Wayside Courtships

by Garland, Hamlin

  "Aha! Goin' t' take y'r girl out, hey?"

  "Yes; and I want 'o do it in style."

  "I guess ol' Dan's the idee, if you can drive him; he's a ring-tailed snorter."

  "Fast?"

  "Nope; but safe. Gentle as a kitten and as knowin' as a fox. Drive him with one hand—left hand," the old man chuckled.

  "Troutt, you're an insinuating old insinuator, and I'll——"

  Troutt laughed till his long faded beard flapped up and down and quivered with the stress of his enjoyment of his joke. He ended by hitching a vicious-looking sorrel to a gay, duck-bellied cutter, saying as he gave up the reins:

  "Now, be keerful; Dan's foxy; he's all right when he sees you've got the reins, but don't drop 'em."

  "Don't you worry about me; I grew up with horses," said the over-confident youth, leaping into the sleigh and gathering up the lines. "Stand aside, my lord, and let the cortège pass. Hoop-la!"

  The brute gave a tearing lunge, and was out of the doorway like a shot before the old man could utter a word. Albert thrilled with pleasure as he felt the reins stiffen in his hands, while the traces swung slack beside the thills.

  "If he keeps this up he'll do," he thought.

  As he turned up at the gate Maud came gayly down the path, muffled to the eyes.

  "Oh, what a nice cutter! But the horse—is he gentle?" she asked, as she climbed in.

  "As a cow," Albert replied.—"Git out o' this, Bones!"

  The main street was already full of teams, wood sleighs, bob-sleighs filled with children, and here and there a man in a light cutter alone, out for a race. Laughter was on the air, and the jingle-jangle of bells. The sun was dazzling in its brightness, and the gay wraps and scarfs lighted up the street with flecks of color. Loafers on the sidewalks fired a fusillade of words at the teams as they passed:

  "Go it, Bones!"

  "'Let 'er go, Gallagher!'"

  "Ain't she a daisy!"

  But what cared the drivers? If the shouts were insolent they laid them to envy, and if they were pleasant they smiled in reply.

  Albert and Maud had made two easy turns up and down the street, when a man driving a span of large black-hawk horses dashed up a side street and whirled in just before them. The man was a superb driver, and sat with the reins held carelessly but securely in his left hand, guiding the team more by his voice than by the bit. He sat leaning forward with his head held down in a peculiar and sinister fashion.

  "Hel-lo!" cried Bert; "that looks like Brann."

  "It is," said Maud.

  "Cracky! that's a fine team—Black Hawks, both of them. I wonder if ol' sorrel can pass 'em?"

  "Oh, please don't try," pleaded the girl.

  "Why not?"

  "Because—because I'm afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "Afraid something'll happen."

  "Something is goin' t' happen; I'm goin' t' pass him if old Bones has got any git to him."

  "It'll make him mad."

  "Who mad? Brann?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, s'pose it does, who cares?"

  The teams moved along at an easy pace. Some one called to Brann:

  "They're on y'r trail, Ed."

  There was something peculiar in the tone, and Brann looked behind for the first time, and saw them. He swore through his teeth, and turned about. He looked dogged and sullen, with his bent shoulders and his chin thrust down.

  There were a dozen similar rigs moving up or down the street, and greetings passed from sleigh to sleigh. Everybody except Brann welcomed Albert with sincere pleasure, and exchanged rustic jokes with him. As they slowed up at the upper end of the street and began to turn, a man on the sidewalk said confidentially:

  "Say, cap', if you handle that old rack-o'-bones just right, he'll distance anything on this road. When you want him to do his best let him have the rein; don't pull a pound. I used to own 'im—I know 'im."

  The old sorrel came round "gauming," his ugly head thrown up, his great red mouth open, his ears back. Brann and the young doctor of the place were turning together a little farther up the street. The blacks, superbly obedient to their driver, came down with flying hoofs, their great glossy breasts flecked with foam from their champing jaws.

  "Come on, fellers!" yelled Brann, insultingly, as he came down past the doctor, and seemed about to pass Albert and Maud. There was hate in the glare of his eyes.

  But he did not pass. The old sorrel seemed to lengthen; to the spectators his nose appeared to be glued to the glossy side of Brann's off black.

