by Unknown
In the lumber camp he and Solomon unloaded their sleighs at the store-house and took their teams into the long log barns. Here in the woods the snow hardly melted during the days. The road leading in was feet about the earth, packed hard on its double tracks; and the snow had drifted up against the buildings till the windows on the northern walls had tunnels dug down to them to let the light in.
The stable had a line of long single stalls running down one side, and a space at the end for hay. It was dark inside, and the unfrozen earth just under the board beds of the stalls smelt fresh and strong. At night, with the teams all in, it was as warm as the bunk house, and the air was thick with steam, choking with the smell of sweat and sharp ammonia. It braced Dan like a tonic after the long cold ride.
Then he and Solomon sat in the cookhouse, with their backs to the great stove, where the cook worked in an undershirt and apron, his blacksmith’s arms hot and red from baking, his quick stiff fingers white with flour. He could bake twenty pies at a time in the great oven; he had eighty men to feed all at once. It was a man’s job. Yet all the time he gave them gossip over his shoulder and asked for news of Utica. And when the talk went low he told them how he lost his foot on a steamboat, when a connecting rod broke in a race down the Hudson; and how he had a wooden foot made in its place and took to cooking.
“I couldn’t keep away from a fire. Feeding pies to jacks is just the same as raising steam in a boiler. It’s harder work on your arms, but not so hard on the foot.”
It clacked and banged on the planks as he moved back and forth.
“I had it carved in the shape of a shoe,” he said. “So I only have to get one real shoe made to a time. And it don’t squeak, nor does it need a shine only once a year.”
He pulled his moustache away from his mouth, leaving the end white with flour.
The men came in and lined at the tables, and the cook’s helpers put the food in front of them. They did not talk as they ate; they were too tired. Now and then the cook made a snatch at conversation with Dan and Solomon in an effort at hospitality. After the meal he cleaned his skillets and pans, leaving the dishes to his helpers. The men went to sleep in the bunk house early, and Dan and Solomon went after them. A single lantern burned by the door, making a feeble glimmer in the long room with its double rack of bunks. Beyond it in the shadows the deep steady breathing and heavy snores mingled with a hum and drone like twelve-foot band saws ripping virgin pine. It was a heavy sound, beating upon Dan’s ears, and it brought into his mind, each night he spent there, the quiet of the cabin on the Sarsey Sal. He turned in his sleep on the narrow mattress and fought the wall. Or he lay awake for a time, his eyes on the small square window at the far end, where the moonlight cut a slice through the darkness and showed a glimmer on the snow outside. Once he heard wolves running.
Then, next day when the lumbermen were at work in the woods once more, the cook made them up lunches and he and Solomon harnessed their teams and took the road back. All the long ride, his mind went ahead to the Sarsey Sal, where Molly would be getting his supper when he arrived, and where he would have his hours of ease, to stretch the stiffness from his back, to eat hot food that made him sleepy just to eat it; to have the deep quiet night of sleep.
The days and weeks went by like a dream; and he felt lazily contented. The routine absorbed his consciousness, with the nights on the boat and Sundays to keep track of and remember. Molly, in a print dress and fresh apron, at the cabin door to greet him and and look him over with her frank blue eyes. Sometimes she came out along the road on fine days to meet him, when he could be expected early; and they rode into the city together. The smoke rose up against the gathering darkness like a shelter from the snow. Molly, Sunday mornings combing her light brown hair in front of the mirror, with the sun against it, glowing on her shoulders; and he sitting there looking at her, pulling at his pipe now and then, taking pride in her while she made talk.
It snowed heavily in February; there were four feet on the level in the open valley; and in the woods, if a man jumped from his snowshoes, he went in up to his neck. The snow was piled higher than Molly’s head along the sidewalks. The city went about its daily life with a curious hemmed-in feeling in the air.
Few minstrel shows traveled during the cold months. What entertain-ments there were had been got up by church workers. Generally they were given for special audiences. But even so Dan did not care to go to them, for they were apt to come on Saturday nights, and he was tired after his day on the sleigh. He preferred to sit in the Sarsey Sal, to listen to what Molly would tell him of her doings. Her accounts of marketing, of shopping for dress goods, of a hardware sale, of a walk in the streets, never seemed to him to be the same. It was enough to hear her voice.
