“What do you want to do with it, Freckles?” asked McLean, as he stroked the soft fur lingeringly. “Do you know that it is very valuable?”
“I was for almost praying so, sir,” said Freckles. “As I saw it coming up the bank I thought this: Once somewhere in a book there was a picture of a young girl, and she was just a breath like the beautifulness of the Angel. Her hands were in a muff as big as her body, and I thought it was so pretty. I think she was some queen, or the like. Do you suppose I could have this skin tanned and made into such a muff as that?—an enormous big one, sir?”
“Of course you can,” said McLean. “That’s a fine idea and it’s easy enough. We must box and express the otter, cold storage, by the first train. You stand guard a minute and I’ll tell Hall to carry it to the cabin. I’ll put Nellie to Duncan’s rig, and we’ll drive to town and call on the Angel’s father. Then we’ll start the otter while it is fresh, and I’ll write your instructions later. It would be a mighty fine thing for you to give to the Angel as a little reminder of the Limberlost before it is despoiled, and as a souvenir of her trip for you.”
Freckles lifted a face with a glow of happy color creeping into it and eyes lighting with a former brightness. Throwing his arms around McLean, he cried: “Oh, how I love you! Oh, I wish I could make you know how I love you!”
McLean strained him to his breast.
“God bless you, Freckles,” he said. “I do know! We’re going to have some good old times out of this world together, and we can’t begin too soon. Would you rather sleep first, or have a bite of lunch, take the drive with me, and then rest? I don’t know but sleep will come sooner and deeper to take the ride and have your mind set at ease before you lie down. Suppose you go.”
“Suppose I do,” said Freckles, with a glimmer of the old light in his eyes and newly found strength to shoulder the otter. Together they turned into the trail.
McLean noticed and spoke of the big black chickens.
“They’ve been hanging round out there for several days past,” said Freckles. “I’ll tell you what I think it means. I think the old rattler has killed something too big for him to swallow, and he’s keeping guard and won’t let me chickens have it. I’m just sure, from the way the birds have acted out there all summer, that it is the rattler’s den. You watch them now. See the way they dip and then rise, frightened like!”
Suddenly McLean turned toward him with blanching face.
“Freckles!” he cried.
“My God, sir!” shuddered Freckles.
He dropped the otter, caught up his club, and plunged into the swale. Reaching for his revolver, McLean followed. The chickens circled higher at their coming, and the big snake lifted his head and rattled angrily. It sank in sinuous coils at the report of McLean’s revolver, and together he and Freckles stood beside Black Jack. His fate was evident and most horrible.
“Come,” said the Boss at last. “We don’t dare touch him. We will get a sheet from Mrs. Duncan and tuck over him, to keep these swarms of insects away, and set Hall on guard, while we find the officers.”
Freckles’s lips closed resolutely. He deliberately thrust his club under Black Jack’s body, and, raising him, rested it on his knee. He pulled a long silver pin from the front of the dead man’s shirt and sent it spinning into the swale. Then he gathered up a few crumpled bright flowers and dropped them into the pool far away.
“My soul is sick with the horror of this thing,” said McLean, as he and Freckles drove toward town. “I can’t understand how Jack dared risk creeping through the swale, even in desperation. No one knew its dangers better than he. And why did he choose the rankest, muckiest place to cross the swamp?”
“Don’t you think, sir, it was because it was on a line with the Limberlost south of the corduroy? The grass was tallest there, and he counted on those willows to screen him. Once he got among them, he would have been safe to walk by stooping. If he’d made it past that place, he’d been sure to get out.”
“Well, I’m as sorry for Jack as I know how to be,” said McLean, “but I can’t help feeling relieved that our troubles are over, for now they are. With so dreadful a punishment for Jack, Wessner under arrest, and warrants for the others, we can count on their going away and remaining. As for anyone else, I don’t think they will care to attempt stealing my timber after the experience of these men. There is no other man here with Jack’s fine ability in woodcraft. He was an expert.”
“Did you ever hear of anyone who ever tried to locate any trees excepting him?” asked Freckles.