  "See them blacks trot!" shouted Albert, in ungrammatical enthusiasm.

  "See that old sorrel shake himself!" yelled the loafers.

  The doctor came tearing down with a spirited bay, a magnificent stepper. As he drew along so that Bert could catch a glimpse of the mare's neck, he thrilled with delight. There was the thoroughbred's lacing of veins; the proud fling of her knees and the swell of her neck showed that she was far from doing her best. There was a wild light in her eyes.

  These were the fast teams of the town. All interest was centered in them.

  "Clear the track!" yelled the loafers.

  "The doc's good f'r 'em."

  "If she don't break."

  Albert was pulling at the sorrel heavily, absorbed in seeing, as well as he could for the flung snowballs, the doctor's mare draw slowly, foot by foot, past the blacks. Suddenly Brann gave a shrill yell and stood up in his sleigh. The gallant little bay broke and fell behind; Brann gave a loud laugh; the blacks trotted on, their splendid pace unchanged.

  "Let the sorrel out!" yelled somebody.

  "Let him loose!" yelled Troutt on the corner, quivering with excitement. "Let him go!"

  Albert remembered what the fellow had said; he let the reins loose. The old sorrel's teeth came together with a snap; his head lowered and his tail rose; he shot abreast of the blacks. Brann yelled:

  "Sam—Saul, git!"

  "See them trot!" shouted Bert, lost in admiration; but Maud, frightened into silence, had covered her head with the robe to escape the blinding cloud of flying snow. The sorrel drew steadily ahead; he was passing when Brann turned.

  "Durn y'r old horse!" he yelled through his shut teeth, and laid the whip across the sorrel's hips. The blacks broke wildly, but, strange to say, the old sorrel increased his speed. Again Brann struck at him, but missed him, and the stroke fell on Bert's outstretched wrists. He turned to see what Brann meant by it; he did not see that the blacks were crowding him to the gutter; his hands felt numb.

  "Look out, there!"

  Before he could turn to look, the cutter seemed to be blown up by a bomb, and he rose in the air like a vaulter; he saw the traces part, he felt the reins slip through his hands, and that was all; he seemed to fall an immeasurable depth into a black abyss.... The next that he knew was a curious soft murmur of voices, out of which a sweet, agonized girl-voice broke, familiar but unrecognized:

  "Oh, where's the doctor! He's dead—oh, he's dead! Can't you hurry?"

  Next came a quick, authoritative voice, still far away, and a hush followed it; then an imperative order:

  "Stand out o' the way! What do you think you can do by crowding on top of him?"

  "Stand back! stand back!" other voices called.

  Then he felt something cold on his head: they were taking his cap off and putting snow on his head; then the doctor (he knew him now) said:

  "Let me take him!"

  "Oh, can't I do something?" said the sweet voice.

  "No—nothing."

  Then there came a strange fullness in his head. Shadows lighted by dull red flashes passed before his eyes; he wondered, in a slow, dull way, if he were dying. Then this changed: a dull, throbbing ache came into his head, and as this grew the noise of voices grew more distinct and he could hear sobbing. Then the dull, rhythmic red flashes passed slowly away from his eyes, and he opened his lids, but the glare of the sunlight struck them shut again; he saw only Maud's face, agonized, w
hite, and wet with tears, looking down into his. He felt the doctor's hands winding bandages about his head, and he felt a crawling stream of blood behind his ear, getting as cold as ice as it sank under his collar.

  They raised him a little more, and he opened his eyes on the circle of hushed and excited men thronging about him. He saw Brann, with wild, scared face, standing in his cutter and peering over the heads of the crowd.

  "How do you feel now?" asked the doctor.

  "Can you hear us? Albert, do you know me?" called the girl.

  His lips moved stiffly, but he smiled a little, and at length whispered slowly, "Yes; I guess—I'm all—right."

  "Put him into my cutter; Maud, get in here, too," the doctor commanded, with all the authority of a physician in a small village. The crowd opened, and silenced its muttered comments as the doctor and Troutt helped the wounded man into the sleigh. The pain in his head grew worse, but Albert's perception of things grew in proportion; he closed his eyes to the sun, but in the shadow of Maud's breast opened them again and looked up at her. He felt a vague, childlike pleasure in knowing she was holding him in her arms; he felt the sleigh moving; he thought of his mother, and how it would frighten her if she knew.

