3stalwarts

by Unknown

  The man sighed.

  “I ought to have got out last winter. Damn Henderson. Who’d’ve thought a little fat man like him?”

  “Whyn’t you cut back?”

  “No use. A water rat couldn’t get by them.”

  “They’ll be coming back this way,” Dan said.

  The man sighed again. Then he drew up his shoulders. The horse, feeling the movement, lifted his head and tested the ground under his hoofs.

  “I tell you. I’ll cut across to the Watertown road. The guard won’t be so heavy. It’s only a couple of miles cross-lots. The horse can jump.”

  “Yeanh.”

  “So long.”

  “Good-bye.” And again Dan had not seen his face.

  Calash turned his horse at the bars, and he cleared them from a standing jump. The tall figure atop him seemed to have lost its weariness. It sat straight as the horse went away at an easy lope.

  Dan went back to the boat, but on deck he turned to look west to the Watertown road. Against the sky he could see the low hill it passed before taking the climb up Tug Hill. There was the place to watch. He sat down with his back to the cabin. Molly came out with a blanket and sat down beside him and spread it over both of them.

  “I hope he gets away,” Dan said.

  “He’s got a chance.”

  He felt drowsy in spite of the cold air, and a great content settled over him. At last the canal and Molly belonged to him. The tired figure of the highwayman hung in his mind; the same tired-looking body that he had himself. But he had seen the horse clear the fence, and Gentleman Joe headed for freedom. Only the man had had to go alone.

  Affectionately he put his arm over Molly’s shoulders and felt her draw in to him. They listened to the ripple against the boat and the small sounds of water washing the bankside grass.

  “Dan.”

  The light of the night lantern came to them feebly, barely tracing her profile. Her eyes were dark to the moonlight.

  “Yeanh, Molly.”

  He felt her straighten up under his arm. For a bit she was silent.

  “We’ll get into Rome tomorrow,” he said. “You and me both, and then …”

  He felt her hard warm palm in his.

  “Dan, if Mr. Butterfield gets word you can take that job double, will you take it?”

  He paused, feeling his way.

  “No,” he said. “No, I’m going to stay on the canal. You and me are going to stay together, now, ain’t we?”

  “It’s a good job, Dan, isn’t it?”

  He drew a deep breath.

  “Yes. It is a good job. Mr. Wilder has one of the best dairies in the county. Blooded cattle.”

  She caught the thrill in his voice; his hand moved in hers.

  “I’m going to stay here,” he said. “Boating’s the thing for me, with you along. You ain’t changed your mind? You wouldn’t come with me?” he asked suddenly.

  “No, Dan. I’ve not changed my mind. I’d hinder you to come. I wouldn’t have no heart in it; and then, after a while, you’d lose yours.”

  “It’s best staying here,” he said gloomily.

  “Sometimes it’s best for two people to hurt each other, Dan.”

  “What do you mean? It don’t mean us. We’re going in to Rome tomorrow. It ain’t like him—” he pointed to the low hill by the Watertown road. “I wonder will he get through.”

  “Sometimes it’s best, Dan.”

  He scarcely heard her.

  “You love me, Dan?”

  “Yeanh,” he said, turning to grin at her.

  Her face lay in shadow against his shoulder.

  “You won’t forget it, Dan?”

  Her low voice was husky.

  “Forget it? Say, tomorrow I’m going to ask you again.”

  She seemed to draw comfort from that and pressed closer to him… .

  Far away, against the low hill, points of light flashed. They heard the raps of rifle shots.

  Neither spoke, but Dan felt suddenly tired as he went below. He could not sleep. For hours he heard the water by his head, running in a ripple on the planks. A rat splashed in the mud… .

  Slow hoofs on the towpath; men’s voices; a snatch of laughter; a voice hailing him— so they came back. They had come across lots, three of them on their horses, leading a horse, not a grey horse, but one which carried Gentleman Joe.

  They laid him on the cabin roof and spread a blanket over him.

  “We’re tuckered out,” they said. “Can we sleep in your cabin?”

  “Yeanh,” Dan said.

  They threw themselves like logs on the floor— men he had never seen.

