The Man Thou Gavest. Harriet T. Comstock

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СКАЧАТЬ her finger and make him act like the Second Coming.”

      Conning called a halt. “What’s the Second Coming?” he asked, his eyes twinkling.

      “Meaning?—good as a Bible character,” Jim explained huffily. “Gawd, man! do your own thinkin’. I can’t talk an’ splanify ter onct.”

      “Oh! I see. Well, go on, Jim.”

      “There be times of the moon when I declare that no-count Nella-Rose just plain seems possessed; has ter do somethin’ and does it! Three months ago, come Saturday, or thereabouts, she took it into her head to worst Marg at every turn and let it out that she was goin’ to round up all the fellers and take her pick! She had the blazin’ face ter come down here and tell me that! Course Marg knew it, but the two most consarned didn’t—meaning Jed and Burke. Least they suspected—but warn’t sure. Jed meant to get Burke out o’ the way so he could have a clear space to co’t Nella-Rose, so he aimed to shoot one o’ Burke’s feet just enough to lay him up—Jed is the slow, calculatin’ kind and an almighty sure shot. He reckoned Burke couldn’t walk up Lone Dome with a sore foot, so he laid for him, meanin’ afterward to say he was huntin’ an’ took Burke for a ’possum. Well, Burke got wind of the plot; I’m thinkin’ Marg put a flea in his ear, anyway he set a trap just by the path leading from the trail to Lone Dome. Gawd! Jed planted his foot inter it same as if he meant ter, and what does that Burke do but take a walk with Nella-Rose right past the place where Jed was caught! ’Corse he was yellin’ somethin’ terrible. They helped Jed out and I reckon Nella-Rose was innocent enough, but Jed writ up the account ’gainst Burke and Burke floated off for a spell. He ain’t floated back yet—not yet! But so long as Nella-Rose is above ground he’ll naturally cum back.”

      “And Nella-Rose, the little no-count; did she repay Jed, the poor cuss?”

      “Nella-Rose don’t repay no one—she ain’t more’n half real, whatever way you put it. But just see how this fixes a sheriff, will yo’? Knowing what I do, I can’t jail either o’ them chaps with a cl’ar conscience. Gawd! I’d like to pass a law to cage all females and only let ’em out with a string to their legs!” Then White laughed reminiscently.

      “What now, Jim?”

      “Gals!” White fairly spit out the word. “Gals!” There was an eloquent pause, then more quietly: “Jest when yo’ place ’em and hate ’em proper, they up and do somethin’ to melt yo’ like snow on Lone Dome in May. I was harkin’ back to the little white hen and Nella-Rose. There ain’t much chance to have a livin’ pet up to Greyson’s place. Anything fit to eat is et. Pete drinks the rest. But once Nella-Rose came totin’ up here on a cl’ar, moonlight evenin’ with somethin’ under her little, old shawl. ‘Jim’ she says—wheedlin’ and coaxin’—‘I want yo’ to keep this here hen fo’ me. I’ll bring its keep, but I love it, and I can’t see it—killed!’ That gal don’t never let tears fall—they jest wet her eyes and make ’em shine. With that she let loose the most owdacious white bantam and scattered some corn on the floor; then she sat down and laughed like an imp when the foolish thing hopped up to her and flopped onter her lap. Well, I kept the sassy little hen—there wasn’t anything else ter do—but one day Marg, she followed Nella-Rose up and when she saw what was going on, she stamped in and cried out: ‘So! yo’ can have playthings while us-all go starved! Yo’ can steal what’s our’n—an’ with that she took the bantam and fo’ I could say a cuss, she wrung that chicken’s neck right fo’ Nella-Rose’s eyes!”

      “Good Lord!” exclaimed Conning; “the young brute! And the other one—what did she do?”

      “She jest looked at me—her eyes swimmin’. Nella-Rose don’t talk much when she’s hurt, but she don’t forget. I tell yo’, young feller, bein’ a sheriff in this settlement ain’t no joke. Yo’ know folks too well and see the rights and wrongs more’n is good for plain justice.”

      “Well?” Jim rose and stretched himself, “yo’ won’t go on the b’ar hunt ter-morrer?”

      “No, Jim, but I’ll walk part of the way with you. When do you start?”

      “ ’Bout two o’ the mornin’.”

      “Then I’ll turn in. Good-night, old man! You’ve given me a great evening. I feel as if I were suddenly projected into a crowd with human problems smashing into each other for all they’re worth. You cannot escape, old man; that’s the truth. You cannot escape. Life is life no matter where you find it.”

      “Now don’t git ter talkin’ perlite to me,” Jim warned. “Old Doc McPherson’s orders was agin perlite conversation. Get a scrabble on yer! I’ll knock yer up ’bout two or thereabouts.”

      Outside, Truedale stood still and looked at the beauty of the night. The moon was full and flooded the open space with a radiance which contrasted sharply with the black shadows and the outlines of the near and distant peaks.

      The silence was so intense that the ear, straining for sound, ached from the effort. And just then a bewitched hen in White’s shed gave a weird cry and Truedale started. He smiled grimly and thought of the little no-count and the tragedy of the white bantam. In the shining light around him he seemed to see her pitiful face as White had described it—the eyes full of tears but never overflowing, the misery and hate, the loneliness and impotency.

      At two the next morning Jim tapped on Truedale’s window with his gun.

      “Comin’ fur a walk?”

      “You bet!” Con was awake at once and alert. Ten minutes later, closing the doors and windows of his cabin after him, he joined White on the leaf-strewn path to the woods. He went five miles and then bade his host good-bye.

      “Don’t overwork!” grinned Jim sociably. “I’ll write to old Doc McPherson when I git back.”

      “And when will that be, Jim?”

      “I ain’t goin’ ter predict.” White set his lips. “When I stay, I stay, but once I take ter the woods there ain’t no sayin’. I’ll fetch fodder when I cum, and mail, too—but I ain’t goin’ ter hobble myself when I take ter the sticks.”

      Tramping back alone over the wet autumn leaves, Truedale had his first sense of loneliness since he came. White, he suddenly realized, had meant to him everything that he needed, but with White unhobbled in the deep woods, how was he to fill the time? He determined to force himself to study. He had wedged one solid volume in his trunk, unknown to his friends. He would brush up his capacity for work—it could not hurt him now. He was as strong as he had ever been in his life and the prospect ahead promised greater gains.

      Yes, he would study. He would write letters, too—real letters. He had neglected every one, especially Lynda Kendall. The others did not matter, but Lynda mattered more than anything. She always would! And thinking of Lynda reminded him that he had also, in his trunk, the play upon which he had worked for several years during hours that should have been devoted to rest. He would get out the play and try to breathe life into it, now that he himself was living. Lynda had said, when last they had discussed his work, “It’s beautiful, Con; you shall not belittle it. It is beautiful like a cold, stone thing with rough edges. Sometime you must smooth it and polish it, and then you must pray over it and believe in it, and I really think it will repay you. It may not mean anything but a sure guide to your goal, but you’d be grateful for that, wouldn’t you?” Of course he would be grateful for that! It would mean life to him—life, not mere existence. He began to hope that Jim White СКАЧАТЬ