“No, I never did,” said McLean. “I am sure there was no one besides him. You see, it was only with the arrival of our company that the other fellows scented good stuff in the Limberlost, and tried to work in. Jack knew the swamp better than anyone here. When he found there were two companies trying to lease, he wanted to stand in with the one from which he could realize the most. Even then he had trees marked that he was trying to dispose of. I think his sole intention in forcing me to discharge him from my gang was to come here and try to steal timber. We had no idea, when we took the lease, what a gold mine it was.”
“That’s exactly what Wessner said that first day,” said Freckles eagerly. “That ’twas a ‘gold mine’! He said he didn’t know where the marked trees were, but he knew a man who did, and if I would hold off and let them get the marked ones, there were a dozen they could get out in a few days.”
“Freckles!” cried McLean. “You don’t mean a dozen!”
“That’s what he said, sir—a dozen. He said they couldn’t tell how the grain of all of them would work up, of course, but they were all worth taking out, and five or six were real gold mines. This makes three they’ve tried, so there must be nine more marked, and several of them for being just fine.”
“Well, I wish I knew which they are,” said McLean, “so I could get them out first.”
“I have been thinking,” said Freckles. “I believe if you will leave one of the guards on the line—say Hall—that I will begin on the swamp, at the north end, and lay it off in sections, and try to hunt out the marked trees. I suppose they are all marked something like that first maple on the line was. Wessner mentioned another good one not so far from that. He said it was best of all. I’d be having the swelled head if I could find that. Of course, I don’t know a thing about the trees, but I could hunt for the marks. Jack was so good at it he could tell some of them by the bark, but all he wanted to take that we’ve found so far have just had a deep chip cut out, rather low down, and where the bushes were thick over it. I believe I could be finding some of them.”
“Good head!” said McLean. “We will do that. You may begin as soon as you are rested. And about things you come across in the swamp, Freckles—the most trifling little thing that you think the Bird Woman would want, take your wheel and go after her at any time. I’ll leave two men on the line, so that you will have one on either side, and you can come and go as you please. Have you stopped to think of all we owe her, my boy?”
“Yis; and the Angel—we owe her a lot, too,” said Freckles. “I owe her me life and honor. It’s lying awake nights I’ll have to be trying to think how I’m ever to pay her up.”
“Well, begin with the muff,” suggested McLean. “That should be fine.”
He bent down and ruffled the rich fur of the otter lying at his feet.
“I don’t exactly see how it comes to be in such splendid fur in summer. Their coats are always thick in cold weather, but this scarcely could be improved. I’ll wire Cooper to be watching for it. They must have it fresh. When it’s tanned we won’t spare any expense in making it up. It should be a royal thing, and some way I think it will exactly suit the Angel. I can’t think of anything that would be more appropriate for her.”
“Neither can I,” agreed Freckles heartily. “When I reach the city there’s one other thing, if I’ve the money after the muff is finished.”
He told McLean of Mrs. Duncan’s desire for a hat similar to the
Angel’s. He hesitated a little in the telling, keeping sharp watch on McLean’s face. When he saw the Boss’s eyes were full of comprehension and sympathy, he loved him anew, for, as ever, McLean was quick to understand. Instead of laughing, he said: “I think you’ll have to let me in on that, too. You mustn’t be selfish, you know. I’ll tell you what we’ll do. Send it for Christmas. I’ll be home then, and we can fill a box. You get the hat. I’ll add a dress and wrap. You buy Duncan a hat and gloves. I’ll send him a big overcoat, and we’ll put in a lot of little stuff for the babies. Won’t that be fun?”
Freckles fairly shivered with delight.
“That would be away too serious for fun,” he said. “That would be heavenly. How long will it be?”
He began counting the time, and McLean deliberately set himself to encourage Freckles and keep his thoughts from the trouble of the past few days, for he had been overwrought and needed quiet and rest.