  “Special depities,” they introduced themselves. “Just farmers,” they said proudly.

  “Where’d you get him?” Dan asked.

  “He come through the Watertown road. Henderson took us over there. He’s gone to bring in his men now. He told us to take him into Rome. George, here, shot him.”

  “Yeanh,” said an old man, with lean strong hands and bright eyes. “It was a running shot. He came right across from me in the shadow, and I feared I’d miss him. But I always was good with a rifle. Shot a running fox when I was eight.”

  “What was he wanted for?”

  “How do we know?” the spokesman said. “Two thousand dollars— that’s what for. George got him— it’s his’n.”

  “Well, I won’t forget the man that stood with me,” said the old fellow. “I’m no undertaker.”

  “Something he did out West. One of them states. Train or something.” The man yawned. “Me, I’m right tuckered.”

  Very weary, Dan went back to his bunk… .

  He woke in the breath of dawn. He was still tired. Beyond the curtain, the men snored heavily. Now and then a boot scraped on the floor as one of them turned in his sleep. Molly had got up, but Dan saw his clothes neatly spread on the foot of the bunk ready for him. He heard a fire snapping in the stove. She must have been quiet not to wake the men.

  He got up and dressed and went into the cabin. She was not there; but the room was warm with the fire, and the coffee kettle was beginning to boil. Dan went on deck to find her.

  As he turned round at the head of the stairs, his eyes fell on a stiff, blanketed figure stretched out on the cabin roof. The dim light of daybreak washed it with a pale light, bringing out a shadow between the rigid legs and under the left arm. The blanket had settled during the night, till now it shaped him.

  For a long time Dan stared at it, not moving. He thought of how he had seen him, in action, riding his grey horse. Whenever Dan felt the canal come close to him, he had seen this man. He had had grace, beside which the determination of the fat marshal was turned into something drab. Now he lay here on Dan’s boat in the early morning… . Perhaps, after all, he had escaped …

  Always Dan had seen him at night, with his face in darkness. Something to draw him on, it had been; something to know, like his first embarrassed interest in the canal folk themselves. At last he had only to lift the blanket from it.

  Very slowly Dan reached forward and drew the blanket from the face. For a minute he looked down at it in the morning light as it grew stronger, little by little, as if it were afraid to come— and as he looked he felt the lean dawn wind on his cheeks.

  It was dead grey. The skin was stretched on the cheeks and down each side of the broad nose. The bitter thin lips drew back from snuff-stained teeth. The eyes were open, rolled upward, but Dan caught an edge of the cold grey. It was ugly, cruel, mean.

  Dan let the blanket fall back and stood looking over the meadows where the grey light followed the shadows.

  He had seen Gentleman Joe. He had looked for him wherever he went, like the canal folk and the farmers who shot him for the reward he represented, without knowing really why. He had felt a secret kinship for him, and built it up. Only the fat marshal, who went round about his business with the methodicalness of a grocer weighing sugar, had known. Molly had once seen him… .

  There w
as a dull ache in Dan’s heart, and he looked round for Molly, wondering why she had not greeted him. But the boat was bare. He went to the stable, where the black horse scrambled to his feet, nickering gently. But the stable held only the two teams. He came on deck again and looked across the meadows. But the only things alive were the shadows. He went down the towpath, and there he found her narrow tracks.

  He followed them down until he came to the landing before the Delta House. It stood gaunt and bare in the grey light, its windows curtained, a trace of smoke climbing its chimneys from the dying fires. The tracks ended on the wharf, but away ahead he heard the clink of trace chains. Arid then in the shadow of the steps he saw Fortune Friendly sitting, silent, his black eyes watching him, and he knew… .

  “Set down, Dan,” said the ex-preacher, quietly.

  Dan sat down.

  “She’s gone.”

  “Yeanh,” said Fortune. “She come down with her bag and went aboard the Nancy. I heard her waking Mrs. Gurget and pretty soon they put out.”

  “Did she tell you where she was going?”

  “No. I was setting here. I’d never held such cards. I missed a thousand aces by one on the last hand; I couldn’t sleep: So I was setting here. She just went aboard.”

