Justin Wingate, Ranchman

by John Harvey Whitson

  CHAPTER II

  WINGATE JOURNEYS ON

  Justin Wingate tip-toed softly to and fro in front of the improvisedbook shelves and looked at the formidable array of books which,together with some furniture, had arrived for Clayton, and had beenbrought out from the town. The books were of a different characterentirely from those which composed the minister's scanty collection.Justin read the names slowly, without comprehension--"Spencer'sSynthetic Philosophy," "Darwin's Origin of Species," "Tyndall's Formsof Water," and hard-worded titles affixed to volumes of the Germanmetaphysicians. There were medical books too, a great many it seemedto the boy, in leather bindings, with gilt titles set in black squareson the backs.

  Clayton came in while Justin was tip-toeing before the book shelves.His appearance and manner had changed for the better. He looked at theboy with kindly interest, and was almost cheerful.

  "Do you think you would like to become an educated man, Justin?"

  The boy's eyes shone.

  "I don't know. Would I have to read all of those?"

  A smile twitched the corners of Clayton's dark eyes.

  "Not all of them at once, and perhaps some of them never. At any ratewe wouldn't try to begin so high up as that."

  He sat down and began to question the boy concerning his acquirements,and found they were not inconsiderable, for the lonely minister hadtried to be faithful to his trust. Except in one line, the Scriptural,the faculty of the imagination had alone been neglected; and thatseemed strange, for Peter Wingate was so quiveringly imaginative thathe lived perpetually in a dream world which he believed to be real.Justin had never heard of the Greek gods and demi-gods; the brothersGrimm, Hans Christian Andersen, the Arabian Nights, were unknown namesto him; he had never visited Liliput and the land of the giants withGulliver, nor even gone sailing romantic seas and living in blissfuland lonely exile with Robinson Crusoe and Friday. Yet he knew all thewonderful and attractive stories of the Bible. The friendship of Davidand Jonathan was as real to him as the love that existed betweenhimself and the minister. He knew the height of Goliath, and had evenmeasured on the ground, with the minister's help, the length of thatgiant's spear. He had seen the baby Moses drawn from his cradled nestin the bulrushes; had witnessed the breaking pitchers and the flashinglights of Gideon's band; and had watched in awed wonder when, at thecommand of Joshua, the sun had stopped over Gideon and the moon hadhung suspended above the valley of Ajalon.

  Clayton's dark eyes looked into the blue eyes of the boy as theytalked, and the choking ache which had been in his heart when he cameto that lonely home in that lonely valley all but ceased.

  "You haven't missed so very much after all, Justin. I guess therearen't any better stories than those you know anywhere in the world.But you know them so well now that we will begin on something else."

  Stepping to a box he drew out a book. When he came back with it Justinrecognized the title, "Robinson Crusoe," for he had once heard theminister mention it in a sermon.

  "Is it a story?" he asked, eagerly.

  "One of the best stories ever written, I think. It has made boys runaway to sea, I've been told, but I don't believe you will be harmed byit in that way. Seven-league boots would be needed to run away to seafrom here. So we'll risk reading it."

  He sat down and began to read; and the boy, standing close against hisknees as on that first night, felt a strange warmth steal through him.He wanted to put his arms around the neck of this man; and when atlength Clayton in shifting his position dropped a hand softly on theboy's shoulder and let it rest there as he read on, the inner warmthso increased in the heart of the boy that he could hardly follow thestory, fascinating as it was.

  What may be called Justin's course of instruction under Clayton beganthat day, after Clayton had talked with Wingate and asked theprivilege of ordering certain books for Justin. The mail of a few dayslater brought "Treasure Island."

  "A wild book and a bloody one," said Clayton, as he took it from itswrapping, while Justin looked on expectantly, "but a little wildnesswill be a good thing in this stagnation, and the blood in such a bookdoesn't hurt a boy who isn't bloody-minded. I think there must havebeen pirates who went about bludgeoning folks in the days of thecave-dwellers, and certainly books about pirates couldn't have madethose fellows what they were."