When he talked, himself, he talked about the team.
“They’re good, Molly. They couldn’t be better-matched if they was own brothers.”
“Yes,” she would say, with her eyes on the cap she was crocheting.
“I’d like to see ‘em working on a plough.”
His eyes were fixed on the windows with a far-away glance when Molly looked up at him. She had seen him so more often lately. It was the time of year.
“I’ll be glad when the canal opens,” she said. “I can’t hardly stand waiting for spring.”
“Yeanh. Men’ll be going over their seed potatoes soon.”
They were silent.
“What’ve you been doing?” he asked.
“I’ve been working on a rug,” she said, with a sudden lifting of her head. He caught the strain in her voice. “I got some odd pieces yesterday.”
She got up to show them to him.
“They’re pretty,” he said, scraping the bowl of his pipe.
“Me and Mrs. Gurget went after some red flannel in the afternoon. We didn’t get any. She couldn’t find none with a yard and a half in a piece, and she needs all of it in a petticoat.”
“Yeanh.”
“Eggs have dropped two cents,” she said.
“Pullets commencing to lay,” he said. “I thought they’d be coming in about now.”
They talked on, in odd sentences, Dan watching her out of the corner of his eye, and she him. When their glances met, they dropped them. She did not seem natural to him; ever since the fair she had acted queer. It was the wear of the winter, perhaps.
“What’s the matter with you, Molly?” he asked, suddenly, when their silence had left the tick of the clock to itself for several minutes. His voice sounded harsh to his own ears.
She looked up swiftly, her eyes shining as he had never seen them. He thought she was going to cry; he hadn’t meant to speak so roughly. He stared out of the window, waiting for her answer.
Suddenly she forced a laugh.
“There’s nothing the matter with me. Is there?”
He did not look at her, for his ears had noticed the catch in her voice.
“Well,” he said heavily, “I guess I’d ought to fix the team for the night.”
He got up, put on his hat, and went out. On deck he paused, wondering to himself. Then he glanced in the windows. Between the curtains he could see her. She had broken down, crying. He wondered whether he should go back; then he decided she would not want him to see her. He grunted and went to the barn.
There he fussed with the team for a few minutes, slapping their bellies after he had taken up the blanket straps, and grinning when they humped themselves.
“Only a month and a half,” he said to them, “and you’ll be sweating on the towpath.”
When he came out of the barn, he paused, glanced at the Sarsey Sal, and then went swiftly along the basin until he came to the Nancy. Mrs. Gurget told him cheerfully to come in. She was sitting in a rocking-chair, with her feet against the stove, her red hair in a thick braid round her head. She was alone.
“Hullo,” she said. “Come in, Dan. Where’s Molly?”
Dan took off his hat and sat down.
“She’s on the Sarsey Sal.�
�
Mrs. Gurget rocked jerkily back and forth. After a while she remarked: “Sol’s gone up to Bentley’s for a snort to soak his nose in.
“What’s the trouble?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Dan said. “Molly seems to act queer. She’s crying now, to beat all. And there ain’t anything to cry about I can see.”
Mrs. Gurget watched her toes as she rocked. Then she said, “Reach me that pie on the table, Dan.”
There was one piece left, and she held the knife over it with a firm hand.
“Have a piece?” she asked.
“No.”
She sighed, picked it up deftly in her fingers, and began to nibble it.
“I always did like cold pie,” she remarked.
She watched her toes over the piece of pie as she rocked.
Dan said, “She’s been queer off and on since she was to the fair. When I ask her what’s the trouble, she don’t say nothing.”
Mrs. Gurget nodded her head and munched.
“I noticed that, Dan. I’ll tell you. She had her fortune told there by a gypsy. It give her a turn, I think.”
“She ain’t been singing lately,” said Dan.
“Don’t get worried,” said Mrs. Gurget, smiling at him and running her tongue along her lips. “She’s young, and young gals is notional.”
“What did the gypsy tell her?” Dan asked.