  “I wonder where she’ll go.”

  “Maybe back to Lucy Cashdollar’s for a spell.”

  “Yeanh.”

  They sat side by side, hearing the water wash the dock.

  “Where’U you go?”

  “Why, I don’t know for sure,” Fortune said. “There was a Brandreth man and a peddler and old Davis, and I cleaned them out. Just now I’d be rich if I hadn’t give Tinkle all of it.”

  “You done that?”

  The old man grinned shamefacedly.

  “It’s time maybe I invested some. I thought I’d buy a boat, maybe. He’s going to get me one in Rome if he can. Boats’ll be cheap in fall.”

  “That’s right, I guess.”

  Dan got slowly to his feet.

  “Maybe we’d better get back,” he said dully.

  Fortune coughed.

  “Them horses could get you into Rome without no driving, couldn’t they?”

  “I guess so.”

  “I thought maybe I ought to stay here and give those rascals another chance at their money, while my luck’s in.”

  “All right.”

  “If you could let me have my wages.”

  “All right.”

  Dan paid him.

  “Good-bye.”

  “Good luck,” said the ex-preacher, shaking hands.

  Dan walked back till he came to the old Sarsey Sal, rubbing heavily against the bank. He gazed at it, half seeing, and then he turned to look to-ward Rome. His lean brown face did not change. He was very still, and a muskrat slipped into the water and swam just to his feet before it saw him. It looked at him out of its sharp eyes for an instant, saw that it was not observed, and dove without a sound.

  A little way off, cows in their pasture lifted their hind legs and got up with a jangle of a bell or two. Dan went aboard to find that the coffee had boiled over.

  Rome Haul

  The men caught their horses in a group of trees a hundred yards from the towpath and tied the body to the spare one. It was an awkward job, but at last it held.

  They came aboard to thank Dan and shake his hand.

  “I shot him,” said George, “but you licked Jotham Klore. You don’t get no reward. It’s tough.”

  “Yeanh,” said the spokesman. “That’s how it is.”

  Dan harnessed the big team and took them to the towpath. The black looked round till he had heaved the gang aboard and taken the sweep in his hands. Then, perhaps, he said something, for they both started together.

  It was a silent trip. They passed the Delta House, blind and asleep. Dan was glad Fortune was out of sight. Going alone, the heart seemed out of the boat. He kept his eyes on the team, once in a while meeting the glance of the black as he turned his head.

  They slipped into the morning mist. All round Dan the sound of cows broke out, the distant song of their bells. The mist was cold and wet on his face; there was nothing left to see but the dip of the towline and occasionally the rumps of his big team pulling faithfully.

  He heard the water life awakening— the splash of a rat, the dive of a frog; the sounds slipped quickly to his ears and were gone.

  So they went on— the Sarsey Sal, the two horses, and Dan. When the sun rose, flooding the sky above the mist with color, they were close to Rome.

  They came into the bustle of the great basin in the clear day, and the team took him to Butterfield’s wharf. There they stopped, both waiting for him to take them aboard.

  When they had been unharnessed, he went to Butterfield’s office. Men about him were talking excitedly at the double news, the death of Calash and the defeat of Klore. Some looked at Dan as he went past, and some pointed him out, proud of knowing who he was.

  Mr. Butterfield shook his hand.

  “I heard about the fight,” he said. “It must have been a great one. I’ll get you to tell me about it later.”

  “There ain’t much to tell,” Dan said heavily.

  Mr. Butterfield looked at him keenly. Then he came swiftly to business. It was soon settled.

  “About that farm proposition, Harrow. I’m sorry to say Mr. Wilder writes that he can only take you on single.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Mr. Butterfield said nothing for a moment, but there was understanding kindness in his eyes that embarrassed Dan.

  “I’m glad. It’s a good job for you. You’ll do well. You ought to go at once, if you can.”

  “I’d like to start to-day.”

  “What will you do with the boat?”

  “I think I know a man that will buy it and the light team,” Dan said. “They won’t fetch much of a price.”

  “No, not now. But how about your fine team?”