  The doctor was driving the horse and walking beside the sleigh, and the people were accosting him. Albert could catch their words now and then, and the reply:

  "No; he isn't killed, nor anything near it; he's stunned, that's all; he isn't bleeding now. No; he'll be all right in a day or two."

  "Hello!" said a breathless, hearty voice, "what the deuce y' been doing with my pardner? Bert, old fellow, are you there?" Hartley asked, clinging to the edge of the moving cutter, and peering into his friend's face. Albert smiled.

  "I'm here—what there is left of me," he replied faintly.

  "Glory! how'd it happen?" he asked of the girl.

  "I don't know—I couldn't see—we ran into a culvert," replied Maud.

  "Weren't you hurt?"

  "Not a bit. I stayed in the cutter."

  Albert felt a steady return of waves of pain, but did not know that they were waves of returning life. He groaned, and tried to rise. The girl gently but firmly restrained him. Hartley was walking beside the doctor, talking loudly. "It was a devilish thing to do; the scoundrel ought 'o be jugged!"

  Albert groaned, and tried to rise again. "I'm bleeding yet; I'm soaking you!"

  The girl shuddered, but remained firm.

  "No; we're 'most home."

  She felt no shame, but a certain exaltation, as she looked into the curious faces she saw in groups on the sidewalk. The boys who ran alongside wore in their faces a look of awe, for they imagined themselves in the presence of death.

  Maud gazed unrecognizingly upon her nearest girl friends. They seemed something alien in that moment; and they, gazing upon her white face and unrecognizing eyes, spoke in awed whispers.

  At the gate the crowd gathered and waited with deepest interest, with a sort of shuddering pleasure. It was all a strange, unusual, inthralling romance to them. The dazzling sunshine added to the wonder of it all.

  "Ed Brann done it."

  "How?" asked several.

  "With the butt end of his whip."

  "That's a lie! His team ran into Lohr's rig."

  "Not much; Ed crowded him into the ditch."

  "What fer?"

  "'Cause Bert cut him out with Maud."

  "Come, get out of the way! Don't stand there gabbing," yelled Hartley, as he took Albert in his arms and, together with the doctor, lifted him out of the sleigh.

  "Goodness sakes alive! Ain't it terrible! How is he?" asked an old lady, peering at him as he passed.

  On the porch stood Mrs. Welsh, supported by Ed Brann.

  "She's all right, I tell you. He ain't hurt much, either; just stunned a little, that's all."

  "Maud! child!" cried the mother, as Maud appeared out of the crowd, followed by a bevy of girls.

  "Mother, I'm all right!" she said as gayly as she could, running into the trembling arms outstretched toward her; "but, oh, poor Albert!"

  After they disappeared into the house the crowd dispersed. Brann went off by way of the alley; he was not prepared to meet their questions; but he met his brother and several others in his store.

  "Now, what in—— you been up to?" was the fraternal greeting.

  "Nothing."

  "Welting a man on the head with a whip-stock ain't anything, hey?"

  "I didn't touch him. We was racing, and he run into the culvert."

  "Hank says he saw you strike——"

  "He lies! I was strikin' the horse to make him break."

  "Oh, yeh was!" sneered the older man. "Well, I hope you understand that this'll ruin us in this town. If you didn't strike him, they'll say you run him into the culvert, 'n' every man, woman, 'n' child'll be down on you, and me f'r bein' related to you. They all know how you feel towards him for cuttin' you out with Maud Welsh."

  "Oh, don't bear down on him too hard, Joe. He didn't mean t' do any harm," said Troutt, who had followed Ed down to the store. "I guess the young feller'll come out all right. Just go kind o' easy till we see how he comes out. If he dies, why, it'll haf t' be looked into."

  Ed turned pale and swallowed hastily. "If he should die!" He would be a murderer; he knew that hate was in his heart. He shivered again as he remembered the man's white face with the bright red stream flowing down behind his ear and over his cheek. It almost seemed to him that he had struck him, so close had the accident followed upon the fall of his whip.

  III.

  Albert sank into a feverish sleep that night, with a vague perception of four figures in the room—Maud, her mother, Hartley, and the young doctor. When he awoke fully in the morning his head felt prodigiously hot and heavy.