Chapter 15
Wherein Freckles and the Angel Try Taking a Picture, and Little Chicken Furnishes the Subject
A week later everything at the Limberlost was precisely as it had been before the tragedy, except the case in Freckles’s room now rested on the stump of the newly felled tree. Enough of the vines were left to cover it prettily, and every vestige of the havoc of a few days before was gone. New guards were patrolling the trail. Freckles was roughly laying off the swamp in sections and searching for marked trees. In that time he had found one deeply chipped and the chip cunningly replaced and tacked in. It promised to be quite rare, so he was jubilant. He also found so many subjects for the Bird Woman that her coming was of almost daily occurrence, and the hours he spent with her and the Angel were nothing less than golden.
The Limberlost was now arrayed as the Queen of Sheba in all her glory. The first frosts of autumn had bejewelled her crown in flashing topaz, ruby, and emerald. Around her feet trailed the purple of her garments, while in her hand was her golden scepter. Everything was at full tide. It seemed as if nothing could grow lovelier, and it was all standing still a few weeks, waiting coming destruction.
The swamp was palpitant with life. Every pair of birds that had flocked to it in the spring was now multiplied by from two to ten. The young were tame from Freckles’s tri-parenthood, and so plump and sleek that they were quite as beautiful as their elders, even if in many cases they lacked their brilliant plumage. It was the same story of increase everywhere. There were chubby little ground-hogs scudding on the trail. There were cunning baby coons and opossums peeping from hollow logs and trees. Young muskrats followed their parents across the lagoons.
If you could come upon a family of foxes that had not yet disbanded, and see the young playing with a wild duck’s carcass that their mother had brought, and note the pride and satisfaction in her eyes as she lay at one side guarding them, it would be a picture not to be forgotten. Freckles never tired of studying the devotion of a fox mother to her babies. To him, whose early life had been so embittered by continual proof of neglect and cruelty in human parents toward their children, the love of these furred and feathered folk of the Limberlost was even more of a miracle than to the Bird Woman and the Angel.
The Angel liked the baby rabbits and squirrels. Earlier in the season, when the young were yet very small, it so happened that at times Freckles could give into her hands one of these little ones. Then it was pure joy to stand back and watch her heaving breast, flushed cheek, and shining eyes. Hers were such lovely eyes. Freckles had discovered lately that they were not so dark as he had thought them at first, but that the length and thickness of lash, by which they were shaded, made them appear darker than they really were. They were forever changing. Now sparkling and darkling with wit, now humid with sympathy, now burning with the fire of courage, now taking on strength of color with ambition, now flashing indignantly at the abuse of any creature.
She had carried several of the squirrel and bunny babies home, and had littered the conservatory with them. Her care of them was perfect. She was learning her natural history from nature, and having much healthful exercise. To her, they were the most interesting of all, but the Bird Woman preferred the birds, with a close second in the moths and butterflies.
Brown butterfly time had come. The edge of the swale was filled with milkweed, and other plants beloved of them, and the air was golden with the flashing satin wings of the monarch, viceroy, and argynnis. They outnumbered those of any other color three to one.
Among the birds it really seemed as if the little yellow fellows were in the preponderance. At least, they were until the redwinged blackbirds and bobolinks, that had nested on the upland, suddenly saw in the swamp the garden of the Lord and came swarming by hundreds to feast and adventure upon it these last few weeks before migration. Never was there a finer feast spread for the birds. The grasses were filled with seeds: so, too, were weeds of every variety. Fall berries were ripe. Wild grapes and black haws were ready. Bugs were creeping everywhere. The muck was yeasty with worms. Insects filled the air. Nature made glorious pause for holiday before her next change, and by none of the frequenters of the swamp was this more appreciated than by the big black chickens.
They seemed to feel the new reign of peace and fullness most of all. As for food, they did not even have to hunt for themselves these days, for the feasts now being spread before Little Chicken were more than he could use, and he was glad to have his parents come down and help him.
