angel-like goodness to me. Somewhere he’s hiding! Somewhere he is waiting his chance! Somewhere he is reaching out for her! I tell you I
cannot, I dare not be bearing it longer!”

  “Freckles, be quiet!” said McLean, his eyes humid and his voice quivering with the pity of it all. “Believe me, I did not understand. I know the Angel’s father well. I will go to him at once. I have transacted business with him for the past three years. I will make him see! I am only beginning to realize your agony, and the real danger there is for the Angel. Believe me, I will see that she is fully protected every hour of the day and night until Jack is located and disposed of. And I promise you further, that if I fail to move her father or make him understand the danger, I will maintain a guard over her until Jack is caught. Now will you go bathe, drink some milk, go to bed, and sleep for hours, and then be my brave, bright old boy again?”

  “Yis,” said Freckles simply.

  But McLean could see the flesh was twitching on the lad’s bones.

  “What was it the guard brought there?” McLean asked in an effort to distract Freckles’s thoughts.

  “Oh!” Freckles said, glancing where the Boss pointed, “I forgot it! ’Tis an otter, and fine past believing, for this warm weather. I shot it at the creek this morning. ’Twas a good shot, considering. I expected to miss.”

  Freckles picked up the animal and started toward McLean with it, but Nellie pricked up her dainty little ears, danced into the swale, and snorted with fright. Freckles dropped the otter and ran to her head.

  “For pity’s sake, get her on the trail, sir,” he begged. “She’s just about where the old king rattler crosses to go into the swamp—the old buster Duncan and I have been telling you of. I haven’t a doubt but it was the one Mother Duncan met. ’Twas down the trail there, just a little farther on, that I found her, and it’s sure to be close yet.”

  McLean slid from Nellie’s back, led her into the trail farther down the line, and tied her to a bush. Then he went to examine the otter. It was a rare, big specimen, with exquisitely fine, long, silky hair.