  It was a delight to instruct such a natural, inquisitive, imaginativeboy as Justin. And the lessons were not confined to books. Clayton hada little glass which he slipped in and out of his pocket at intervalsas he walked about with the boy. Looking through that glass thegreenish stuff that appeared on the stones by the margin of the tepidstream was revealed as a beautiful green moss, the tufted head of adusty weed was seen to be set with white lilies, and tiny specksbecame strange crawling and creeping things. Suddenly Justin had foundthat the very air, the earth, even the water in the tepid pools of thestream, swarmed with life, and it was an astonishing revelation. Andeverywhere was order, and beauty of form and coloring; for even acommon rock, broken and viewed through that glass, showed beautifuldiamond-like crystals.

  One day Clayton plucked the leaf of a weed and holding it beneath theglass let Justin look at it.

  "It's covered all over with fuzzy hairs!"

  Clayton plucked another of a different kind.

  "Isn't it funny? You can't see them, only through the glass, but theedges are spiked, just as if there were little thorns set all alongit!"

  Clayton sat down, toying with the weeds and the glass.

  "What do you suppose those spikes and hairs are for?"

  "I don't know."

  "Perhaps no one really knows, but men may have theories. See thatlittle moth moving now across the weed blade. He is on the under side,and the hairs help him to hold on. When he reaches the edge and wishesto climb over, the hairs and the spikes help him to do that. Thatshows, to me at least, that nature provides as completely for a mothas for a man, and that God cares as much for the one as for the other;only man, having a very high opinion of himself, doesn't think so.Aha! Mr. Moth's wings are wet and he is having some trouble; we'll seeif we can help him."

  He stretched out his hand to turn the grass blade over, and in doingso crushed the moth; it was his half useless left hand, heavy andclumsy. His face flushed as he looked at his crooked arm, and then atthe moth, its mail of silver dust smeared over the green, sword-likeblade.

  "Poor little thing," he said.

  He put away the glass and rose, and there was no further lesson thatmorning.

  Sometimes Justin rode forth with him on a visit to the home of asettler. All knew him soon, and were glad of his coming. That heappeared to have established himself permanently in one of theabandoned houses of the town gave them selfish pleasure, for it wasgood to have a doctor near.

  Often Clayton rode forth alone, spending whole days off in the hills,or on the level lands stretching away from their base. He found Justinalways watching for him when he returned, and he never failed to bringhome something of interest in the shape of a crystal, a flower, alichen, or mayhap an abandoned bird's nest, which furnished either alesson or food for conversation.

  Always on his return from any trip, far or near, Wingate questionedhim with anxious yearning. Were the farmers still hopeful, what cropslooked most promising, did the deceptive clouds about the mountainpromise rain, had he seen any land-hunters or white-topped schoonerson the trail? And when Clayton had answered, the dreamer talked of hisdream. He was sure of its fulfillment some day.

  "A baseless dream," thought Clayton; "but all dreams are baseless,gaudy, unsubstantial things, wrought by hope and fancy out offoundationless air, and to shatter his dream would be to shatter hisheart."

  As he returned one day, Clayton beheld in the trail the vanishingwheels of the mail carrier's cart and saw Justin running toward him ingreat excitement. Quickening the pace of his horse he was soon at theboy's side.

  "Father--Mr. Wingate--has--had a fit, or something. He's lying on thefloor and won't speak to me, and I can't lift him
."

  Clayton leaped from the saddle and rushed into the house, with Justinat his heels. The preacher lay on the floor, with arms spread out.Beneath him was an open letter, across which he had fallen. Claytonmade a hurried examination, and with Justin's aid placed him on thelow bed. Picking up the letter he glanced at it. It was from thesecretary of the town company, and was apparently an answer to onewhich Wingate had sent:

  "Mr. Peter Wingate.

  "My Dear Sir:--We regret that we cannot view the prospects of the town and valley of Paradise as hopefully as you do. In fact we have concluded to abandon it definitely and permanently, and to that end we have sold all the buildings. The agent of the purchaser will visit you at once and make arrangements for their removal.

  "Very truly yours, "Royce Gilbert, "Secretary Paradise Land and Town Company."

  "Is he--very sick?" wailed the boy anxiously.

  Clayton dropped the letter to the floor, and swinging about in hischair drew Justin to him, pressing him close against his heart. Therewere tears in his eyes and his voice choked.

  "Justin," he said, "you will need to be a very brave boy now; Mr.Wingate is dead."