He was a fine, big, overgrown fellow, and his wings, with quills of jetty black, gleaming with bronze, were so strong they almost lifted his body. He had three inches of tail, and his beak and claws were sharp. His muscles began to clamor for exercise. He raced the forty feet of his home back and forth many times every hour of the day. After a few days of that, he began lifting and spreading his wings, and flopping them until the down on his back was filled with elm fiber. Then he commenced jumping. The funny little hops, springs, and sidewise bounds he gave set Freckles and the Angel, hidden in the swamp, watching him, into smothered chuckles of delight.
Sometimes he fell to coquetting with himself; and that was the funniest thing of all, for he turned his head up, down, from side to side, and drew in his chin with prinky little jerks and tilts. He would stretch his neck, throw up his head, turn it to one side and smirk—actually smirk, the most complacent and self-satisfied smirk that anyone ever saw on the face of a bird. It was so comical that Freckles and the Angel told the Bird Woman of it one day.
When she finished her work on Little Chicken, she left them the camera ready for use, telling them they might hide in the bushes and watch. If Little Chicken came out and truly smirked, and they could squeeze the bulb at the proper moment to snap him, she would be more than delighted.
Freckles and the Angel quietly curled beside a big log, and with eager eyes and softest breathing they patiently waited; but Little Chicken had feasted before they told of his latest accomplishment. He was tired and sleepy, so he went into the log to bed, and for an hour he never stirred.
They were becoming anxious, for the light soon would be gone, and they had so wanted to try for the picture. At last Little Chicken lifted his head, opened his beak, and gaped widely. He dozed a minute or two more. The Angel said that was his beauty sleep. Then he lazily gaped again and stood up, stretching and yawning. He ambled leisurely toward the gateway, and the Angel said: “Now, we may have a chance, at last.”
“I do hope so,” shivered Freckles.
With one accord they arose to their knees and trained their eyes on the mouth of the log. The light was full and strong. Little Chicken prospected again with no results. He dressed his plumage, polished his beak, and when he felt fine and in full toilet he began to flirt with himself. Freckles’s eyes snapped and his breath sucked between his clenched teeth.
“He’s going to do it!” whispered the Angel. “That will come next. You’ll best give me that bulb!”
“Yis,” assented Freckles, but he was looking at the log and he made no move to r
elinquish the bulb.
Little Chicken nodded daintily and ruffled his feathers. He gave his head sundry little sidewise jerks and rapidly shifted his point of vision. Once there was the fleeting little ghost of a smirk.
“Now!—No!” snapped the Angel.
Freckles leaned toward the bird. Tensely he waited. Unconsciously the hand of the Angel clasped his. He scarcely knew it was there. Suddenly Little Chicken sprang straight in the air and landed with a thud. The Angel started slightly, but Freckles was immovable. Then, as if in approval of his last performance, the big, overgrown baby wheeled until he was more than three-quarters, almost full side, toward the camera, straightened on his legs, squared his shoulders, stretched his neck full height, drew in his chin and smirked his most pronounced smirk, directly in the face of the lens.
Freckles’s fingers closed on the bulb convulsively, and the Angel’s closed on his at the instant. Then she heaved a great sigh of relief and lifted her hands to push back the damp, clustering hair from her face.
“How soon do you s’pose it will be finished?” came Freckles’s strident whisper.
For the first time the Angel looked at him. He was on his knees, leaning forward, his eyes directed toward the bird, the perspiration running in little streams down his red, mosquito-bitten face. His hat was awry, his bright hair rampant, his breast heaving with excitement, while he yet gripped the bulb with every ounce of strength in his body.
“Do you think we were for getting it?” he asked.
The Angel could only nod. Freckles heaved a deep sigh of relief.
“Well, if that ain’t the hardest work I ever did in me life!” he exclaimed. “It’s no wonder the Bird Woman’s for coming out of the swamp looking as if she’s been through a fire, a flood, and a famine, if that’s what she goes through day after day. But if you think we got it, why, it’s worth all it took, and I’m glad as ever you are, sure!”
They put the holders in the case, carefully closed the camera, set it in also, and carried it to the road.
The Best of Gene Stratton-Porter Page 18