“She won’t say. I’ve tried to edge it out of her a lot of times when she’d be aboard here to spend the day. She won’t tell. I’ve told her all such ideas gypsies has is untrue nonsense. But she’ll just set there, and then after a while she’ll perk and laugh.”
“I’ve noticed it,” Dan nodded gloomily.
Mrs. Gurget studied him with a kind light in her eyes.
“Don’t you worry, Dan. Gals is notional at times. There ain’t anything you can do if she’s getting notional. I’ll bet when you go back you’ll find her all perked up. She’ll have rinsed herself all out.”
Mrs. Gurget put the last of the pie into her mouth, munched it deliberately, swallowed it down. She sighed and licked each thumb.
“How long’ve you and Molly been living together?” she asked.
Dan reckoned up: “Four months.”
Mrs. Gurget pulled her shawl up round her neck.
“That’s just about time to get to know each other, ain’t it?”
“Lord!” said Dan. “I know her all I need to know her. She’s a good gal.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Gurget. “I think she is.”
Dan felt comforted. Then, mulling on her words, he was startled.
“You don’t think there’s another man she’s took a notion to?”
Mrs. Gurget dodged the question momentarily.
“The gypsy’s talk upset her, didn’t it?”
“Seems so,” Dan admitted.
Mrs. Gurget nodded.
“All gypsies has two lines of talk,” she said. “If it’s a gal they’re a-reading for, they talk about a journey and sickness, or about a dark and a light man. You’re light. I’ll bet she’s worrying about you. She’d ought to know better, but in the winter little odd notions get growing. But she’s good to you, ain’t she?”
“You ain’t any idea,” said Dan, earnestly. He was thinking: a dark man or a light man a journey and sickness a dark man and a light man. “You’re light,” Mrs. Gurget had said. Maybe he was. And Jotham Klore was the dark man.
“Well,” said Mrs. Gurget, “you don’t need to be worrying about anybody else only you two. Molly wouldn’t hold to but one at a time. Should she change her mind, she’d leave like knocking a bung; all in one rap. Don’t you worry, Dan. There ain’t anything you can do.”
“Do you think she’d want me to marry her?”
“Well …”
“I’d thought about it,” Dan said.
“You can ask her,” said Mrs. Gurget, “but I don’t think it would help. And if you ask her, it’s like saying” the fat woman shied clear of her words. “Mostly there ain’t anything wrong in not being married on the canal. As long as you’re honest there ain’t any real sense in it. It’s different if you’re going to get off the canal. Then you’ve got to act like other folks. But here living’s just a working agreement, and if you want you can get a minister to lick the revenue stamp to seal it with; but it don’t add a lot. And a gal’s free to back out. Sometimes it makes it hard for her, but if she wants it that way, it ain’t any bother of yours. Unless you want to take her off’n the canal. Be you going to stick at boating, Dan?”
“Yeanh,” he said.
“Then don’t you worry, Dan. I’ll bet when you get back to the Sarsey Sal you’ll find Molly’s all chippered up.”
The fat woman drew in her breath. Her deep bosom arched, and a little locket hanging there caught the light.
“I used to be young and pretty like her, and have notions,” she said. Her fat fingers opened the locket and she turned it to the light.
Dan glanced at a crude pencil drawing that looked as if it had been taken from a lithograph. It was the head of a very pretty girl on a slim neck, with a gay upward curve to the chin. The fat woman chuckled somewhere deep down in herself.
“Ever see the face afore?”
“No,” he said.
“Well,” said Mrs. Gurget, “that’s me. I was a notional gal and I turned down Sol, who wanted to marry me such a wizzen of a man, I thought. I went West with another. But when I came back on the canal, looking like this, he was looking for a cook, and I took the job. Sometimes he asks what’s in the locket and then I put him off and say he’d better not know, and he pesters, and I laugh. And nighttimes he talks about Nancy when he’s sleeping. It knocked him bad to lose her.”
Suddenly she laughed, and her voice rang true.