  “I was wondering about them,” Dan said shyly. “I was wondering would you keep them for me awhile? They could earn their keep.” “Certainly. But I’d be glad to pay you a full price for them.” “I wouldn’t want to sell them.” “I see.” They shook hands, and Dan went out.

  8

  THE ROAD AND THE PEDDLER

  He was walking along the Watertown road. A man driving a buggy had given him a lift as far as Ava. Now he was climbing the long slope of Tug Hill from the south.

  As he went on, the stiffness began to run out of him; his back limbered and his breathing eased. He stopped to eat a sandwich under a tree beside a small spring. Close to him a pair of cows looked on affably. It had come out hot after the cold night; there was a dry dusty August gleam on everything.

  The little cool pocket off the road, where the cows discussed the world together over their cuds, invited him. A little way off wasps whined about their nest; but they had no quarrel with the three at the spring.

  The cows were thin, scrawny creatures, with matted coats and little pinched bags.

  “Dinkeys,” Dan said to himself; and he thought of the fine cattle he was to work among. Already he was looking forward.

  It was only when he came to the great hill, where the road was no better than a track, that he stopped to look back toward the wide Mohawk Val-ley. He could see the thread of the canal and the white lines of bridges; and to his left, five miles away, he caught a glimpse of the Black River Canal, and a small boat on it. The boat was the merest speck of white in the rolling land of green. But it seemed to him that he could hear its horn, echo after echo, in the Lansing Kill… .

  The imagined sound brought back to him a picture of the fat woman; she had come down to the Sarsey Sal that morning and had taken him into her arms. For some reason he had not been embarrassed, even when Solomon poked his bald head through the door and, after looking at them asked, “Can I come in?” The three had sat together without a word for several minutes.

  Then Solomon had cleared his throat nervously an
d asked him what he would sell the boat for. “I’m not buying it for us, Dan.” “You’d understand that,” the fat woman had said. “It’s Fortune”-and Dan told them how he had talked to Fortune at the Delta House. “He wouldn’t buy a boat for himself,” the fat woman said, and Solomon nodded— and then they had all three looked at each other, guessing whom he wished to buy it for. “How much did he give you?” Solomon had told him, “A hundred and fifty dollars.” And Dan had given him the boat and the bays for that. “My land, it’s giving it away!” said the fat woman; and she and Solomon had looked at each other.

  Then Dan had told them his plans. Mr. Butterfield had offered to invest his money for him and had promised to keep the big team; but they, if Dan could have use for them, would be sent on in the late fall— “in time for fall ploughing,” Dan said, and Solomon had nodded. For a young man, he was well off.

  “I should think you’d farm it your own self,” said the fat woman.

  “I got to learn more about dairying,” Dan said. “I didn’t have only a few dinkeys on Pa’s place. There’s a lot of things to learn handling good land.”

  “I guess that’s right,” she said.

  “Plain horse sense,” said Solomon.

  “Later I’ll maybe get me my own farm,” Dan said.

  He got up and went forward to the stable. Solomon made a move with his feet; but Mrs. Gurget said, “Leave him be alone.” And he went in by himself to thump the ribs of the brown and stroke the bald white nose of the black. The brown stared stolidly at the wall and rested his nigh hip; but the black nuzzled him for sugar and blew gentle breaths into the palm of his hand. They were a good team.

  When he returned to the cabin, Mrs. Gurget and Solomon had helped him to pack his bag.

  Then he gave her the clock— and the tears had jumped out on her cheeks. “My, my, I always did like that little pony, prancing and raring like he’d just been stung! Ain’t he pretty, Sol?”

  Dan had put an envelope in Solomon’s hand. The couple could not say very much. The fat woman kissed him good-bye and Solomon wrung his hand, muttering something about stopping off at Lyons Falls to see how he was. “If anything comes wrong, just write and we’ll turn the old boat and come galloping,” he promised. “Shucks,” said Mrs. Gurget, “gallop them mules?” “I’ll leave you on shore, then they can,” he said. The fat woman kissed Dan again and whispered in his ear, “Don’t remember her too hard, Dan.”