  It was early dawn, and the lamp was burning brightly. Outside, a man's feet could be heard on the squealing snow—a sound which told how still and cold it was. A team passed with a jingle of bells.

  Albert raised his head and looked about. Hartley was lying on the sofa, rolled up in his overcoat and some extra quilts. He had lain down at last, worn with watching. Albert felt a little weak, and fell back on his pillow, thinking about the strange night he had passed—a night more filled with strange happenings than the afternoon.

  His sleep had been broken by the most vivid and exciting dreams, and through these visions had moved the figures of Hartley, the doctor, and Maud and her mother. He had a confused idea of the night, but a very clear idea of the afternoon. He could see the sidewalks lined with faces, the sun shining on the snow, the old sorrel's side-flung head and open mouth; the sleigh rose under him again, and he felt the reins burn through his hands.

  As the light grew in the room his mind cleared, and he began to feel quite like himself again. He lifted his muscular arm and opened and shut his hand, saying aloud in his old boyish manner:

  "I guess I'm all here."

  "What's that?" called Hartley, rolling out of bed. "Did you ask for anything?"

  "No—yes; gimme some water, Jim; my mouth is dry as a powder mill."

  "How yeh feelin', anyway, pardner?" said Hartley, as he brought the water.

  "First rate, Jim; I guess I'll be all right."

  "Well, I guess you'd better keep quiet."

  Albert rose partly, assisted by his friend, and drank from the glass a moment; then fell back on his pillow.

  "I don't feel s' well when I sit up."

  "Well, don't, then; stay right there where you are. Oh-um!" gaped Hartley, stretching himself; "it's about time f'r breakfast, I guess. Want y'r hands washed and y'r hair combed?"

  "I guess I ain't reduced to that yet."

  "Well, I guess y' be, old man. Now keep quiet, or have I got t' make yeh?" he asked in a threatening tone which made Albert smile. He wondered if Hartley hadn't been sitting up most of the night; but if he had, he showed little effect of it, for he began to sing a comic song as he pulled on his boots.

  He threw on his coat
next, and went out into the kitchen, returning soon with some hot water, with which he began to bathe the wounded boy's face and hands as tenderly as a woman.

  "There; now I guess you're in shape f'r grub—feel any like grub?—Come in," he called in answer to a knock on the door.

  Mrs. Welsh entered.

  "How is he?" she whispered anxiously.

  "Oh, I'm all right," cried Albert. "Bring me a plate of pancakes, quick!"

  Mrs. Welsh turned to Hartley with a startled expression, but Hartley's grin assured her.

  "I'm glad to find you so much better," she said, going to his bedside. "I've hardly slep', I was so much worried about you."

  It was very sweet to feel her fingers in his hair, as his mother would have caressed him.

  "I guess I hadn't better take off the bandages till the doctor comes, if you're comfortable.—Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Hartley, and I'll bring something for Albert."

  Another knock a few minutes later, and Maud entered with a platter, followed closely by her mother, who carried some tea and milk.

  Maud came forward timidly, but when he turned his eyes on her and said in a cheery voice, "Good morning, Miss Welsh!" she flamed out in rosy color and recoiled. She had expected to see him pale, dull-eyed, and with a weak voice, but there was little to indicate invalidism in his firm greeting. She gave place to Mrs. Welsh, who prepared his breakfast. She was smitten dumb by this turn of affairs; she hardly dared look at him as he sat propped up in bed. The crimson trimming on his shirt-front seemed like streams of blood; his head, swathed in bandages, made her shudder. But aside from these few suggestions of wounding, there was little of the horror of the previous day left. He did not look so pale and worn as the girl herself.

  However, though he was feeling absurdly well, there was a good deal of bravado in his tone and manner, for he ate but little, and soon sank back on the bed.

  "I feel better when my head is low," he explained in a faint voice.

  "Can't I do something?" asked the girl, her courage reviving as she saw how ill and faint he really was. His eyes were closed and he looked the invalid now.

  "I guess you better write to his folks."

  "No; don't do that," he said, opening his eyes; "it will only do them harm an' me no good. I'll be all right in a few days. You needn't waste your time on me; Hartley'll wait on me."