“It’s funny my telling you, Dan,” she said. “I never told anybody else but you, but you won’t tell anybody. Sol’s asked me to marry him; but I said no. It wouldn’t be fair to him now; and there ain’t any sense. We both have a good time, living along.”
She laughed again, leaned over, and kissed him.
“Run on back, Dan. You’ll find Molly’s chippered up expecting you.”
The light still burned in the cabin of the Sarsey Sal. Molly was not there, but when he opened the door she came out of the cuddy in her night clothes. He looked at her covertly; her face was fresh and clear again, and she smiled, and her eyes were tender as he had seen them when she first came aboard his boat. By secret consent, neither said a word, but when Dan sat down Molly sat on his lap, her feet curled up on his knees. He took them in his hand to keep them warm.
It was dead still, a quiet night. They kept silent with the march of the clock in their ears, the breathing of the kettle. Her hair, braided for bed, hung over her shoulder and swung back and forth against his waistcoat as she breathed; and he felt each touch against his heart.
Monday Sol and Dan pulled out from the city under a leaden sky. The low-hanging city smoke behind them looked white. Now and then the horses snorted and shivered their withers as they walked. The air was breathless, and Dan felt the skin on his neck tingling.
“It smells like a blizzard coming,” Solomon said. And Dan agreed.
Before they reached the woods, snow began to’ fall; here and there a flake, drifting straight down. When one lit on his cheek, though the day was not cold, a chill touched him.
Behind them the great Mohawk valley dipped, then mounted to the som-bre arch of the sky. There were no clouds, but an even darkening, out of which the flakes stole downward. The snow on the ground shone with a miasmic pallor. The runners of the bobs scraped on the snow with a hollow sound, and the clink of the trace chains was small, dull, and struck the air a close note that died instantly. There was no echo.
After his one remark, Solomon hunched down inside his coat and said nothing. For all the stillness, it required effort to speak; the air was heavy in the lungs, and words clung to the teeth. To try to make the voice c
arry, a man had to shout his words, as though he were battering a wall with them. His only refuge was inside himself.
A week had gone by for Dan since his talk with the fat woman, and the quiet night with Molly. The happy life had come back to them. But now, with the darkness closing in, he remembered Mrs. Gurget’s words a light man and a dark man. Untrue nonsense. But the words revolved in his mind, and he saw himself and Jotham Klore. Even at the beginning he had seen Jotham Klore; even the old peddler who had brought him down to the canal had warned him against the man. A big bully, in his last fight he had licked the Buffalo man, they had heard; he was cock on the canal. … A light man and a dark, and Molly in between… .
When the wind came, it came stealthily. A cold breath from the north, unnoticeable except for the drift of the snowflakes. Now and then they lifted just before they came to earth, and drifted southward a few feet before settling down.
So slowly did the wind take hold that before it found its strength the sleighs had entered the woods, tiny figures in the stillness, crawling along the winding track, with the snow feeling its way through the branches to light upon them. Gradually the loads whitened with a thin powder. The big flakes were thinning out.
With the new snow, the gleam went out of the ground; a dullness enveloped the world. Space closed in, distance became an illusion. Time was measured by the steady stride of the horses, the faint sound of trace chains clinking. Light spread through the flakes and thinned and died. Dan traced patterns in the falling snow. The cold crept closer.
As the wind grew, there came a sigh out of the trees. When they passed spruce clumps, Dan saw the upper branches lifting and falling in a monotonous ritualistic rhythm. Down on the road they could not feel it. They would hardly have known it was storming, had it not been for the mounting snow in the tracks. It lay soft and thick and powdery.
An hour passed. Then, with no warning, the sound of their passage was snuffed out. A great hand rocked the trees; the snow smothered the sound of the runners; the mounting roar of the wind, so gradual, had taken possession.
When they came into the first long clearing, the drive of the gale struck them. The tails of the horses before Dan whipped back straight at him like flung spears; it seemed that he could see the skin on their quarters pulled tight; their heads dropped as if they had been malleted. For a second they stopped, then lunged on the collars and fought ahead. The snow drove on them so fast that Dan could not say how it blew, up or down; there was a thick mist between him and the trees; and he felt the cold cutting past his coat into his stomach.
